Page 70 of Requiem

Matthew sits up fully now, his back against the headboard. I follow suit and we’re side by side, as we often are for these serious conversations.

“No. I think we should stick with the plan and bring him. Nat will be there, and Tony and Maggie and Brett …We’ll have a lot of eyes on him at the gallery.”

I consider this and nod slowly. “Yes, you’re right.”

“I know,” he grins at me cheekily. “So, there it is. You’ll show up, hide in the back until you’re ready to play, give your performance and then sign a few CD’s. There’ll probably be a champagne toast in there somewhere so you might want to prepare a few words in response.”

“Oh, no! You think? Really? They’ll want me to speak in front of all those people?” I’m utterly horrified by the idea. Matthew shrugs and grabs my hand.

“Probably. But all you need to say is ‘thank you for coming’ and ‘thank you to the Kreisler International Music Competition for their support.’ That’s it. You can manage that much, can’t you?”

“I suppose,” I sulk. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“I’m sure!” he laughs. “But, you know, the party’s not for another couple of days. Perhaps we should do something to take your mind off it for a little while.”

He leans over and starts to pull me toward him, but I put a hand to his chest to stop him.

“What? Are you okay?” he asks, his impending lust replaced by immediate concern.

I take a deep breath and tell him what I’ve been wanting to say for three days now …but haven’t dared.

“Matthew …I’m late.”

His brows scrunch in confusion for just a second before they arch in understanding and surprise.

“Really?” he whispers excitedly. “We’ve only been trying a month …do you think...? So soon, I mean?”

“It only takes once, Matthew! And we’ve ‘tried’ more than a few times in the last month,” I giggle.

Suddenly, he looks like a kid in a candy store. His eyes are bright and wide, a goofy grin plastered across his face as if he can’t believe his dumb luck.

“Okay, so …what now? How soon can you see the doctor to find out?”

“The doctor? Oh, honey, we don’t have to wait that long,” I assure him with a pat to his cheek. “I’ve got a three-pack of pregnancy tests in the bathroom.”

“Jesus, Julia! What are you waiting for, then?”

He jumps out of bed and pulls me with him into our en suite bathroom. When we’re situated on the fluffy blue bath mats, he looks at me expectantly.

“What’s next?”

“I pee on a stick.”

“Ohhh … huh …” he says, suddenly looking a lot less enthusiastic.

“You know what? I’m nervous enough without you watching. Why don’t you just wait out there and I’ll do the test myself? It takes like three minutes to process.”

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“Pee. On. A. Stick.”

He holds up his hands in surrender as he backs out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

****

I stare helplessly at the bomb in my bathroom. Oh, it doesn’t look like a bomb. It looks like an ordinary kitchen timer, but with each tick, it brings me one second closer to a life-imploding blast. I’m waiting for it to go off in my face, raining down debris and rocking my perfect, orderly little world. One way …or another.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.