#unorthodox

The condo is quiet without them. In an unsettling way. I’m used to the voice of Tamela Mann, Donnie McClurkin, Marvin Sapp, or whatever other voice straight from heaven, Anthony’s morning shuffle releases in the air of our shared space. Right before it switches abruptly to something more worldly, like The City Girls or Dave East. The mess Demi leaves in her wake, running in and out of every other room, bare feet slapping against the floor, because she pressed the snooze button one too many times. 

There’s none of that. Faint sirens and horns serve as background noise while I force myself to eat a bowl of frosted flakes topped with a heap of honey layered over it. I prefer eggs and some kind of meat, but my stomach does not. It’s as if my entire anatomy, my entire being, has been reset. Things that always satisfied my tongue, taste like foreign rubbish now. All the junk I craved before, doesn’t even make the journey to my large intestines before it decides it can’t go any further. 

The most Sundayish Saturday possible. Lazy, fluid and a lingering taste of I don’t want this day to end. Just doing whatever comes to mind. I scrubbed the bathroom spotless until the chemicals started to make me nauseous. Vacuumed and swept every floor, fluffed every pillow, and wiped every flat surface. I just needed something to do. Something to distract me from the fact that I haven’t heard from the man who’s meant to be the father of my child in almost a week. 

I can’t do my usual. Running would cure this. At least for the time that my feet hit the ground. The ice covering the pavement is making that temporary solution unappealing. 

I don’t know how, but it’s already half past four. The day blurred together after endless attempts to keep myself buried in something that isn’t the echo of my own thoughts. The skyline was split in two now. A salmon colored line over the buildings, as daylight took her last breaths. I really hate how fast the sun comes and goes in the winter. It makes me feel as if time is running out. 

The theme song of Sex and The City plays for the third time, right when I’m on my third creamsicle, playing a dangerous game over the pristine texture of the cream colored sectional—when my phone vibrates against my leg. 

“Hello?”

“Ms. Floyd you have a guest downstairs.”

“It’s not Demi, is it?” I frown. This would be her fourth replacement. That girl would lose her neck if it didn’t connect her head to her body.

“No ma’am. It’s a gentlemen.” 

“You can send him up.” 

I shake my head ending the call. That’s not like Anthony. His middle name is structure. The only area he refuses to walk a straight line, is in his love life. One of the only things we have in common. 

I look down at my big t-shirt and granny-panty get up. Oh, well. I hear the knock at the door sooner than expected. Trapping the creamsicle in my mouth, I pad faster and take the spare off the magnetic ring for him, while opening the door with my other hand. 

Nothing, and I do mean nothing prepares me for the exceptionally large body on the other side of the door, that I don’t even bother opening all the way before slamming it shut, as if a threat to my life rests on the other side. 

What the fuck?

 I read a lot about pregnancy, now. Google suggestions of articles about medical outbreaks or tips for new mothers plague my browser, ever since the algorithm has picked up on my new sudden interest. Or catastrophe. 

All my symptoms seem to be normal. Morning sickness. Fatigue. Not being able to hold liquid for more than thirty minutes it seems. Cravings. Hating foods that I’d normally eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Not once have I read about delusions and hallucinations as a pregnancy symptom. 

I have to be hallucinating. Or maybe I’m dreaming. That sounds about right. Maybe, this lucid day wasn’t even real. I never even woke up. Better yet—I’ve been dreaming since I took that fucking test. 

Cause only in my dreams, would Joe be at my front door. 

“Alana?”

That’s not a hallucination. His voice, deep and smooth like velvet, and commanding even in the gentlest tone—it’s more real than anything.

My appearance was already sketchy. The outcome of staying in all day and becoming one with the condo. And now, a long, pale but very distinct, wet spot runs along the center of the XXL white tee. 

And my creamsicle? In a budding puddle by my feet. 

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself. Wincing with my eyes shut tight.

You really have to be careful what you wish for. Or better yet, just be prepared when and if it comes. 

The hinges of the door whistle when I open it just enough to peak my head out. I’m not hallucinating. I can see him as clearly as one can in this hall’s fluorescent lighting. Standing tall and wide. Bronze skin clashing with not just the frigid weather outside, but his black puffer coat atop the warmest looking hoodie. His hair is hidden under the dark grey beanie, but the hairs of his beard are thick as ever, as if he hasn’t been bothered to cut it since I last seen him. Dark eyes pinned on me in a way that makes me think for a second that he’s equally as thrown by what stands on the other side of this door. 

His mouth does a dance as if he wants to say something. Lord knows I’m too stunned to speak. 

“Hi,” he finally speaks. Mouth morphing into the softest curved lines. 

“Hi,” I reply with my voice only halfway here with us. 

He stares at me with not even half as much awe as I’m sure is planted on my face.

What the fuck is he doing here?

And with the flattest voice and most sincere eyes he says,“take me inside.”

The rhythm my acrylics make against the marble counter, slow and daunting, serve as a comfort we both cling to. Cause as long as I do it, we don’t necessarily have to talk. We can just continue to sit here. Him on the stool closest to the living area, looking over everything his eyes can reach, that he’s never seen before. While I stand on the other side of the island that rests in the kitchen, looking at the one thing I haven’t seen here before. Him. 

He looks so different outside of hotel rooms. Still, the grandest thing in the room. Wrapped in all black. Dressed for comfort. Broad shoulders slightly hunching. The light hanging above us hitting his tan skin just right, offering him a glow he didn’t even need. Silver hairs refusing to blend in. 

He almost looks normal.

But he’s far from that. 

The moon in a room of stars. I used to consider myself so fortunate just to be in his orbit. Now, I’m not so sure.

“Are you thirsty?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind after my thoughts override my ability to keep tapping. My mother always taught me to offer a drink to guests. It’s rude not to. “I have water—juice—I don’t know if you’re a coffee person. Matcha?”

“Matcha—what is that? That green stuff?” I nod. “Water is good.”

My house slippers scrape against the floor all the way to the fridge to retrieve his bottle of water. Being around him this long, I can sense the ghost of him watching me. Unlike the other times that I feel him, when I turn back, he’s actually still looking.

I slide the bottle across the top of the island and he catches it. I wait until after he takes a hefty sip, Adam’s apple rising and falling, to speak again.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was…I had business this way. Figured I’d come check on you.”

“You came to see if I changed my mind.” Pregnancy has its downs, but it has its ups too. Some kind of superpower, or like a sixth sense. That barrier I used as a crutch? The apprehension? She’s gone. That extra space in between every line we used to speak to each other? I’m learning how to fill it. “Well, I didn’t,” I finish.

“I just came to see about you. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to do that anymore.” I make myself comfortable. The tension melting off me. This is my shit. Why should I be nervous? 

This isn’t the first time on his bus. We’re far past that. A time when I was greener than green. Too enamored with him to even form a complete or coherent thought. I lean into my forearms, pressing into the cold marble surface, completely aware but uncaring of the extra life it gives my cleavage. 

“I’m sorry?” As I expect, his brown eyes bounce from them to my eyes quickly. Yeah, I know. Like I said, pregnancy has its ups. 

“I said, you don’t have to do that anymore. Lie. Pretend to care.”

“I’m not lying. You’re all I could think of when I landed. I left a meeting and came straight here. Sounds like genuine care to me.”

“For me or the baby?” The pause he takes while his eyes squint, is enough for me to retreat. “—Don’t answer that.”

I bite the flesh on the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress the heat inside me. The tightness of my muscles as I think about how I haven’t heard from him after delivering life altering news. 

Before, it made sense. Men don’t keep up with their extracurriculars unless absolutely necessary. But things have shifted. There’s something or someone else to consider now. 

He can half ass me. Not them. I won't allow it. He has two options. Both feet in. Or neither. 

“Is this how it’s going to be? Random pop-ups? We’ll only see you, when we see you?”

“How do you want this to go?”

I let out a rippling laugh that disappears as quick as it comes. “You’re asking me?”

“This was your decision. You tell me how this is supposed to go. Ball is in your court. Always has been.” 

I release something in between a laugh and a scoff. The ball was never in my court. I have no terrain here. 

“This was never my game.”

“Who’s playing games?” He frowns. “No more time for those. The trajectory of somebody’s whole life—the way they see the world—how they love—it’s all about to be in your hands.”

“If you’re tryna scare me, it won’t work. I’m already fucking scared.”

