Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rosie is twenty-three and pregnant, because of course she would be.

And of course it would be with Marco, him with the blue eyes and - okay, fine, smoking body that chef groupies fall over themselves chasing and who he always chooses to go out with.

Like it's not enough that he stood her up five years ago, or that he invited her and some other girl for prom - that doesn't even matter now anymore, anyway.

Ewan McGregor's voice rings inappropriately in her mind - you know, 'just one night, just one night' - that's her story right there, and she knows that even though they had been stupid enough not to use a condom that one night, nobody ever thinks that she is that girl until it happens.

In her worst nightmares she's stark naked too, so this isn't that yet, but it's still pretty bad on the scale, all things considered.

Or it's worse than the worst. She hasn't decided yet. She hasn't decided on anything yet, or know what to do, and the knowledge that she's so unprepared for this almost makes her knees buckle as she storms away from the benches, away from an equally clueless Marco, even as she knows that it's irrational to expect him to have all the right questions and answers.

But he comes around after, talks of doing the right thing and of not leaving her alone, and she thinks maybe it's definitely not the worst thing in the world.

Rosie's never been the most tactile person, her family never being big on hugs and physical contact, but Marco?

Marco is handsy - but not in a bad way. They're all little things: he entwines their fingers together, and his thumb grazes her cheek, and his arm wraps around her midsection.

He wakes her up every morning with a kiss, one she can feel him smiling into, and pushes her hair gently behind her ear.

It's the closest she's ever made sense of all the songs, and she thinks they're doing everything backwards but for once, she doesn't mind.

I'm glad you're here, she tells him and means it, and she can't help the warmth spreading through her when he tells her that there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Rosie is twenty-three and pregnant, and then she’s not anymore.

It takes all of her to not let the grief consume her everything, but she thinks she can't cry hard enough about it, because even though she's known that it was growing slowly and steadily inside of her for the past two months, she hasn't even felt it kick; she was barely even showing.

She can't help thinking that there's more she could have done to keep it, that it really is her fault because for a minuscule amount of time, at the start of it, she had thought that things would be better without it.

And now she is.

Without it.

(Because calling it 'it' makes her feel so much better. Sure.)

There's a pocket of air that sticks itself in her throat every time she tries to not think about it.

She shuts everyone out the only way she knows to, with biting sarcasm and clipped words, and somehow things fall back into her old routine almost seamlessly again.

She wakes up, goes to the truck (even manages not to bump into him, which she considers a feat on its own), goes home and watches crappy reality tv.

One night she even feels like going out with her roommates to the club to see her favorite band, and they toast the decision because Rosie does deserve her share of fun and relaxation.

Life doesn't fit itself nicely in the box she's prepared though, and when she spots him - stares right at him, actually, breath hitching and all that - she turns and goes right out of the club.

She thought she's ready, now she knows she was being too stupidly optimistic for that.

She takes a deep breath when he calls out for her, turning around with a fake smile plastered on her face, because why not? Pretend that everything is fine and dandy, and they hadn't just lost a child; that seeing his face isn't a stark reminder of everything.

I'm sorry, I can't do this, she manages to spit out, that same pocket of air stuck in her windpipe again as she pushes past him, wondering why she even bothered escaping in the first place.

He dares to say that he misses her, and whatever she's feeling turns into indignity, because Marco is infuriating, Marco pushes all her buttons and - well, it doesn't really matter what Marco is since he seems to have moved on from whatever it was they had, so whatever.

She tries to lose herself in the thumping music, after. And when that's done, she loses herself in work; she even throws herself into researching about college credit transfers and schools out of this state and maybe just starting anew somewhere that isn't here.

Late one night he waits for her after work ends, pushing his bicycle along with his hand haphazardly bandaged for some reason and she tilts her head at him as he talks about wanting to take her out on a real date, and when he hands her a box, she takes it out of pure instinct more than actually wanting to.

Because we were great, he says as way of explanation, and the thing is she agrees with him, but she also agrees right down to the past tense and maybe some things just aren't meant to be, and this is one of those things.

(But they were, a voice rings out small in her head, like playing a reel of memories and she remembers warm touches, and sweet kisses, and smiles that reach the eyes.

She remembers feeling happy and isn't that what life is about, doing what makes you happy?

She shuts that voice down pronto.)

She tries, really tries, to carry on the conversation, giving phony and weak excuses for their state of a not-relationship, but even she can't hide the tremble in her voice when she gives up and tells the truth, straight up.

Besides, it wouldn't work, this Rosie and Marco thing, not when even just looking at him sets her heart on two different paths somehow, one heart-wrenching and the other one... She refuses to entertain that feeling, so it's a moot point anyway.

She blinks back the tears, rolling her eyes at herself and hurries home, her hands clutching on to the box tightly.

