Good News
by J.D. Simpson
It would be the most important video call of my life. My husband Adrian worked half the year on an oil rig, and I’d gotten just one unexpected visit from him in the past six months. I ran my fingers over my abdomen, recalling that incredible night. According to the doctors, the start of my pregnancy lined up perfectly with his visit, and I couldn’t wait to share the good news.
Three months ago, I had been boiling some pasta with a half-finished glass of wine in hand when I heard a knock on the door. There stood Adrian, flowers in hand and a wolfish smile on his face. I even thought I could smell the sea-salt in his hair as we embraced. It had been so long since I’d seen those crystal-blue eyes, that tanned skin and muscular back… there was no time to talk, no need to. I barely remembered to turn off the stove before throwing myself on top of him.
“This is our little secret,” he’d whispered before departing a few hours before dawn. It was such a strange comment that I thought I’d misheard him, but later I understood.
There was no way my husband had enough vacation time saved up to visit me. He must’ve taken sick leave without permission and then run like hell to make his flight connections. Sweet as it had been, it was risky. If a coworker or one of his bosses found out about our night together, Adrian could lose his job.
Since anyone on the rig might overhear our conversation, just telling him about the pregnancy was risky–and yet I couldn’t wait another day. We’d been trying so hard for a baby before he left, with no luck. Now that our prayers had finally been answered, he deserved to know.
I climbed onto my bed, propped up some pillows behind me, and launched the video call. Our relationship had been long-distance for years now, but I still felt a fluttering in my chest while I waited for a connection. The background was always the same: ugly industrial furniture, bunk beds, gunmetal-gray walls plastered with concert flyers, movie posters, and pictures of us together. Adrian’s face came into focus last. It was blurry and pixelated but unmistakably my husband.
Even after all this time, we could never figure out who should talk first. In the end, I just blurted it out:
“Honey… I’m pregnant!”
As always, the connection was weak, making my husband’s expression unreadable.
“Babe…” Adrian stammered, running a hand over his stubble. “How did this happen? When were you planning on telling me?”
“Well, I mean… it’s pretty obvious how it happened, right?” I laughed. “I would’ve told you sooner, but you asked me not to mention it.”
My husband stood up, checked the shared room for eavesdroppers, then shut the door. It was a relief to be able to speak freely. I needed to hear what Adrian really thought because, based on his reaction so far, he didn’t seem excited. He seemed worried—upset, even—and I couldn’t understand why. We’d had countless conversations about starting a family, and I was positive we were on the same page.
“Okay.” Adrian whispered. “Now, I need you to explain to me very carefully what’s going on.”
“I’m sure it happened on that night.” I winked. “You know, three months ago? I wanted to let you know sooner, but you told me it was our little secret… remember?”
“This is a joke, right?” My husband grabbed his forehead and groaned. “Please tell me this is a joke. Because, babe… I haven’t been off of the rig since I got here.”
A knock sounded at the front door. After telling Adrian that I would be right back, I slipped out of bed to see who it was. My husband’s face grinned at me through the window, waving a bouquet of roses. “Hi babe!”the thing outside said, using Adrian’s voice, “I brought some more flowers for you and the baby!”
J.D. Simpson is a Kentucky author of speculative fiction. His works have been featured in Triangulation’s Hospitium anthology, Nonbinary Review’s Epiphany, Whisper House Press’s Costs of Living anthology, M Presents’ Liminal Madness, and many other publications. His campfire tales of terror—written as John Beardify—have appeared in audio form on the Nosleep Podcast, Creepypod, and in numerous anthologies.
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