I don’t think he meant to, but he let out a clipping breath that was clearly a suppressed laugh. At least I can help him find some type of joy in this, I guess. 

“You always tell the truth?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If I don’t want someone to know something, I try not to lie. I’ll just choose silence.”

“Omitting is lying.” Can’t argue with that. He’d know best. “Would you lie to your kid?”

I’m not so quick to answer this time. Mainly, because I don’t have one when he asks. 

Is he quizzing me?

Is this some sort of test for parenting? Trying to see if I’d be a good enough fit to raise his child?

“I don't think so,” I finally answer. 

“Even if the truth hurt? Even if it meant they’d look at you differently?”

If this is a test, I’ve already failed. Our parenting styles already clash.

“My mom never lied to me. Even if the truth was ugly, I’d rather it came from her.” I can visibly see him digesting my answer. Eyes roaming over the countertop. Fingers twitching. Now, I’m the one with the questions. “Do you? Lie to your kids?” 

“I think I do the thing you choose to. Not say anything.”

“Lying still. You said it, not me.”

His presence or lack thereof was always the shady line I drew over this whole thing. I didn’t think much about the impact of him actually being around. How he’d interact with them. The things he’d choose not to show them or the things he did. How he’d talk to them. If he’d spoil them or make them work for it, thinking it was building some type of character. 

Things I hadn’t even thought to regulate for myself. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe, I didn’t think this through enough to have my feet cemented in my choice. 

“I don’t know how this is supposed to go,” I admit. “This whole thing is just…unorthodox to say the least. You and me. The baby. I don’t know.”

“But you know you want to have it?” He poses it as a question, but it lands as more of a statement. A mirror even. I really can’t stand the way he sees right through me sometimes. “To answer your question, some changes need to be made, to make sure it’s not like this.”

“What changes?”

“For starters”—he sets the bottle down, licking the excess drops of water off his plump top lip—“I don’t think it’s wise for you to be all the way up here. Especially during the pregnancy.”

“All the way up here? As in home?”

“I get that it’s familiar, but familiar isn’t always what’s best. I’m not just saying it, to say it. If something happens, how am I supposed to get to you or the baby?”

“You wouldn’t have to. I’m safer right here than I am anywhere else. I live with two roommates who are both in the medical field. My family is only a two hour drive away, give or take. Versus your three by plane.”

“Have you told them?”

The words get stuck in my throat before I actually choose to tell the truth. 

“My best friend—Demi—she knows. Only because she was there that night—when Paul came to get me. And she was there when I took the test. Not hard to put two and two together. My family? That’s a different story.”

“They don’t know? About any of it?”

“I’m NDA bound, remember?”

“I meant to tell you—that’s about to change, too. Don’t worry.” There’s a pause. One that stretches with a thousand questions. Before I can place them and articulate any, he speaks again. “They’ll be okay with this?”

I shake my head, fighting off the anxiety that comes with just the thought of having to tell them. “They’re gonna wanna know who you are.”

“I just told you that’s about to change.”

“It doesn’t have to because I don’t think that’s something I’m willing to share yet.” There’s a million reasons why, but I settle for the main ones. “You’re married. You’re older. I’ll be lucky if they even want anything to do with the whole thing. Especially my brother.”

“You have siblings?”

“Just one.”

“He’s older than you?” 

I nod. Cheeks growing tender as I fight to keep a straight face, thinking of all the times it didn’t feel that way. Giving him relationship advice as if I’d know any better. Helping him with his homework. Convincing him that our dad was going to be okay, when I was crying myself to sleep every night—the sting of knowing it could go either way spiraling deep. 

I wonder if he shares those same ties with his own siblings. Or even if his brother was that for him, for the time that he was here. 

“I feel like I don’t know you. And you clearly don’t know me.”

“So, let’s get to know each other,” he suggests in a tone calm like a still lake. Like it’s nothing. Like it requires no effort. No discomfort. Like it’s not being forced on us based on my decisions. Like it won’t complicate things even more. 

But we do it. Right on the floor of my living area. The flesh of my skin sinking into the thick carpet, as I sit crisscrossed not too far from him. The flesh of his elbow sinking into carpet as he lays sideways, one abnormally large leg bent for extra comfort. 

A gloss is promoted in his brown eyes under the fireplace’s fury, that we hardly ever use. He saw me hugging my bare arms, so he lit it. I couldn’t smell the Vanilla Chai anymore so I relit the candle. We got comfortable right on the floor, saying to hell with the couches. I offered to give him more water, but he asked for wine, instead. He likes it dark, and I granted him his wishes after he promised not to get it on the cream carpet. Anthony would actually kill him, regardless of him financing this whole thing. 

In this ecosystem we’ve built on the floor, so far, I’ve learned that his favorite food is chicken, he loves the beach, and hates fake tanning. His guilty pleasure is chocolate and his favorite ways to unwind are sex and Call of Duty. Despite always wetting his har before matches, he can’t stand the feeling of water drying on him. Sensory issues, I guess. He’s watched the movie Wolf Of Wall Street so many times, he can recite the lunch scene with Matthew McConaughey, on command. The funniest person he knows is his cousin Jonathon, and under no circumstances, would he ever cut his hair above shoulder-length. 

Before that night at Mania, I only ever saw the tip of the ice-berg. He introduced himself as Joe in the silence of one passionate night in the Hamptons, and after that things took a turn. I finally saw what was underneath, resting just below the water. Now, we go further. Deeper. 

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Not really. At least not in the way you’d think,” I explain. “I believe in energy. Things that the dead may leave behind for us.”

“Yeah, I’m not too sure about ghosts either. They’ve never visited me, if they are real. You have allergies?” I shake my head. “Damn. I guess they’ll inherit that from me.”

“I guess so.” I’m temporarily distracted by the way his tattoos dance under the flexed muscle when he brings the glass to his lips for a minute.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, leaning back with a flat palm to the carpet. Ups and downs. These hormones are a bitch. My rose actually gave out on me last night. 

“You know what I can’t stand?”

“What?”

“Mint flavored anything. Unless it’s gum, why the fuck is it mint flavored?” He frowns. 

“That might be the first solid thing we agree on tonight.”

“I don’t understand people who can eat their ice cream like that.”

“I’m more of a cookie dough and chocolate chip kind of girl.”

“Mm,” he hums and the vibration reaches me. “That’s a good one. Cookies and cream, too.” I nod trying to suppress my hunger for it, knowing it would be in the toilet come morning. “How do you feel about tattoos?”

“They’re alright, I guess.”

“What’s the youngest you’d let them get one?” He nods down to my stomach. 

“When they’re a legal adult. Even then I think they should wait awhile. When that frontal lobe is fully developed.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Considering you don’t have any.”

“How do you know?”

“Alana, I’ve seen every inch of your body.” 

“Whatever.”

“When I was like fifteen, I wanted one so bad.” He shakes his head with his eyes in slits. “My mom said, hell no. So, I took a han—”

“I already know the story of the hanger. Please. My stomach is sensitive these days. Spare me the details.” His shoulders shake with laughter. “What the hell is wrong with you? Crazy. You’re really not used to hearing the word, no.”

“Only from you. Stubborn little thing.” He shakes his head, a smile eating away at him while I try to breathe regular after that. “I think I wanted it so bad because I felt I had something to prove. The tattoo,” he clarifies. “I’m only half Samoan. Sometimes I feel like I’m not Samoan enough. I don’t know what made me feel as though a tattoo had anything to do with it.” He tilts the glass in his hand, watching the single last drop roll in it. I want to press harder, but I stop myself. “You getting morning sickness already?”

“Yeah. So much hair in the brush now, too. Tired all the damn time. It’s like I’m taking Red Devil every night.”

That makes him laugh, before he sits the empty glass on the end table not too far from him before settling back into his position. 

“What do you know about Doxorubicin?”

My blood runs cold. Damn it.

I force a laugh. “I’m in the medical field, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I see his wheels turning. Before he can dig deeper, I load the chamber with my next question and shoot.

“Who do you look up to the most?”

“My mom.” He doesn’t even think about it. 

“Same,” I lie. Well, not completely. 

I admire the fuck out of my mom. Mainly for doing all the things I know I can’t. Like walking away from things not serving her anymore and choosing herself. Being the backbone of her entire family. She’s built hard and tough like a century old statue. I have to swallow the urge to cry just thinking about how she is, like me, literally just a girl. Hormones. 

