The Lies That Bind(57)

He sits down, smiles, and says, “Aww. You got me a present?”

“Um…sort of,” I say, second-guessing my method, as I’m sure he’s expecting something along the lines of sterling silver cuff links—and not four urine-soaked plastic sticks. But it’s all too late now—literally and figuratively.

Looking intrigued, he picks it up, shakes it, feels through the tissue, then carefully peels off the ribbon that I so ludicrously tied and curled. He holds up one of the tests and examines it.

“What in the world?” he says under his breath, looking confused.

My mouth bone dry, I say, “What does it look like?”

“It looks like…pregnancy tests?” His voice rises, as he sorts them into two pairs—one set of pinks, one set of blues. He looks at me with wide eyes. “What…what are you telling me?”

    “What do you think I’m telling you?” I say, still too petrified to come out and say it to him straight.

“That we’re having quadruplets?” he says, a stunned smile on his face.

I don’t smile back, just shake my head and say, “No. Not four. Just one. As far as I know.”

He looks at me, now flabbergasted, all traces of his smile gone. “So…this isn’t a joke?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Not a joke.”

“But…I thought you were on the pill?”

“I was. I am. But that’s only, like, ninety-nine percent effective…and I think I may have forgotten to take it one day,” I say.

“So…we’re the one percent?” he says, now looking wide-eyed, almost as panicked as I feel.

“Yep,” I say, nodding. “Surprise.”

He stares at me, then looks back down at the tests, then up at me again, expressionless and clearly speechless. “Oh my God, Cecily,” he finally says, dropping his head to his hands so I can no longer see his face. “Holy shit.”

“I know,” I say, staring at the top of his head. “What are we going to do?”

Matthew doesn’t move, and I brace myself for the worst, although I’m not sure exactly what that is. Anger? Cold feet? Scottie’s suggestion that we make it all go away with a little medical procedure?

But when he looks up, he is smiling, then laughing. “What are we going to do? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he says, pulling me toward him, kissing my face, putting his arms around me. “We’re going to get married, and we’re going to have a baby. That’s what we’re going to do.” His voice is shaking, but he looks downright joyful.

    Overcome with relief, I push everything else aside and relax into his arms. “In what order?” I ask, my voice coming out muffled against his shoulder.

“Does it matter?” he says.

“No,” I say, suddenly convinced that the baby is his—that it has to be his. “I guess it really doesn’t matter.”





After a doctor’s appointment confirming that I’m around seven weeks pregnant, Matthew and I sit down in my apartment to come up with a game plan, at least with respect to our wedding, since we don’t have much say in regard to our due date. Incidentally, based more on an inexplicable gut feeling than any real calculation (since the length of a pregnancy is measured from the time of your last period—not the time you had sex), I am becoming more and more convinced that Matthew is the biological father, and the baby will be born with his blue eyes and dimples.

The first thing I do is raise the suggestion of a quick civil ceremony. I can’t help but recall Amy telling me that is what Grant wanted, but tell myself it’s not what they actually did—and even if it had been, they don’t own the concept of tying the knot at City Hall.

“I could still wear a dress, and you could wear a tux or suit. It could be really simple and beautiful,” I say, going over to my computer and pulling up images of the Georgian-style columned interior of City Hall, as well as the dramatic staircase leading up to the entrance. “Plus we could save so much money.”

I feel a little wistful and sad, knowing that my parents want me to have a traditional hometown wedding in the church I grew up in—and that it’s what I’ve always dreamed of, too. My dad and I even have our song picked out for our father-daughter dance—Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” I can’t count the number of times he played that eight-track (and in later years, the cassette) while twirling me around our family room.

    But given the circumstances, City Hall feels like a solid, sensible option. “What do you think?” I say.

Matthew makes a face, shakes his head, and quickly vetoes the idea as “depressing.” I’m not sure what he means by that, exactly, but I certainly don’t want him to be depressed when he marries me, so I come up with another suggestion—what I call the “Hollywood route.” Specifically, we have the baby, and then get married, keeping our original wedding date.

“You think you’ll be ready by then?” he says.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to my post-baby physical or mental state, but either way, I tell him I think I’ll be fine.

“If anything, it might be nice to have some boobs in a dress…assuming I’m still nursing,” I say, thinking that as a bonus, this plan would give me time to hit the pause button and digest everything.