Sean wants to immediately put a pregnancy announcement on social media, but I’m able to hold him off for several weeks. “It’s so easy to miscarry during the first trimester,” I tell him several times.
“But that’s twelve weeks!” He complains. “We can’t wait twelve weeks to tell everyone we know that we’re having a baby! Anyway, isn’t it better if people know if you miscarry, so they’ll understand why you’re grieving?”
Of course, I can’t tell him the real reason I don’t want to put a pregnancy announcement on social media. I’m afraid that Jason will see it. True, we don’t follow each other on Instagram or Facebook. I blocked him a long time ago. But we have a lot of mutual friends from Uni. I can’t be sure that the information will get back to him, or how quickly, but I don’t want to risk it. Who knows what he’ll do if he finds out I’m pregnant? I don’t want to be paranoid, but the way he said he’ll see me again has me thinking that he might have wanted something like this to happen.
But again, I’m being paranoid. And after five weeks, and not a single sign of bleeding, plus good check-ups with my pre-natal physician, I finally give in to Sean’s pleading and let him post on Facebook.
He takes a photo of us on the couch, Donnie next to us, his hands on my belly and a big smile on his face. Sean’s hand is placed over Donnie’s. The caption reads, Donnie is excited to be a big brother 😍
It’s a little cheesy, but I let him have it. In fact, I’ve become extremely accommodating ever since I realised I was pregnant. Maybe that’s why I gave in about the post on social media, too. I think it’s the guilt. It weighs in my stomach like a heavy meal I can’t digest. When it’s not just sitting there, tainting every interaction I have with my husband, then it’s twisting in my stomach, making me want to hurl. Sometimes, I’m able to keep it at bay. But more often than not, it’s ever-present. It’s even started to affect my work. I’m more irritable with my new team than I usually would be, and I know I’ve rubbed a couple of people the wrong way. Not that I really care. After all, Julie has been treating everyone in the office like garbage for years, and she’s never been fired or demoted. I’ll be fine.
As soon as Sean puts the picture up on Facebook, it starts getting likes. I’m actually amazed by how many. For a few hours, I procrastinate at work by refreshing the page, watching as more and more likes and messages of “Congratulations!” pour in. Our neighbours Steffan and Meghan both like the post, and Meghan sends me a long, heartfelt message with her and Steffan’s best wishes. To my delight, Maddy and Ewan also comment “Congrats!” and Freddy Campbell and his wife Samantha both like the picture. All of these instances give me a familiar surge of power, which I have to force myself to ignore. I’m not in the Weekend Club anymore, and it would be dangerous to indulge in the feelings it gave me. Not after how the Weekend Club has come back to bite me.
Every time the photo is liked by a mutual friend of mine and Jason’s from Uni, however, my stomach squirms with discomfort. But I try to ignore it. Why would any of them go and tell Jason about my pregnancy? As far as they know, we haven’t been in touch in years and are very over it.
Unless he told someone…?
But I try to push the thought out of my mind. The pregnancy hormones really are making me lose my mind a little bit.
I get a bunch of DMs about the baby, and I’m sorting through these several days later when I see that I have a message request. Without thinking, I click into the message requests tab.
My heart nearly stops.
It’s from Jason.
For a moment, I sit frozen in my chair. I’m in my office, but the door is open, and as soon as I can move again, I kick it closed. The last thing I need is Sean coming in here and seeing I have a message from Jason. All I can read so far is “Hey Jazz…” so I don’t know what it says. But I know this can’t be good.
With shaking hands, I move the mouse over his message and open it.
Hey Jazz, it reads.
I heard through the grapevine that you’re pregnant. Congrats! I had a feeling we were doing something right in Paris ;)
I think we need to meet and talk. You know why. I wasn’t so happy to hear that you’re telling the world Sean is the father. Is he forcing you to say that, to save his pride? Let’s meet up and discuss what we want to do next. I can help you. Even if it means you need me to help make Sean understand the truth.
Jason
Now my whole body is shaking. I can tell from the tone of the email that Jason is angry. He’s pretending to think Sean is forcing me to say the baby is his, as if he doesn’t know full well that I haven’t told Sean the truth. The way he’s offered to ‘help’ makes me feel sick. He’s manipulating me. It’s clear as day.
But I don’t know what to do. If I don’t meet with him, he’ll tell Sean the baby isn’t his. That’s clear enough in his final threat: Even if it means you need me to help make Sean understand the truth. It would be easy enough for him to send a message just like this to Sean.
My palms are sweaty now, and I feel like I might be sick. Slowly, I begin to type a reply.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When and where do you want to meet?
I don’t give anything away; not yet. If I’m going to stop him from ruining my marriage and my life, I’m going to have to be very, very careful.
Jason and I meet in London several days later. I’ve made it clear that I’m not travelling all the way to Manchester “in my condition,” and he seems to understand. Mostly, I just want to be on my turf. Feel safe and grounded. Close to Sean. I also have to go into the office tomorrow, for a mandatory in-person meeting, so I have an excuse for why I need to leave and get to bed early, if Jason gets threatening.
I’m not sure when I became afraid of him. I never was when we first dated. And yet, there’s always been something dark and dominant inside of him; something that likes to get his way, no matter the cost. That’s what he was like when he would become so focused on things that nothing could stand in his way. At first, I didn’t mind, because I had been the focus of his attention. But by the end of our relationship, it had become the booze. That’s why we broke up. He could be a dangerous, angry drunk.