But my dad? He looked cancer in the face and obliterated it. Kept going when his body told him it was time to stop. He’s a warrior like the man across from me. Their similarities stiffen me as much as I find comfort in them. 

I’ll admire Kenneth Floyd until my dying breath. He taught me that heroes don’t wear capes in our world. They sit through hours of chemo, with the threat of everything they’ll have to leave behind, pressing at the front of their skull, using it as a force to just keep going. 

“What is she like? Your mom.”

“Total opposite of me,” I laugh. “Only thing we have in common is how we look.”

“Oh, for real?” He raises his brows.

“Boy—get back! You don’t think you have your hands full already?”

“I’m just messing with you.” The tip of his dimple continues to peek at me long after he stops cheesing. “What about your dad?” 

“What about him?” My throat constricts slightly. 

“What’s he like? You gotta be like one of your parents. Is it him?”

“Y-yeah, probably. He’s more soft spoken and reserved like me.”

“You two close?”

“We used to be.”

I start messing with the acrylic on my fingers. Pressing until it hurts more than the ache in my chest. The similarities are exhausting. Just like him, how does my dad manage to wiggle his way into every area of my life? Every conversation?

The first exchange of awkward silence lingers over our heads. I catch him staring. He bites his bottom lip and I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Who’s your favorite pornstar?”

His mouth parts as he pushes the line of his eyebrows down. “We really doing this? That’s not really the best follow up question after somebody asks about your parents, babygirl.” His mouth curves in a half smile. I shrug before he looks off into the sparkling flames. Tongue pointed while it messes with the dark hairs in the corner of his mouth. Swinging his knee slightly causes the open space from his black sweats to press against something firm. The outline of it, even semi-hard, is enough to my make my most sensitive parts jolt with anticipation. Hormones. 

“Alicia Tyler.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“I don’t need to know yours.”

I hide my smile, tucking my chin to my chest, only to look back up and catch him staring again, so I stare back this time. Tracing over the long lines of his body. Shoulders un-squared. Limbs loose from the bitter wine. Someone like him, always so tense, so slow to answer every question, thinking five times before he even speaks, and always the face of a next big move—it almost feels like I’ve stolen something, or found something that wasn’t supposed to be found. A new species. I’ve caught him not being his usual premeditated self. He’s not calculated. He’s not cold. he’s just Joe.

My attention is drawn to the source of the sudden pop. Fire has always been a hard to conceive concept to me. How it can hardly be detained. How it destroys everything in its wake, swallowing it whole, until it becomes apart of it. A victim to it. It reminds me of love. 

Addressing the ghost of him staring, my eyes flicker to his. “What?”

He stares some more, jaw moving, a glassy look devouring his eyes under the fire, until they sink to the carpet. “Nothing.”

I take a deep breath, wishing he would just ask to stay, but he hasn’t yet. It’s already late. I have no idea how long we’ve been doing this soft question and answer game, until I peek at my phone. It almost feels wrong to have it in his presence. 

11:23 PM.

“I have free crib tonight.”

“Free crib?” He squints. 

I laugh mostly to myself at the language barrier, not just due to age, but the places in which we come from. “I have the condo to myself tonight. And the next two days.” Demi and Anthony attended the retreat the hospital books for employees in the Poconos, every year around this time. When the snow threatens to stick every other day and all the holidays are over with. They won’t be back for another two days. They begged me to come with, but my body is transforming too rapidly. I couldn’t see myself traveling that far. It’s not like I could indulge in the same things everyone else could. Drinking games with spiked eggnog and whatever else. “Are you staying?”

“You want me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I’m staying.”

My hand can barely wrap around his when I lead him by it to my sanctuary. 

All cream, matching the aesthetic of the rest of the house. Soft pink throw and circular mini pillows dress the bed. New York is very much awake at this hour. The lights, white, mostly red, and some blue, pour into the dim room. I never need the background noise of the TV when I’m doing work. The sound of life and people going on about their day is enough.

I flick the light on just in time to watch as he slips out his sneakers. He makes small steps to the edge of the room, soaking in the main attraction. New York.

I use the opportunity to hike the t-shirt up and over my body. Nothing underneath except the black panties from target I wear for no one but myself. 

“This view is perfect,” I hear his deep voice murmur.

“I know right. You should see it from my roommates room. She can see the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Babygirl, I wasn’t talking about the window.” Heat eats away at me. “You might as well keep that off.” He pulls the bottom of his hoodie up with the shirt underneath. His body, a force, threatening whatever shred of discipline I have left. My whole body turns on like a furnace. The dents of muscle representing his v-line, awaken all the impure thoughts I tried to lay to rest since the moment he stepped foot in here. 

The sheets stretched and bunched beneath us. Tugging in all the places it was tucked neatly under the mattress, while he worked hard to pull as many trickles of pleasure from me all night. Fucking me like this was his last time to ever do so. 

It almost felt like that time on the bus. The night before Paul delivered the unreliable news that it was our last time. Only it wasn’t. And unlike then, speaking the one language that requires no words, tonight I’d exhausted them all. 

Pleas. Begging. Praise. 

He fucked me so good I almost told that man I loved him.

Every slam of his pelves to my ass, with the meanest grip of my hair, felt like a punishment. Like all the frustration he felt for this abrupt left turn our situation took, he was releasing and passing it into me. He hadn’t even bothered to fully undress before entering me. Desperate.

He takes an intermission in his brutal attack.

“So soft,” the breath from his whisper kisses the skin of my ass, leaving nothing but chills. He arranges me like a doll and I let him take full control. Pulling both arms behind me, until I’m grabbing my elbows. “Stay like that. Don’t move,” he tells me. I can hear everything. When he slides his pants down, when he steps out of them, his scrunchy being thrown on my nightstand, and when he finally comes back. All of his weight barred down in the hand he places on my back. His smell—his aura—all of it, hovering over me completely before I feel it again. “Already soaked,” he mumbles. 

How could he not understand by now, that it takes nothing? One simple look, the right arrangement of words, his presence, his smell, is enough to start my engine. My body recognizes his in any instance. Automated to open up like a flower in sunlight. 

I damn near suffocated myself in the comforter trying to cope with his size as he starts to move again, but it’s short-lived. My hair is tangled in his hands when he maneuvered my gaze. I could see everything. He gave me a front row seat when he turned my head sideways to catch us in the full body mirror. The muscles in his arms flexed at every movement. Abdominal ridges tightening every time he rolled his hips forward. 

He looked so good like that. 

Rugged, dominant, and uncaring. 

Hair falling over his face and not a shred of clothing on. 

He sped up and my eyes fluttered at the change, struggling to stay open. But I didn’t want to miss anything. It wasn’t long before he was right there. Mouth hovering right above my ear, forcing me to hear every shaky breath and growl when they fell from his throat.

In a flash, I’m flipped over. He didn’t bother showing any mercy. There was no warm up. No accession. He started at the top and plateaued. The bed moaned with me nonstop. His mouth parting, eyes dilated, capturing mine, making it impossible to look away. It was so dangerous. He is dangerous. 

The hand I spread over his lower abs was like a drop of water in a grease fire. It was useless. He took ahold of it before pinning it by my ear, pushing until his pelvis met mine and all the air in my lungs washed out. 

He was enjoying it. I could tell by the way he revisited every position, like he didn’t feel it enough the first time. 

Turning on my hands, I saw the imprint of his on the mattress and hoped it would never leave. He laid beside it. Muscular thighs spread and inviting. Dick, thick and pulsing, when it flopped heavy onto his stomach. 

“F-feels so g-good.” My voice was muffled when it shook from the upward hits. 

“Look at me.” He moved the comfort of his neck from me. Forcing me to look in his eyes. Usually shut doors, they had become windows. Showing me something. That same something I don’t think I was meant to see earlier in the family room. 

The real him.

He always finds his way back to his favorite place. It’s partly my fault. I rose up, bouncing up and down his length, chasing a second one. The swollen rings of my nipples swaying in his face like a worm on a hook until he couldn’t take it anymore. He latched on, eyes closed, hands roaming everywhere he could find in the dark, until he sucked a bit too hard and I had to push his big body back down. They’re way too sensitive. 

I let myself go on him, riding every wave out, enjoying the aftermath, as I felt him stiffen even more from the deathtrap I created. He was close. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out. Controlling hands gripped my waist, taking us from mild slaps to full collision. “Don’t stop.”

