The Plus Sign

I can't be pregnant.

“I had that dream again,” I nonchalantly inform her.  

She suddenly stops typing and looks up at me, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs. “Ducky, sit down for a minute.”

Wordlessly, I slide into the intimidating leather chair across from her.

Mum takes a deep breath, and then glances at me. “You’ve been having many of those dreams of late.”

I nod slowly, unsure of what she’s trying to say.

“Tell me,” Mum starts, lacing her fingers together, “do you…” She trails off, staring into space.

“Do I what? Mum, a-are you okay?” I ask nervously.

She seems to snap back to reality. “Um… I wanted to know if you would like to meet your biological mother.”

Stunned, I sit up straight in my seat. “What? Why?”

You see, I’m adopted. That’s why I keep having those dreams. I was 8 years old when my mum first told me. Ever since, I’ve constantly pestered my mum to tell and re-tell me the stories of my biological mother, Piper, despite having heard everything countless times.

I don’t resent Piper. I never have. Yes, it was her fault that she had had pre-marital sex without protection and got herself pregnant at such a young age, but if not for her, I would never have found such wonderful parents.

Mum sighs and seems to deflate a little. “You seem to want to see her very badly. I don’t want you to keep having those dreams; it’s not good for you. I’m not selfish. I’ll let you go if you want to.”

Flustered, I raise my voice. “No! She gave me up, and I’m happy now. I was a mistake. Her mistake.” I swallow, and continue. “I love you and Dad so much, Mum. I owe my life to you. I don’t want to go back… I don’t care for it. I’m glad Piper gave me to you.”

Tears fill my mother’s eyes and she smiles. She stands up and walks to me, and I get up, my 5’7 height towering over her petite frame. Then she hugs me. It is comforting; it is calming.

And in that moment, I realise: I wouldn’t trade my mum for anyone else. Not now, not ever.

**

Now, before we continue, let’s make one thing clear. I am not Piper; I will not get knocked up and have a kid at the age of seventeen. It’s true that Jonas and I did it once or twice this summer, but it hasn't happened again. And of course, we’re not stupid. We had protection. Plus, I’ve had my period three times since the last time it happened. No baby for Charlie. 

I zip up my suitcase and set it down neatly on the floor by the door, next to three others.  

“Babe, I think you might just have packed your entire closet.” Jonas smirks. He is lying lazily on my bed on his front, scrolling through his phone.

Ignoring him, I retrieve my toothbrush from my bathroom. I’ve only got ten minutes left before we leave—I need to work fast!

Suddenly, I feel arms wrap around my waist and a pair of lips press softly against my neck. A frustrated groan escapes me; now’s no time for a make out session, we’re going to be late! 

“Jonas, not now,” I complain.

Jonas doesn’t even reply. Grasping my hips, he turns me around so I am facing him, making me drop the face wash I am holding in my hand. I stare at his beautiful face, and I know I’m going to give in. I can’t help but smile—this always happens.

As I wrap my arms around his neck, his hands find their way to my bottom, and he lifts me onto the bathroom counter. We don't break our kiss, and things begin to heat up. His lips travel back to my neck and I push my hair out of the way. Tilting my head back, I softly manage to remind him of the time, and he groans.

“I wish we had more time,” he breathes out, pressing his forehead against mine.

I smile and cup his cheeks, kissing him on his nose.

“I do too, baby, but I need to finish packing and there’s only five minutes left.” He kisses me once more before leaving me to finish my packing. 

When I’m done, I return to my room to find Jonas sprawled on my bed yet again, scrolling through Twitter. Being in a band, he constantly feels the need to connect with his fans. They’re not half as popular as The Beatles or The Rolling Stones—well, not yet, anyway—but they have a pretty decent-sized fan base consisting mostly of Americans. 

Dropping my last bag by the door, I run and jump onto the bed, next to Jonas. He throws down his phone and wraps his arms around me, pulling me onto his lap so I am straddling him.

“Are you finally packed up, Princess?” he asks.

I bite my lip and nod. “I don’t want to go back… it’s so different over there.” I stick my bottom lip out in a pout.

“But you look so good in those American clothes, and I like being in a country alone with you,” he smiles, pushing the hair away from my face.

I laugh at his reply—I can’t wait until we’re old enough, when we can get married and live together.

 My mum calls from downstairs and I sigh deeply. Jonas' hands grip tighter around my waist when I try to get up. 

“Jonas, we’re going to be late for our fli-” I am cut off by a kiss. This always happens. I grin as he pulls back, tossing me off of his lap and onto the bed. He runs to the door, grabs my two largest suitcases, and yells, “Last one down is a rotten egg!” before proceeding to run down the stairs as fast as he can.

Sitting up, I smile and shake my head. 

How I love him.