Corbyn Besson
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idea credited to @mushlova16
I roll over in the king sized bed, searching with closed eyes and an outstretched arm for my husband's warmth.
Then, in the foggy, hazy line between being awake and asleep, I remember.
I sit up and open my eyes, blinking until I focus on the darkened room. My heart pulls me to look at the side of the bed that hasn't been touched for two weeks, even though I know he's not there.
Reaching over to my bedside table, I unplug my phone from the charger and see a message displayed on the lock screen.
Love: Good morning, sweetheart. The boys and I tour London today. The show is tonight at eight. I wish you could be here. I know it's only been fourteen days, but I miss you so much. The next four months can't pass quickly enough. I love you.
I love you too, baby. I woke up just a few minutes ago and realized that you weren't here and I just... sorry. I don't want to make you sad. I miss you too, more than you know. I love you.
I take a deep breath, slide out from under the covers, and make my way to the bathroom.
When Corbyn and I met four years ago, we didn't fall into the typical love story. In fact, at first, we didn't like each other at all. We laugh openly now about how much we actually disliked each other for the first year upon meeting one another through being mutual friends with Daniel.
I thought he was too energetic. I adore and love his constantly hyped up spirit now, but when I first met him, I had to resist the urge to step back from him when he entered the room as a flaming figure of excessive noise and flailing arms.
He thought I was too isolated, and therefore impossible to get to know. I was always drawn back when he was around, so we didn't talk and we didn't make eye contact and we kind of ignored each other until one night when I visited the Why Don't We house just to find that they were out for dinner. Well, except for Corbyn, who was there because he was sick. We started talking that night, realized the other wasn't actually too bad, and eventually fell in love.
We dated for a little over two years before Corbyn asked me to marry him. Our eight month engagement was put to an end on our wedding day, a month before he and the boys were to take off for their world tour.
Corbyn and I have always respected each other's boundaries and bodies. At the beginning of our relationship, we made it clear with one another that we did not want to have sex until we were married. The desire was there, but we made that choice. We set that standard for ourselves as a couple. We wanted to fall in love with each other, not the pleasure we could give each other. Sex is not what makes up a relationship, so we waited.
When we got married, another setback came up. Even though I told him over and over again that if I found out I was pregnant while he on the other side of the world I would be fine, he said he would not be able to not worry.
"What if you got in trouble? What if the something happened? What if something happened to the baby? What would you do? What would I do? I would be on the other side of the world... and I can't risk that."
We decided to wait to until he got home.
The night before he and the boys left, however, that changed.
I was crying, feeling the full weight and realization that I would not see the man I loved for such a long period of time.
I absolutely lost it when he found me in our bedroom. He broke down too. In the end, we comforted one another in a way we never had before, the bond between us becoming unbreakable, once and for all.
It was simply inevitable.
I slide the drawer under the bathroom counter out to grab my toothbrush, suddenly recalling that last night, my toothpaste ran out. I squat and pull open another cabinet door, searching for the extra tube I bought not too long ago. As I'm looking, my eyes land on a box of tampons.
My heart stops.
Wait....
I stand, shaking, and make my way back to the bedroom, picking up my phone.
How could I have forgotten?
I open the calendar app and slowly sit on the edge of the bed.
My period is five days late.
***
Love: Baby, I'm home.
My heart pounds in my chest as I rush to the front door. I'm twenty-two years old, but I feel like a crazed teenager who is madly in love as I run and slide around in the hallways.
I throw the door open and there he is. My husband, in all of his shining, beautiful, perfection.
He's crying when he tackles me in a hug. I already have tears running down my cheeks, but I'm laughing. I've never been this happy in my entire life.
Four months of longing... and worry. When I took a test, confirming pregnancy, I decided not to tell my husband. I knew he would only worry.
I've managed to keep it a secret. I haven't been posting pictures of my lower half on social media and wear baggy sweatshirts every time I go out, just in case a fan recognizes me or takes a picture. I thought I was being sneaky enough, but the very intelligent fans began to catch on.
That led to huge amounts of stress and anxiety for me. I didn't want Corbyn to find out in that way.
Though I waited with half-expecting dread for weeks, he never said anything about it or questioned me in the slightest.
"Baby," he cries, grabbing my face in his hands and kissing me all over.
I laugh harder, grabbing onto his sweatshirt. His hands leave my face.
"No amount of words can describe how much I've missed you," he says, running his hands down my sides.
This is it.
He reaches my stomach and tenses up, freezing in place. He knows me. He knows it's never felt that way before.
His eyes widen, his mouth drops open, and he looks down to the small bump between us, barely visible through the folds and ruffles of my sweatshirt.
My husband meets my eyes again. For four months, I was so scared that when he found out, he would be angry with me for keeping it from him, but the faintest trace of a smile makes it's way onto his lips.
"Sweetheart?" he whispers.
A tear runs down my face as my chest floods with absolute relief.
I raise a hand to his face, cupping his cheek, and stare deep into his eyes.
"You're a father, baby. I'm pregnant."