I could see his end approaching. A single line between his arched brows. The way his stomach revealed every ridge and went still. He didn’t encourage me to get up. In fact he pulled me back down to him. Hands locked behind my bare back. Pushing his hips up, choppy, like he couldn’t control it. He didn’t encourage me to get up. I felt everything. From end to end. He came undone inside. Filling the entire space. Warm and unforgiving as his hold constricted and he groaned into my skin. 

I don’t know what I feel. I was in a trance. I came again. I didn’t want to move any less than his arms wanted me to stay as they got tighter. So tight it feels like we’d stay like that forever. The echo of what we just did went completely silent before he dragged himself out and everything went back to normal. 

Sleep is forcing herself on me, but I’m putting up a good fight. 

I can’t see him exclusively in the dark but I feel him everywhere still. 

I’m still there. On the floor out there. I can’t move on from it. There’s so much more to know and not enough time. Everything is moving so fast, and still not fast enough. 

Here in this bed, eyelids heavy as weighted blankets, I don’t want this night to end. 

The seclusion of it all. It tugs at something inside of me. Makes me feel languid. There’s a whole world out there, past the floor to ceiling window, that has no idea about us. About the way our bodies cling together, when they were still slick with sweat, until the air rid us of that barrier until we were just skin on skin. 

I can’t remember what my days and especially my nights felt like before him. All I know is that it didn’t feel like this and that I don’t want to go back. 

I hope in the roots of my psyche, I’m not following through with this just to guarantee he stays. The mind is a sneaky machine. 

I don’t know why, but I’m holding onto bicep, like he might vanish from my bed, if I don’t. It’s not tight, but I guess it’s firm enough to get his attention. He grabs my hand in his, and I watch with the most attentive eyes, when he brings it to his mouth to press the softest kiss to. The simple act dispels all the tension from my body, starting at my fingertips and rolling into every other part. 

If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can imagine that none of this is wrong. 

He confuses me so much. My head is always ripped to shreds with him around. Things don’t match. Always more complicated than the last time. He plays tricks on me—showing up in the middle of the day without being asked, asking me personal questions on the comfort of my floor where everything should be leveled—but, it’s never exactly as it feels. 

“Did you tell them yet?” My words stay over us before he takes a deep breath, fixating on the ceiling. 

“Eventually.” 

His tone leaves no room for a response and especially no questions. I don’t know how long I have him for, with me, in these sheets. The little time I’m able to steal, whatever is left, it’s sacred. We had somewhat of a good day. I don’t want to stain it.

There’s a million more questions we tip-toed around earlier. We used the time to get to know each other, as if we’re the only ones involved. But, that’s always been the issue, hasn’t it? Us moving about, revolving around each other in this bubble, as if no one else exists, until the sun rises and we’re reminded that it’s all temporary. I’ve violently broken that chain. Brought about something that can’t wait just until sunrise.

This must be how the first settlers of America felt. So much new space to explore. Land, rivers and valleys foreign and seemingly untouched. Just like them, someone’s been here before. This land doesn’t belong to me, but I’m here now. 

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.” I lay my head back to the muscle of his chest. “I know you won’t be here when I wake up.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Not verbally anyway. He pulls the duvet over us higher, pulling me closer than we already are. 

Routinely, I let the taste of him in my presence linger on my tongue, by staying up longer than I should. Longer than him. Listening to his breathing patterns and snores. Inhaling every scent his body dispels, collecting the memory of how his body feels on mine and stealing looks in the night without interruption. Until, I eventually fall into a deep sleep. 

My eyes open again before his and the sun. The clock on my nightstand reads 5:28 A.M.

My neck cranes up. The room is still and dark. I can see the slight part between his soft lips. The hairs that surround it. The rise and fall of his chest. Laying my head back in its place, I listen to his heartbeat. Slow and steady. The rhythm combined with the naturally clean scent from him, eases that ache. The one I get every morning as soon as I open my eyes. The morning sickness hides in his presence. 

My head rises from the pillow instead of his chest the next time I rejoin the world. I do a one-eighty, using one eye to look for any signs of him. It’s way too quiet. The light of my bathroom is off and his sneakers aren’t by the bed anymore.

Is this what it’s going to be instead?

No more long nights turned dark mornings. Just long days, long nights and empty mornings. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting to give the signal to just exist when no one is watching.

Every version, every instance, every scenario of this is exhausting. I end up with the short side of the stick no matter what. Maybe, it’s the karma for trying to hold onto someone whose skin is slick with oil. My grasp will never hold. He’d have to rid himself of all that came before me, and that’s just not possible.

I fall back asleep. The bed is too warm and the condo too cold to get up. It still smells like him, so I clutch the pillow he laid on close as if it were him. Not having the strength to get up and close the curtain, I substitute it for the heavy duvet and pull it over my head to block the early rays of the morning.

Not long into my descent from consciousness, I’m dreaming. Only it’s not a dream, it’s a memory. For the things I see and the emotions I feel, have happened before when my eyes were open.

I was seven.

Words didn’t make sense to me the way it did with other kids. Some letters looked the same or morphed. Others looked too different. Some days I knew them and some days it was like learning how to read all over again.

I’ll never forget watching my mom try to ignore the tear that fell on her beautiful face, when Mrs. Granger, my first grade teacher told her I might be dyslexic.

The dream is the same as it happened in real life. Only minor differences. He was already bald, whereas in real life my father hadn’t cut his hair down to the skin until after he was diagnosed. There’s silver strings of hair in his beard, but when I was actually seven he was younger than ever. Gray hairs hadn’t touched him yet.

He stood me on the counter in the bathroom. Made me look in the mirror. Naturally, my eyes were drawn to him. The grandest thing in any room. My hero.

He pointed a stern finger out.

“Don’t look at me. Look at that pretty face.” I listened.

There’s no pause like there was when it really happened. At the time, I hadn’t noticed. I was too young to realize that it looked like maybe, he was trying to collect himself. Trying to be strong for the both of us.

“Repeat after me—I am not different.”

“I am not different.”

“I am special.”

“I am special.”

In place of a young Lana’s voice, squeaky and void of understanding the depth of anything he was asking me to repeat—I hear my voice as it is now. Mature. An undertone of sadness as evidence to everything that’s happened between then and now. A smooth bass that a lot of women lack. 

The phone buzzing on the bed wakes me up.

Memory turned dream, over.

Tears hold heavy at the rims of my lashes.

I smooth over the sheets to feel for it, finding it hiding under the pillow.

“Did I wake you?” Hearing his voice through my phone for the first time, jolts me to life. 

I was a daddy’s girl, until I wasn’t. I detached myself from him because it felt safer than connection. We were way too close. It would hurt too much if he had to go. And there’s a time when things and people always have to go.

I killed him in my own head before he could die in real life. Allowed myself to go through the motions as if he didn’t lay beside me in the hospital bed, still breathing, but with the aid of machines.

Maybe I wouldn’t cry at the funeral if I cried enough while he was still here.

This is how I choose to live my life.

One foot in, one foot out.

Running. On the track and off. Getting ahead of things and people before they can touch me. Before they become apart of me.

I’ve avoided my dad at every opportunity. Step around him like he’s already gone because his clock is more fragile than mine or yours. Removed myself from our relationship before he could. That’s my thing. That’s how I save myself time and time again.

“My dad has cancer. That’s how I knew what Red Devil was yesterday.” My breath is shaky and every inhale is spicy. The hardest part is over. So, I keep going. “He has cancer—well had—well.” I slow myself down. It’s okay, Lana. “I’m sure you know once cancer touches you she’s a hard bitch to get off. Like a leech. He’s good now. In remission.” Every time that word falls from my lips, it feels like the first time I heard him say it on TV. Like tomorrow. Hopeful. “It was Meningiomas. It was bad. Tore my family apart. Almost ended him.” I laugh, hoping it relieves some pressure. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. I just felt like you should know. All that shit from yesterday—it was all surface level stuff. Things that could change. But that—that’s apart of me. It’s not going anywhere.”

Every second I don’t hear his voice, I feel myself sinking into regret. Feigning to retract. 

“I wasn’t all the way honest yesterday. I still don’t think this is the way to go. I still don’t think you understand the sacrifices you’re about to make. But, I’ll be here. No matter what. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know how things are supposed to be. Like you said, the whole thing is unorthodox. It’s not normal. Any of it. But, I’m willing to figure it out. Just meet me halfway. Give me grace and I’ll do the same.”

