love, and figure out who we are in this relationship before the baby is born. Which means she can’t work and would be at my beckon call. It’s a selfish thing to ask of her but with my hectic schedule, if she doesn’t conform to me, we won’t see each other enough to fully give this a chance.
The outcome I’m most afraid of, but also certain will be the one that happens, is her taking the job and moving out and wanting space. That ends with me rarely seeing her or the baby belly or experiencing the pregnancy firsthand. The books I’ve read suggest spending as much time as you can with the fetus to create a bond. With hockey season starting up soon, my time will be limited as it is. But how can I tell her that my job is more important than hers.
The emotion of the decision is exaggerated by Cap and Sukii breaking up. I can literally see her comparing our lives to theirs.
“We’re starting descent in two minutes,” Loraine, the co-pilot, says as she pokes her head around the corner.
“Okay, thanks.” I glance at Jenny. “Excited to be back in BC?”
“Not in August,” she says flatly. “Not much worse than Raincouver in August.”
“Forecast said it will be sunny,” I offer with a slight grin, fully aware of the likelihood of the forecast being accurate.
She laughs and I sigh at hearing the sound. It’s the first time in days she’s laughed like that. Maybe a week. I lean in and brush my lips against hers, pausing to soak up as much of her as I can. She does the same, leaning into the kiss.
The plane starts to descend and she inhales sharply. I open my eyes to see her mouth twist as she shakes her head back and forth in tiny twitches.
Her eyes widen and sweat bursts from her pores. She’s about to puke.
I undo my seatbelt and jump up. I stagger but manage to grab the trash can at the front of the plane and dive back to her, placing it under her face as she unleashes everything she ever ate in her entire life into it. She’s crying and gagging and heaving and puking and the smell is making my stomach tighten. The jet is jostling me as we come into windy Vancouver, but I refuse to lose my grip on the bucket as she is doing her best to fill the damned thing.
I swear it’s minutes, maybe hours, probably seconds, before she stops. There’s nothing left. She’s dry heaving and the sound is cutting through me. A nauseated chill hits me but I fight it.
“Oh my God—” she manages to say as the heaving keeps going.
The weight of the trash can is aggressive. It’s so much throw up. With my free hand, I manage to get a puke bag from the wall pocket near us. I hand it to her and stand, fighting the force of the jet, and run for the bathroom. It’s not easy to keep my balance, hold the can still, and get the bathroom door open.
I have visions of not getting it open and the jet landing and the trash can flying all over the plane as I struggle with the door. I just have it open as the engines roar. I flip back the toilet lid and dump, flushing at the same time. As it flushes, I tuck the can next to the toilet and step out, closing the door.
The jet lands with a bump, forcing me to grab the railing on the wall. It takes all my strength not to fall over or be flung back.
The can is flying around the bathroom, hitting things and no doubt flinging vomit about the room.
For the second time in a week, I’ll have to explain to the cleaning crew that the bathroom needs an overhaul.
Jenny turns, she’s pale and visibly upset. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I lie. I don’t feel okay and I can tell she’s as far from okay as she can get. When the jet slows, I hurry to her.
She gasps her breath and starts to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
“No. It’s not your fault.” I wrap myself around her and hold her to me. “Does the baby feel okay?”
She tenses and pulls back, her breathing slowing down. “I don’t know.” She stares at me, terror in her eyes.
We are locked on each other for a whole minute until the plane comes to a stop.
She shudders. “Can we not