Of course, none of this was on my mind during our two dates. But now, as I walk up to the bar where we’re meeting, I feel an old, familiar fear creeping through me. It’s how I used to feel when I would meet him for nights out, at the end. That twinge that something was about to go wrong. A night ending in a fight, or worse, an altercation between him and someone else, usually a man he accused of flirting with me.
All those memories are buzzing through my mind as I enter the bar. A bland, forgettable cocktail bar in West London. I don’t know anyone in this part of town, so no one will recognise me and wonder what I’m doing with a man who isn’t my husband.
Jason is already at the bar, a whiskey on the rocks sitting in front of him. The moment he sees me, he stands. I cross to him, and he kisses me lightly on the cheek. He smells strongly of liquor, and the feel of his lips on my skin makes me stiffen. Even though we were so intimate so recently, ever since discovering I’m pregnant I feel physically revolted by him.
“Sit,” he commands, pulling out my stool for me. “Are you comfortable? Would you prefer a chair with a back?”
“I’m fine,” I say, staring at him bemusedly. “I’m pregnant, Jason, not an invalid.”
“Of course.” He sits back down next to me and smiles. “I just want to make sure our baby is safe.” The look is cold and calculating, but I can’t help but notice that there is something foggy and unfocused about his eyes. He’s drunk, I realise. Drunker than I’ve seen him since we were in Uni.
“Sean’s and my baby,” I correct him. Surreptitiously, I glance around, to make sure no one has overheard us. “My husband is the father of this child, Jason.”
Jason’s smile slips slightly. “Don’t be silly, .Jazz. The baby has to be mine. You said you and Sean hadn’t been intimate in months.”
Inwardly, I curse myself for admitting this to Jason in a moment of weakness. “Yes, but after we quit the Weekend Club, we decided to start trying for a second child,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “And now we’re pregnant.”
Jason leans towards me, and I feel like the prey of a giant cobra, readying himself to strike. Without asking, he slips a hand onto my knee. “I know it’s mine, Jazz. And I’m willing to go to court to get a paternity test. Is that what you want? A long, protracted legal battle? Will your husband really stay with you during that, as everyone in your life discovers that you and your husband have been sleeping with other people?”
His hand tightens on my leg, and I feel sick. I want to pull my leg away, but his grip is too strong. “What do you want?” I whisper.
He releases me, then sits back in his seat. The cold smile is back on his lips. “I want to be with you. I want to raise our child together. Isn’t that obvious, Jazz? It’s you. It’s always been you. I let you get away before, and I have regretted it ever since. Now that you’re back in my life, I’d do anything – anything – to make sure I don’t lose you again.”
My throat has gone very dry. A couple of weeks ago, this would have been the most romantic declaration in the world. Now it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. He’s willing to do anything? What does that even mean?
“So you’re saying if I don’t tell my husband--lie to my husband--that the baby is yours, you’re going to ruin my marriage and sue me for paternity? And you think, what, that I’ll want to be with you at the end of that?”
Jason spreads his hands wide in mock contrition. “I’m not trying to ruin your marriage. I’m just stating the reality, which is that I’m the father of your child, and as such, I have certain rights. But I’d prefer not to go to court, of course. I’d much rather we just figure this out between us. As a couple.”
“But we aren’t a couple,” I snap. Anger is beginning to boil in my stomach, replacing the fear, and I can hear my voice growing louder and more shrill. “I’m married, to the love of my life, by the way. He and I are the only couple. You and I are exes who reconnected through a dating site my husband and I both consented to be part of.”
“He doesn’t love you like I do,” Jason says, and now he is no longer pretending to smile. His mouth is a thin line, and his nostrils are flaring. “He can’t give you what I’m capable of giving you. Tell me you didn’t love our weekend in Paris, Jazz. Would he have done that for you?”
“That weekend in Paris was just that – a weekend,” I snap. “It wasn’t real life. You can’t build a relationship off of romance and glamorous trips abroad. It’s built on…” I cast around for the right words, and as I realise what I’m about to say, a lump suddenly forms in my throat. It’s true, I’m realising. After all these months of being distracted by the Weekend Club, You can’t threaten me! I’ve told my husband we had sex, and he won’t believe for a second that I didn’t use protection with you. He trusts me. Because we have a real, trusting, longterm relationship. Not some delusional idea of love, like you have.”
“Don’t call my delusional.” The smile is gone from Jason’s face now. Glancing away, he seizes his whiskey and drains the rest of it, setting it back on the counter with a loud crack. When he looks back at me, his face is red and contorted. “I’ve never been delusional. Not when it comes to us.”
I’m very afraid now. This is how Jason used to get when he drank too much: belligerent. He told me he’d overcome his drinking problems, but clearly, that was a lie. Or else I bring them out in him in a way no one else does.
However, despite my fear, I know I can’t show weakness. He’ll only seize on that to break me down. That’s how it was when he got drunk and angry back in Uni. So I level him with my most disdainful look and force myself to my feet.
“Well, you’re acting delusional now,” I say. “You have no right to this baby, and no right to me. If you come near me or my family again, I will take out a restraining order. Do you understand?”
Jason stares at me, his lip curling. When he doesn’t respond, I grab my handbag and begin to walk away. It isn’t until I reach the door that he calls after me, “You can’t keep my child from me, Jazz. I won’t let you.”
The entire bar hears him, and heads turn in our direction as a quiet buzz of whispers fill the place. My cheeks hot with shame and anger, I pull open the door and run as fast as I dare away from the bar, Jason, and the dark truth.