It’s like he cut me and then held the spot where the wound was, so it wouldn’t kill me.

I wasn’t wrong about last night. The sex.

“I like you, Alana. A lot. I don’t doubt that you’ll be a good mother. That’s not what I was getting at yesterday. I think you’ll make a great mother. You’re passionate. Intuitive. Ambitious. That’s not the issue here. It’s just…” My face strains listening to him put his words together. I hang onto the silence as it has me in a death grip. Not even breathing normally, just so I don’t miss his conclusion. “I already have a home. A family. That’s not a secret, but this is. Trying to build a home outside of what I already have, is going to destroy the original one. And I know I don’t move like a man who values his home, but I do. Otherwise, I would’ve left.”

I have my own synopsis about his last confession. That night at The Barnyard he told on himself.

Old habits die hard. I get the itch to run again. Get ahead of this catastrophe before it touches me.

“I’m not asking you to be here. I don’t need you here. Do I want you here?” In place of the simple yes I offered him yesterday, I give a more a truthful answer this time. “Of course I do. I want whatever is inside of me to feel whole and not want for anything. Not feel like they’ve missed out on something. It’s easier when the job is done by two and not just one. I could name ten thousand more reasons why I want you here. But it’s not about what I want anymore.” There’s so much more in the queue of my heart. Baby steps. “So, you’re not trapped. There’s no cuffs on you…at least not from me. Whenever you feel like you can’t stay, you can go. Especially if staying is hurting more than leaving. And I don’t mean hurting me—them.”

I always wondered if my dad remembered that day. I have that dream often. It’s never felt that visceral.

He used to read to me. Every single day. He came home from work, exhausted. The entire day sitting on his shoulders. Showered. Ate. Called me to the living room and read to me. Sometimes he’d make me read it back.

I don’t know how, but one day the letters weren’t so jumbled. They made more sense than they'd ever had. I have my moments, even these days. Words read like a battlefield and it seems like it’s an assignment against me. But it’s nothing like before.

I got this far. Columbia. Dean’s list every semester. Nursing intern in one of the most renowned children’s hospitals. None of that would’ve happened if not for my father. That day in the mirror. The reading lessons.

Love to me translates into patience. Slowing things down for somebody and meeting them where they can handle it. That’s what was given to me. It’s now my gift to him. 

 “I’m not asking you to go above and beyond. I already know what’s going on here. Even if you don’t say it.”

“There’s so many things you don’t know.” I hear his breath come sharp through the phone. I choose to ignore his response. We’re not there yet.

“I scheduled an appointment for next weekend. You can be there, or not. I’m just letting you know.”

“I’ll be there.”

I chew on the inside of my lip. Neither one of us speaks. I can’t tell if it’s a comfortable silence, one we sit in because we don’t want to hang up yet, or if we’re both contemplating saying the rest of what’s on our minds.

“The door is only open to go out of,” I reveal in a tone like a pile of salt. No more sugar. 

Another beat of silence. My chest rises and falls under the covers. Waiting for him to say the words. To make the promise that he wouldn’t go anyway, so it doesn’t matter. That he couldn’t think of an instance where he wasn’t in his kid’s life. 

“I know.”

Saturday, January 20, 2024

“Is he coming?”

I suck in a deep breath of patience. Sharp as needles. 

My lips twist at the same time that I twist the glove on my hand. Using it as a distraction for pretty much everything. All week I had been occupying myself with petty, trivial things. A small bush I watered, pouring all my angst into it, hoping it’d grow tall enough to cover the jungle of issues I’ve created behind it. 

Online shopping for more clothes with extra fabric to keep me warm in this weather. Editing papers I already looked over three times before, before submitting them two weeks early. Reorganizing the fridge that Anthony’s borderline OCD doesn’t allow to go unorganized anyway. Redecorating the break room at work. 

None of it worked.

The minute I get a moment of silence, or a second to myself, all I can think about is him and the baby. 

The things he said on the phone. The new cuts he created before putting band-aids over them. 

I hadn’t talked to him since. Only sent one last gentle reminder through text last night, offering the time and location. I woke up this morning and immediately felt for my phone in the sea of the duvet, clicking our thread to discover he had only read it two hours before. 

I shake my head without looking up. “I doubt it.” Still determined to avoid her gaze, I watch the small flurries hit the window. Not heavy enough to stick but they were there, before they slid off like regular rain drops. “It’s almost Mania season. He’s probably busy.”

The silence is loud enough to let me know she wants to say something, but she chooses not to. Demi and silence are not compatible. Recipe for my guilty conscience to scream in the absence of her voice, and my regret to be birthed.

Instead of her judgement, I feel her gloved hand grab what it can of mine, squeezing. 

Maybe I could just get comfortable with the facts. He can’t be here. What he said on the phone was just to pacify me. He’s not like the character he plays on TV. He doesn’t like the portrayal of being the bad guy. He had to say those things. And I had to listen and pretend to believe him. Believe that he actually wants to be here and make this unconventional situation as normal as possible. 

But it’s not normal. It's the furthest thing from it. No matter how we go about it, it’ll stick out in the catalogue of what traditional and solid homes look and feel like. 

He can’t be here. That’s fine. I left the door open. On the inside of it, I still have people who’ll use their love like spackle to patch up the holes he leaves behind. People like Demi—here when she didn’t have to be. I haven’t told Anthony yet, but I can’t see him not extending that same welfare. My parents and my brother will hate this, but I believe they’ll come around. 

All extra hands in place of his two. Really one, because the other he made clear is reserved for his real home. 

What if he’s not meant to be here? I know it’s selfish of me to cut him out before the baby even gets here, but he’s left me no choice. He’s given me too much space—too many blanks to fill in on my own. 

For the rest of the ride, I can’t stop thinking about the last lecture from my Gender and Women’s Studies class. Mrs. Becker—a small creole lady with a mighty and intentional voice—teaching us the concept of Placage. Women in the belly of a very southern and deeply segregated New Orleans, twisting and reshaping luck, until it fit them. Secret arrangements, and hidden lives between wealthy white men and the women of color who wanted to recenter their lives and their kid’s futures. Trading in their own demise for a more reliable, but very scandalous lifestyle. 

Is that all this is meant to be? A business deal? Am I trading in the old NDA for this silent new one that states both parties are only bound by what they’ve produced? His only responsibility, is to keep us from struggling socially and financially. Promising that my son or daughter is set for life. The best education. A full stomach. A place to always rest their head comfortably.

Is it ungrateful or selfish of me to want more, when some aren’t even offered less?

The staff at the clinic are aggressively welcoming and pleasant. Like they too, were trying to fill the space of his absence. I walked in with another woman. It’s too obvious. 

The nurse is no better. Offering too many routes of comfort. An “are you okay,” or “are you  comfortable,” after every other sentence. A stiff grin with sympathetic eyes. Or maybe I’m just making it up. In my head too much. Either way it irritates me. 

She takes my vitals in between asking me millions of questions. 

“When was your last period?” Almost six weeks ago. 

“Any allergies or history of major medical conditions?” No. Just people being overly nice like you are.

“Do you smoke or drink?” Yes and hell yes. 

“Are you currently taking any medications?” Zyrtec and a man named Joe. Yes, the second one is addictive. 

She asks so many questions, I almost grow annoyed with having to know so much about myself, when just last week I offered my own lure willingly on the floor to him. It’s times like these I miss having my mother as a spokesperson. 

My skin is pricked to draw blood. She asks me to undress from the waist down before invading my insides. At the end she offers me the little cup to pee in, directing me to the door in the corner of the room that I didn’t even notice. It takes me no time to fill it. I had to pee the entire time she was asking me about my sexual history and inserting metal objects inside of me. 

Dr. Mazza is nice but not like her staff. She’s swift but calm. Direct and not abrasive. She almost reminds me of my mom. She’s an older lady. Violently Italian with the drag of certain vowels. Sleek hair, so dark it looks naturally black even under the light, curled at the ends, with grey roots. 

“So”—she licks her thumb before flipping through the clipboard the nurse had when she was in here last—“Ms. Floyd. You are definitely pregnant.” My heart beats like it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. I don’t know why her telling me suddenly makes it even more real. In this very moment it’s almost like I can feel every fiber of my being working overtime, giving it all it has, just to manufacture new life. Demi and I lock eyes for half of a second. “Based on your last period, I’d say anywhere between six to seven weeks. Have you had any discomfort? Anything out of the ordinary?” Other than the father being married to someone who is not me? No, not at all. 