That offensive box sits on the table for the entire night before she gives in and takes a piece of it gingerly between her fingers, hunger cometh before pride or something like that.

The caramels are delicious, the right amount of soft and chewy and as she sits in her dimly-lit kitchen she tries not to think of how broken he looked, and maybe she misses him too, like the way his hand held steadily against her waist and the way he smelled of peppermint and how soft his lips tasted and how those blue, blue eyes looked at her - looked right through at her.

She closes her eyes and exhales, feeling oh so old at twenty-three.

She’s just turned twenty-four when she stands outside the nursery, the viewing panel separating her from rows and rows of squirming babies, their little hands flailing defiantly in the air.

A slight pang strikes her heart, the one that's been there when she lets her thoughts linger; the one that’s still there as she assures everyone (herself) that she’s okay.

Marco squeezes her hand lightly enough, and her eyes crinkle with a small smile.

It’ll be okay.

Really.

She’s twenty-six and she knows with some semblance of clarity that she loves the boy who still can’t (or won't, she suspects, just to drive her crazy) pronounce caramels, who uses 'bullshit' far too often for everything and whose eyes she could find herself lost in.

There's an art in the way he works around food, and she loves watching him when he does, his brows all furrowed as he figures the right mix out.

He's all focus and determination and grit mixed into one, and a curl of a smile finds itself unexpectedly on her face as she leans against the kitchen counter, head propped up with the heel of her hand.

She's been back in school for a while now, something that has always been her plan and she thinks that there's something sardonic in the way that the loss of the baby was what steered her back on this path; all that research while she was trying not to bury herself hurting coming in handy for this.

The way they fall back into their old ways is startling at first, in that Rosie has no idea if they're going too fast or not at all, but somewhere along the way she reconciles the fact that he's not just going to be a one-night stand, that he's not really that player in high school that she knows anymore, that there is a real possibility that she might be happy with him, and him with her.

He's still all touches and kisses and looks, and that is enough to chip her remaining walls down; the ones she put up when everything came crashing down the last time.

So this is what they do now. She goes to class, comes back and helps out with the food truck, they go on actual dates and the sex is great.

Not because they have a point to prove, but because even with nothing, she finds that he's the person she wants to tell everything to, from the most ridiculous things to the most serious.

She's not sure when it happened, but he's her best friend and her boyfriend and it's definitely something Rosie Brennan, age 17 and asked to prom by the star player of the basketball team would never have thought of.

When he finally raises his head and notices her there, he smiles - the smile she knows is all hers - and she falls just that little more in love.

She’s twenty-seven and the time is right.

Mostly. She thinks.

She hasn't even really realized she's skipped a period, because this final semester in school has been driving her completely crazy, deadlines and presentations and meetings packed into the day.

She can barely keep track of her schedule and as it turns out, the smell of Marco's aftershave makes her sick enough to bolt to the bathroom and empty her stomach, and she connects the dots from there.

Sure, it’s clearly still a little unplanned for, and they're as unprepared as they were the previous time, but Rosie's taking it in her stride this time.

This time, Marco's growing smile tells her everything she needs.

She says: Shit, should we get married? in a completely joking manner but he gets that glint in his eyes that makes her breath stop short when she sees it.

So maybe she should have seen it coming when he cooks something amazing for dinner the next day, but it still takes her by surprise when he gets down on his knee and fiddles with a ring in his hand and she starts crying before he even speaks, and she hates herself for being a living, walking cliche.

She says yes, but not before punching him lightly in his arm, just because.

(Also she manages to keep the dinner down, thank god, because it is that good.)

He does that 'treat her like a glass doll' thing for a while, which she understands because sometimes a wave of uncertainty sweeps through her, makes her feel a chill to the core that something bad might happen, and all she can do is to will her body into being good, housing the baby safely this time round.

Wishing hard enough apparently works, because when the first trimester passes and Marco's just smiling like an idiot to her, his eyes shining as he pulls her in (carefully, still) for a sweet kiss, she feels a huge weight lifted off her shoulders.

Metaphorically, of course, because the actual weight on her petite frame has her waddling in no time at all and she smacks him lightly one night when he laughs and says something about a penguin.

Penguins mate for life, he adds, a little smirk on his face and she rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling too anyway.

She thinks maybe she should stop thinking of age in terms of years and start thinking about life in terms of before and after Marco, and before and after their baby, and before and after their family, because these things make so much more sense now.

She finds herself in love with another pair of blue eyes; these ones so soft and loving and stirs up something so protective in her, and she swallows hard, pushing that familiar-yet-not pocket of air down her throat.

It's a good one this time.

She's twenty-eight and life is - well, perfect.

Still no turf wars or back-up dancers waiting to rumble, though. She thinks she's definitely okay with that, because this - this is so much better.