Full Circle

“Honey, I’m late.”  

Those are the words that I never wanted to hear in my relationship with Heather. I guess playing fast and loose with my wild oats had finally caught up to me. Thoughts raced in my head, like desperate shoppers on Black Friday. There was no clear resolution; only more confusion 

“Stupid Christian school upbringing, leading me to go crazy with the carnalities in my freshman year. Is she telling the truth? Is it mine? How am I to be a father with only $49 in my checking account at any given time?” 

How could I have been so careless? Even rock stars managed to exercise some semblance of responsibility while touring countrysides. But me? Nope, I had to choke off my freedom as soon as it was offered to me in a tight black dress.  

Ok. Time to face the music like a man. Sob uncontrollably, ask her what to do about it, and go along with whatever she says.  

“Paul, you look pale. Do you need to sit down?” Heather spits out her toothpaste and rinses. “C’mon, don’t get sick on me now, I’m late for my kickboxing class and you are my transportation,” she says as she puts her hair in a bun. “And if I miss this class today, I’ll have to practice on you” she adds with a wink.  

Little did she know that I was already on rubbery legs and my corner was about to throw in the towel. Why in the name of all that is holy did my mind go there? She is a great woman and by all accounts, and everyone from the barber shop fellas to my great-great aunt says that she is a keeper. Full disclosure—she is my first serious girlfriend ever. To that end, we have yet to move in with each other, but we might as well, since she is always at my place. And I think I like that turn of events. 

When you want something so bad, you tend to throw caution to the wind as you haphazardly make up for lost time. At least that was my point of view. Birth control? Nah. That’s for people who have high body counts and have been sleeping around for years. STDs were a nonpoint, as dirty public toilets were the extent of my below-the-belt risks. And I had no reason to doubt her healthful fastidiousness. 

I have always been a late bloomer. When my Christian high school was having celibacy seminars, I was walking around just looking for courage to say hello to the fairer sex. I was an unwitting and unwilling poster child for the “True Love Waits” campaign. The whole experience reminded me of how a homeless man might feel at a real estate conference.  

Now, at 21 years old, I had made the big time. And it scared the bejesus out of me. I guess I am looking for what could go wrong. I’ve always had existential dread; a vague sense of doom right around the corner. Therapists will have a field day with that in later years. But for now, I’m hypersensitive thanks to worry that this perfect relationship would go wrong. Somehow, some way. 

“Paul! Were you going to grab your keys and wallet, or would you like to spend more time in your thousand-yard stare?”  

Shit. Heather senses something is up. I have to get out of this somehow.  

“Sorry, I’m just worried about work later,” I said, lying through my teeth. If I didn’t get it together my insecurities were going to doom this relationship, writ large. I take her to her gym, and I run a few errands. I find that the busier I am, the less my mind wanders and the more I approach the relationship like a normal person.  

But that’s not to say that I’m totally focused, as my newfound peace is interrupted by my phone vibrating. It’s Heather, and she is none too pleased.  

“Dude!” she yells as I pick up.  

It takes me all of three seconds to process and panic, but she finishes the thought for me.  

“You planning on picking me up today, or should I ask my rich and attractive personal trainer to give me a ride home?” I knew her humor; I knew she was joking about retaliatory infidelity.

At least I hoped. I was still on the hook, however, for being a space cadet.  

“Sorry, I’m right around the corner. Traffic was worse than I thought.” I’m crushing it with the white lies today, and I’m convinced I’m going to Hell. Failing that, I appeared to be well on my way to dooming the relationship with one faux-pas after another. Death by a thousand paper cuts.  

Then it all changed.  

There was something about seeing her smile when I pulled up to the gym curb; something telling me that I was hers and hers alone. Forever. It was comforting. And I realized that there was nothing I could do to change that.  

"How was kickboxing?" I ask.

"Eh, the instructor wasn't there, so I just did some light cardio today," she said. “Hey, are you feeling better? You were wound a little tight earlier. More so than usual, even.”  

She was observant, if anything.

“Much,” I replied. On the way home, the conversation was light, and the one-liners were effortless with each other. I’ve often thought we deserved our own radio show. Peter, my brother, is on board for a podcast with us, and he has offered to produce.  

“Robbing Peter to Pay Paul—Heather Tells All.” He and I always figured we might as well parlay our parents’ cheekiness with naming us into something productive. Lean into it and see if we could make a buck.  

After a restful afternoon together, I kiss Heather goodbye and head off to work. It is a part-time warehouse gig, where I pseudo manage a swing shift on the shipping docks. I text her after about two hours, letting her know I’ll be done early.  

“Wanna go to dinner later?” I ask.  

“Actually, I’m going to cook for you! Chef Heather’s Blackened Chicken Pizza, lol!”  

After a few more emojis, I’m on my way. As I head to my apartment, I marvel at how a day with such shaky beginnings has turned out to be so lovely. I even stop at the supermarket to get flowers. My old man always told me that flowers won’t mean anything on Valentine’s Days or anniversaries if you don’t get them for her “just because” a few times a year.  

I get home, and the place smells like a legitimate Neapolitan pizzeria. We exchange pleasantries, and I head to the water closet for a quick shower. Dinner is all smiles, and we even break out some J. Lohr cabernet sauvignon for the occasion. There is something slightly off about our vibe, but I quietly chastise myself as she collects the dishes. I forbid my brain from going to the paranoid place again. Then I notice that her glass of vino has barely been touched. The imprint of her lips is on the glass, but nary a microgram has been consumed.  

She’s “stage sipping.” Why?  

Oh. I draw in a quick breath. My eyes widen.  

“OH!” I blurt out in a loud whisper.  

She emerges from the bathroom with a nervous smile, and her hands are behind her back. I can tell that she sees the creaky hamster wheels of my brain have finally put two and two together. She takes a breath, and with mouth open and head slightly cocked back—she doesn’t say a word. She blushes, smiles more and tears well up in her eyes.  

“Baby?” I say, a smile forming across my face like a sunrise dance across the horizon. I fail to realize the double entendre at first, but she seems to think I did it on purpose.  

“Yes!” She tosses the pregnancy test to the side, knowing now that it was nothing more than a prop at this point.  

I’m speechless. I smile even more, and give her a kiss and a hug. I pull back, hold her shoulders, but all I can muster is a clumsy—albeit joyful—smile. I’m grateful that I’m responding this way, for both of our sakes. 

Heather smiles, and with a wink and a nod she breaks the silence.  

“Told ya I was late.”