She performs the same ritual as the nurse did a few minutes ago. Wheel of her char racing over before she unwraps the stethoscope, planting it on at least six different areas of my chest and back. “Not really. I can’t stop peeing. And I can’t keep anything down.”

She’s slow to answer, still listening to the inside of me. “Unfortunately, babe, that’s normal. We all have to go through it. My suggestion—keep eating. Do not let your stomach go empty. That makes it worse. I can prescribe you Zofran. If that doesn’t work, we can try something a bit stronger, okay?” I nod. “Any pain?” She presses firmly on my stomach and mound. She could at least offer me an NDA first. 

“No.”

“What about here?” She presses harder. 

“No.”

“Good. Good.” She rolls herself back over to the desk right before the door creaks open. The redhead nurse from earlier sticks her head in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am—there’s a gentleman in the waiting room that would like to sit in. Says he’s the father.” The crinkle of the nurse’s brow is a dead giveaway that it’s Anthony trying to get over on them. A man with an obvious undertone of femininity claiming to be the father. 

“You told Anthony?”

Demi’s head jerks back. “Hell no.”

Dr. Mazza peers over her glasses watching the whole exchange patiently. Pen still in hand hovering over the clipboard. 

“It’s not an Anthony. It’s a Joey. He said you’d know who he is.” All three sets of eyes land on me. “Is he allowed to come back?”

“Y-yeah.” I blink rapidly, still confused as to what the fuck is going on. 

I don’t believe it until he walks in. Tall and broad, wrapped in all black. Same as he had last week in my building’s hallway. 

He ducks slightly to make it under the doorway. Coming in further with a half step, he nods at the doctor and Demi before taking the beanie off his head to reveal the mess he had made of his bun. 

“How you doing?”

My eyes stay glued to him, the entire way until he takes a seat next to Demi. His shoulder placed awkwardly close to her head. 

I’m almost sure everyone can hear my heartbeat stalling. 

No one speaks for a while. The whole room simply adjusts to his presence. A moon amongst stars. 

“Are you dad?” She asks swiveling back to face the desk.

“Yeah—yeah, I am.”

Dr. Mazza peers back over her glasses at him for another second. “You can sit closer,” she offers. 

His chair moaning against the floor’s surface is unbearably loud. I still can’t manage to tear my eyes away from him. Every blink feels like he might disappear. When he finally dares to address me, looking back, I have to look away. 

“Lana?” I jump at the sound of my own name. “I’m gonna wait out there,” Demi tells me, already walking to the door. My eyes plead with hers, but she shakes her head. 

The door shuts behind her like a bomb and it’s just us three. Despite getting to know him last week, it still feels like she’s left me with two strangers. 

“No abnormal discharge, right? No bleeding?” I’m stuck like a deer in headlights. Not at all prepared for her to just continue with the physical and verbal intrusion to my body in front of him. 

“N-no.”

“Have you thought about where you’re going to deliver?” My mouth opens and shuts. I haven’t given much thought to anything. Too busy trying to regulate the father. “Home birth? Hospital?” I shrug. “It’s okay. You still have time to think about it.”

“When are they going to get here?” Both Dr. Mazza and I snap our heads in his direction.

“Assuming they don’t come early or late, I’d say anywhere between the first and third week of September.” She pauses like she’s expecting a follow up question. All he does is intertwine his fingers on his lap. “Did you want to hear the heartbeat?”

“This early?” 

“Not with the traditional ultrasound. It’s too faint this early to detect with this. We have a vaginal one. Insert it and we can hear and see the sac.”

“Is it gonna hurt?”

“Oh, no. Might feel a little discomfort, but that’s it. Nowhere near as bad as a Pap.” Again, over her glasses she looks between us both as we sit in silence. 

“Sure,” his deep voice, behind my ear, answers for the both of us. 

One painfully uncomfortable situation after another. My legs are up and out like I might give birth today as he’s completely still beside me. Dr. Mazza doing her thing. Foreign object inside me yet again. I have to give her a much needed break after today.

Sh reaches out to twist a nob. The sound fills the room. It’s like we’re underwater. I recognize the sound from sitting in on ultrasounds at the hospital. Doctors looking for masses or new growth in the kids. But it’s the same sound. Just bodily fluids. No heartbeat. 

I look between her and the machine. Her thick brows scrunch and I almost stop breathing. I can feel him staring, before he shifts his seat closer. My body grows hot, gauging the very last second I should stay reserved before asking if everything is okay. Mouth goes dry as stale crackers. 

“Is—”

I’m silenced. It’s fast. I have to freeze to hear it, but it’s there. Small and persistent. Strong. 

They’re there. 

Tight and fully geared to face the flurries outside, Demi and I stand by the door of a very empty waiting room. 

My life doesn’t look nor feel like my own. I feel like I might’ve gotten hit upside the head and everything that’s happened for the past few weeks, everything that’s been said to me, everything that’s been been done, is a result of my head injury. 

Demi and I haven’t said a word to each other. There’s no need to. I can hear her intrusive thoughts and read her body language as she can mine. In a state of mutual what-the-fuckness, that we can’t necessarily express around strangers, nor him, the way we’d like. 

I fold the corners of the packet they gave me. A list of harmful foods and activities for the baby. This is for real. My eyes make a line to hers as we stand dangerously close. 

What made him decide to come?

Was it a last minute decision?

My mind runs a mile a minute, to the point that I feel nauseous. 

“You okay?” She whispers. 

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Don’t yet. I have to see this.”

As she finishes her sentence, I turn to see what’s caught her attention. He breaks from the group he was previously deep in conversation with. Dr. Mazza, a nurse, and some lady I’ve never seen before, that I’m assuming came with him. 

His hands rest deep in the pockets of his pants, walking slowly in our direction. I take a big step forward away from the wall to meet him. 

“You alright?” 

I survey his face, impenetrable like always. How can he be so at ease about this?

I nod and he returns it, looking completely unfazed by anything that’s happened today, which I know can’t be the case. Everything he chose to say on the phone that morning, it opened my eyes to two things. One, that he is very much capable of forming an opinion on things without saying anything aloud. How long would he have gone making me believe he had some sudden change of heart, before he cracked the screen of my skewed dreams, just to tell me this is still not something he wants? 

And two, he’s never going to leave his family. 

“I talked to the doctor. We’re gonna do home visits from now on.”

“Home visits?”

“Yeah. That or zoom calls. Assuming nothing is going on that you need to be here physically for.”

“What are they signing?”

My attention is stolen by both Dr. Mazza and the nurse scribbling away, after the lady I don’t recognize, slides stuff their way on the top of the counter. He follows my gaze and then turns back.

“NDAs.” I shake my head. “And checks.”

“You’re paying them off? To not say anything?” His lips form a straight line. “They’re healthcare professionals. They could lose their license and get sued if they violate HIPAA laws.”

“It’s just an extra precaution.”

“It’s putting tape over a lock.”

“You don’t know these people. I don’t know these people.” The arches of his brows define themselves while he tries to minimize his voice. “Rumors start just like this. All it takes is one person to go home and tell one other person who they saw at the job today and why they were there. Or one young nurse making a careless tweet. Not everyone is as morally inclined as you think.”

I scoff. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”

“If you are going to have this baby, my main concern is making sure it’s as seamless as possible. No extras. I want you healthy. Physically and mentally. How draining do you think the next eight months will be if this goes public?”

“It seems to me, the only person you care to make this experience seamless for, is you.” His eyes penetrate mine for what feels like forever before I snatch them away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I take a deep breath, grasping onto any type of self control. Just this morning, the thought of him being here for this, made my heart flutter. Now that he’s here, my insides twist with a hate that’s rooted in something unrecognizable. I’m conflicted. I can’t make sense of whether I should be grateful or offended. 

A fine line forms between the hairs of his brows and he leans in so close I can smell the mint of what I assume to be the residuals from his mouthwash or maybe gum. “If I didn’t wanna be here, believe me, I wouldn’t be. I missed a meeting—raced down here from Atlanta—I haven’t even been home yet.” I’m immediately plagued by shame. Eyes stinging with the threat of tears as he runs down the list of things I had no idea about. “I can’t be in two places at once,” he argues in a voice that’s firm, but melted in tenderness. 

“—I’m sorry,” is all I can muster up the courage to say. “That was so rude. I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to understand.” As he finishes his sentence his eyes flicker up and past me, making me remember that Demi was only a few inches behind us. 

I swipe the lone tear before it can draw any attention. “Hi,” I hear her say. 

“How you doing? I’m—”

“Trust me, an introduction is not necessary,” she interrupts him. He swings his hand back down. “Paul does that enough for you on Fridays.” That earns her a soft chuckle. “I’m Demi. Best friend to the mommy to be, and god mommy in the making.”

He nods once slowly. “Nice to meet you Demi. I had no idea we already chose godparents.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a choice, love.” With the corners of his mouth turned down, he nods again with his hands up, yielding.  

“How’d you two get here?”

“Uber,” she answers even though his stare is hot on me. I refuse to acknowledge it. Embarrassed enough. That’s when I feel his hand grab my elbow. His thumb drawing slow and deliberate circles over the thick material of my Northface. The gesture alone is enough to make my eyes welp back up with tears. God, I wish he’d fucking stop. Just stop everything. 

“You can ride back with me.”

This day can’t any weirder. 

His driver rolls over the snow effortlessly. Well, almost. The snow isn’t the issue. His turns. God, every time he turns that damn wheel to go left or right, all three of us shift on these leather seats like luggage. 

I prefer the left turns. That way he’ll have to lean into me, and like a domino, I’m pressed up against Demi. But of course, as I make sense of the streets with every light as we get closer to the condo, all we have left are right turns. 

“Sorry,” I mumble after straightening back up from being thrusted into his hard body.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replies lowly. I fight the urge to look up into his face.

I genuinely cannot wait to get out of this car. 

“So, Joe.” Oh, god. “—I can call you Joe, right?” He leans forward as does she.

“Of course.”

“Have we thought about names, yet?” We haven’t even come to terms with what’s happening. Things like names don’t matter, when he wishes they were dead. 

He pokes his bottom lip out. “No, not really.”

“I like Malia—or Kaia. Maybe even Talia.”

“While those are all really beautiful, D—I can call you D, right?”

“Literally nobody calls me that.” She visibly cringes. 

“They’re all girl names. We don’t even know the sex, yet.”

“It’s a girl. Trust me.”

He twists his lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You have enough boys. Enough testosterone.”

“It could be two girls.”

“Fuck no,” I almost yell.

He gently nudges me back until I’m one with the seat again. 

“It’s a girl. I can feel it.”

“You psychic or something? Cause, she told me you were studying medicine like her.”

“I’m West Indian. I know things you don’t. Stuff their medicine and science can’t explain.” She squints, twirling her finger around. I can’t tell if they’re joking or not until the side of his mouth goes up in a soft smirk. “Anyways, did she say when my god daughter is coming?”

“Early September,” he answers. 

She gasps. “A virgo? Oh, Lana—she’s already a star like her god mommy. Anthony is gonna gag.”

My eyes roll to the back of my head, realizing I’d be surrounded by them. “I don’t think I can take another one of y’all.”

“Who’s Anthony?”

“Our other roommate.”

“A man?” His face tightens. “You didn’t tell me about that last week.”

“Don’t superman punch us. He’s gayer than gay.” He relaxes back into the seat, but his face is still tense. Oh, spare me. “I’m just glad she’ll be born in decent weather. Not all this.” 

“Yeah, I can do without all this. That’s why I stay where the sun shines the strongest. Right down south. God’s favorite.” 

Her head turns from the window mechanically. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“The east coast is the greatest coast to be on because of us. Not y’all.”

“I’m freezing my balls off here.”

“It’s better than sweating them off. We get the best of both worlds. All four seasons.”

“I’m sure you’ll miss this.” I look at him, brows pinching together. Miss what? “When you come down to Miami.”

“Come down to Miami?”

“I never agreed to that.”

“Agreed to what?” She leans forward more to catch my gaze. “You’re moving down there with him?”

The rest of the ride is drowned in the kind of silence that would exist in a funeral home. I have half a mind to wrap both hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him. 

We make it in front of our building. Demi is up and out before the silent driver, who loves right turns, even gets a chance to park. Leaving in her wake, the slam of the door to this GMC so hard, I’m sure it shakes us. 

“That was not your place.”

“I thought you would’ve told her by now.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I slide all the way to the opposite door where she once sat. “I never said, yes. I’m not going to say, yes. You just told me last week that you’re still not okay with this. But you’re ready for me to leave with you and go to Miami?”

“Alana—”

“Alana, nothing! Come down there and stay where? With you and your wife?”

“Sir, can you give us a minute, please?”

“Of course.” The driver, whose existence was no match for my blinding rage, steps out of the comfort of the heated vehicle, and into the snow. 

“I’m all over the place. I haven’t even told them, yet. There’s no guarantee that I can keep coming all the way down here.”

“Then don’t. Doctor visits are virtual now, yeah? So, maybe yours should be too?” My hand is reaching for the handle faster than I can register, but as soon as I pull to push, his oversized hand is on mine, pulling it back closed. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I have to clean up your mess, now.”

“Can I clean up mine?” His eyes are soft. Melting like honey as they bounce over my face. 

“You wouldn’t even know where to start.” My voice falters under his stare. 

“You have to trust me.”

I scoff. “With what?” Not the heart you’ve already broken. Meeting the flawed man behind the mighty character was a let down enough. He is a mess. This is a mess. 

One day I want to be under his skin. The next, like today, I can’t stand to look at him too long. I don’t know if it’s a symptom of pregnancy—the mood swings and unexplainable feelings that hit and consume you like a tidal wave—or if it’s my eyes opening to everything. 

“You know I’m trying. I am trying. I showed up. I’m here,” he argues. I shake my head before rolling it back to hit the seat. I’ve never cried so much. “What happened to meeting me halfway?” I don’t know how I thought that was a thing. It sounded good on the phone. Possible. Hopeful. 

But it’s clear now. He’s way too far out for that. I’d have to walk miles to meet him anywhere.  

It’s the first time I feel it. That tingle in my chest. My head and consciousness zooming out from reality and everything around me like a dolly zoom. 

If this isn’t a phase—something that will come and go with the trimester I’m in—am I really built to trap myself in this constant back and forth? Trapped in this cycle of insanity. Yearning for something. Always having to convince and remind myself of what I can’t have?

What if this ride doesn’t stop? Should I just get off now while I still can?

Am I making a mistake?

Monday, January 22, 2024

“I never liked the idea of chains. Restraints. I like to move on from things. Go further. Get better. Stagnancy is a disease. When things sit too long they rot.”

“She’s offered you a way out and you took it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yet?”

I don’t answer her. We’ve hit another dead end, as Dr. Monet would refer to it as. A point in our session where I have to look in the mirror and see myself—see the truth—but I choose to turn around and turn away as if it’s a road that can’t take me ay further. When in all actuality, it’s the road that would free me. 

But like most, I don’t want freedom. It tastes good on the tongue but once it goes down, it’s not easy on the stomach. It’s hard work. I’ve already fought enough in my life. I don’t want to fight anymore. 

“No dead ends,” she reminds me with a smile. 

“It’s complicated.”

“It seems like it’s always complicated with this one.”

I scratch through the hairs of my beard that I haven’t bothered to cut down. I haven’t gotten a second to myself this month. Genuinely, I don’t want it. It’s too much free rein to think about things. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m still trying to figure out why.”

“Are you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Could it have anything to do with how she’s graduated from where she started in your life?”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me before that you like this girl because she is everything your wife is not. She wasn’t a mother—now she will be. She was temporary—now she’s not. So, you will move on? She doesn’t serve the same purpose as she did before. Not really an escape no more, is she? She’s slowly spilling into your real life.”

She’s done more than spill into it. She’s stained it. She’s oil and anything that existed here before her, is water. And I keep allowing her to come in—to keep pouring herself all over me. I bathe in it. I crave it when it’s not here. I leave it on me both hoping everyone else can see it, and that they never find out. 

I can’t remember what my days looked and felt like before her. I just know it was nothing like this. I never want to go back. 

“That’s the thing. They’re still different. My wife would never offer me a way out. Freedom. She thinks, just like I do, in some fucked up way, that staying no matter what, is the solution. This girl doesn’t think that way. I knew that, back when I took her on the week trip. When she told me I deserved to be happy no matter what that looks like. I’m not stupid. I know what she meant.”

 “You placed her in a box that she doesn’t fit into anymore. It’s time to make more room. When people come into our lives for one thing, once they reveal their purpose, the longer you fight against it, the worse it becomes.”

“I don’t think it could get any worse than this.” She laughs at that. “She doesn’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Anything.”

“Can you blame her? It sounds like you don’t understand much of what’s been happening, either. And you expect her to?”

I lift my back from the chair, leaning forward, and interlocking my fingers in one motion. 

I don’t like when she does that. I mean, I know that’s what I’m here for. Well—really I’m here to stay grounded. An upcoming role in a film where I have to fall deep in character, and border the line of reality and submersion, the director has made it a requirement. Therapy. 

It started off slow. Detached. Routinely. Like an annual physical check up. I’d come in. She asked all the questions, and I answered them the way she’d want me to. Until she noticed me messing with my wedding ring one day. 

Now we’re here. 

It’s never slow anymore. 

This woman sitting across from me has my entire life in her hands. Obviously, there’s some parts I keep just for me. But even with those on my persons, she still has the power to eradicate all that I am. If she wanted to. If someone came about with the right price. Everyone can be bought. 

“I just wanna know what the fuck is going on. Inside my head. Inside hers. Why this is happening. Why I can’t walk away, when I know I should.”

She clicks the pen in her hand a few times before setting it and the notepad down on the mini table beside her. “Lust is temporary. It fades. What you two have been doing, is growing. Bigger than you can handle.”

“That’s not what this is.” I shake my head. That four letter word should only be reserved for the woman I exchanged vows with. A long time ago, when neither of us, even understood what it took to uphold them. We just knew our daughter deserved to grow up with two parents that were committed to one another, with her at the center. 

“Then, what is it?” She challenges. 

 “I lost control. I took it too far. I was looking for something, and when I found it, I should’ve just let it go. Like, when you’re fishing or something. Get it on the hook. Take a few pictures. Bask in it. Then, let it go.” I couldn’t do that before and now it’s impossible to. Not because of the baby. She’s made it deeper than that, now. 

Those words. 

My dad has cancer.

That’s apart of me.

It’s not going anywhere.

And now I am not.

I’m stuck like glue. 

“I should’ve let go. That week in the Hamptons was never supposed to happen. What she wants, I cant give. She wants me to be present. She just wants me there. I struggle with that at home enough. Everybody just wants me to be something that I’m not. At work, everybody wants Roman. That’s only a small part of me.” I bring my thumb and pointer finger together. “At home, my wife wants me to only be dad. Drop everything at the door. All my problems—all the bullshit—and just cater to them.”

“What do you want, Joseph?”

I twist the black band resting on my finger. 

The small, but mighty heartbeat replays in my head. Sitting beside her and watching the doctor do her thing with all the foreign tools. The hum of stillness radiating in the room as we all waited. A little too long. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Blood rushing to my face as I watch her maneuver that thing inside of Lana. Just to produce nothing. 

We heard too much of nothing at first. My shoulders went tense and I swallowed the bitter dry taster of nothing. 

And then it filled the room. Faint, but rapid. But most importantly, it was there. My eyes fluttered and I could breathe again. Blood flowed normally again. 

I relive that entire day in just a mere thirty seconds. This same thing has been happening since I left New York. I’ve had dreams about the sound. The heartbeat. The absence of it in every stretched second before. My heart skipping as many beats as we didn’t hear right away. How I don’t think I would’ve been able to take if she couldn’t find it. How not hearing nothing made my bones feel like they were made of nothing, the same way I imagine having to look my wife in the face and tell her it’s happened again. 

I stop twisting, pulling it off completely. Looking at the absence of it on my hand. The imprint of it that fades every time I take it off for too long, as if it was never there. Every time I was with them. Every time I’m with Alana. 

“I can’t have what I want.” I place it back in its spot. Where everyone expects it to be. “It’s too late.”

"Dunno how else one fixes a broken knee cap," he shrugs. "But I ain't no doctor."

He nearly drops you in the passenger seat as he hits his head off the frame of the truck door. You catch yourself with a hand on the dash as he grunts and rubs his brow. "You sure aren't, but you're gonna end up having to see one."

"Iz, you can barely move yerself around and you're worried 'bout me," he clucks. "You gotta stop. Doc said rest."

"Yeah, he didn't say I'm dead." You scoff.

He frowns and rests his hand on the top of the truck. "Don't say that."

"I'm kidding. Since when did you get so... uptight?"

"Not. It's just... was scary, wasn't it?" He drags his hand over his beard.

"Sure, Sy. But I'm okay. Are you?"

"You don't needa be worryin' about me." He taps the truck and backs up. 

He shuts the door and rolls the empty chair around the bed of the truck. He loads it and shuts it with a jarring snap. He gets in the driver's seat and looks over at you. "Gonna buckle up?"

"Yeah, guess I should." You pull down the belt. "Learned my lesson."

"I'm so sorry, Iz. I should've noticed. I should've said something."

"It was a long trip," you shift and wince. You hiss as you touch your thigh, just above your knee. They put an aircast on your leg until they can get it fixed.

"Mm, Yeah," he sucks his teeth. "You had fun though." He grips the steering wheel and shifts into drive. "Got along with Conrad, didn't ya?"

"He's nice but I'm sure it was just a show." You shrug. "Got what we needed, didn't we-- Ah, ah shit, piss, and fuck."

You bend over your lap as your cast hits the interior and sends electricity through your nerves. You push yourself up and bare your teeth. Sy stomps the break and you bounce in the seat.

"It's just... didn't they give us something? For the pain?" You shake.

"I ain't never heard you talk like that, Izzie." He drawls.

You scoff darkly. "Yeah, well, it hurts."

He grunts and slowly steps on the gas. "Doc gave us a prescription. Gotta go to the pharmacy, I suppose."

You ball your fists and hold back a whimper. You're usually not a baby but damn it's horrible. Worse than anything you've felt before.

"Thought they gave you something there," he mutters.

"That was hours ago." You reply, voice wobbling in agony.

"Aw, Iz, you just relax," he reaches over to rub your shoulder. His large hand is warm, almost comforting. "I'll get the stuff for ya."

🍔

Sy comes out of the pharmacy shaking his head. He gets in the truck and you stare at him expectantly. He checks his watch.

"They said an hour," he says.

"An hour?" You whine.

"Sorry, Iz. I tried. They say with the strong stuff, they got procedures." He explains. "I'm starvin'. How about you? There's a burger place 'cross the road."

You hum in defeat. "I guess..."

He's quiet as he pulls out of the spot and spins the wheel. He swerves around to the exit and waits to cross the lanes. He enters the plaza across the street and draws up to the drive through.

"Whatcha want, Iz?" He asks.

"I already feel like crap, guess it doesn't matter. A double with cheese." You answer.

He shifts in his seat as you wait for your turn at the speaker. You glance over at him. Sometimes you forget how large he is. With everything you do for him, he at times seems harmless, almost helpless.

"Is this what you ate before me? Grease and more grease?" You tut.

"I'd treat myself now and then," he shrugs as he rolls up to the pick up window.

The smell of the fries draws a grumble from your stomach. He thanks the cashier as he takes the bags and the drinks. He steers around to the lot and parks.

"I'm gonna have killer heartburn," you gripe. "Hey, maybe it will make me forget about the knee."

You open the bags and unpack, handing him his burger and rings. You take your own burger and peel the wrapper back. You envy him. He can probably throw all this back and not feel it. Not even gain a pound but just the smell makes your hips feel thicker.

You don't care. You bite into the burger and groan. If you can't have your meds, you'll soothe the pain with pure guilty pleasure. Sy swallows and washes down his mouthful with a slurp of soda.

"Good, huh?" He asks.

"Oh, disgusting," you snort. "But I love it."

He smiles and a smear of yellow draws your eye. You tilt your head. His brows pop up his forehead.

"What?" He asks.

"Mustard," you reach into the bag and grab a napkin. You wipe away the smear without thinking and he leans into your touch. You pause and retract your arm. Sometimes you treat him like a child. You don't know why you do that. Your aren't the maternal type.

"I'd be a big old mess without you, Iz." He chuckles.

You sigh and take another bite. As good as it is, your leg still hurts like a bitch. You try not to think of it and focus on the salty, artery-clogging meal.

"It's my turn, ain't it? Don't worry, Iz, I'll take care of ya." He promises.

"All I need is those damn pills," you growl. "And sleep. Lots of sleep."