Neal poked my waist. Normally, I was ticklish and would have jumped at his touch. But my expanded waistline kept sudden movements in check. When I looked at him, he jerked his square chin toward Paris, whose head was buried inside her computer. Her back was hunched and she really, truly looked miserable.
“I think she’s been at it long enough. Let’s go bother her,” he mock-whispered in my ear as though Paris could hear us through her headphones.
I adored him the most when he was playful. I loved how he teased his wife, and I loved being his sidekick on such missions.
He hauled me up from the sofa, steadying me until my feet found their balance beneath my whalelike stomach. He switched off the TV and turned on the music dock, shuffling his party playlist, the volume high enough that my heart began dancing in reflex. My hips jiggled side to side gently, like I’d been taught in Lamaze. Catching the jungle rhythm himself, Neal began to bebop toward Paris. I waddled behind him, jerking my face and hands forward and back “like an Egyptian.”
We circled the table once before she glanced up, her expression droll. “You both look insane.”
But I could tell she was trying hard not to smile.
I raised my arms in the air and twerked—well, tried to. Neal was vigorously thrusting his arms, hips, chest, just a wee bit offbeat. He really had no sense of rhythm. I giggled, watching him. These days I giggled with my whole body.
Paris removed the headphones, threw them on the table. But she didn’t get up. She picked up her wineglass and nodded. “All right. Dance for me.”
So, we danced around her chair, around the table. After a song or two, Neal yanked her up and tugged her into the living room, wineglass and all. He refilled her glass, refilled my mug of ginger tea and his tumbler of scotch. Then he sat in the middle of the sofa and stretched his muscular legs out on the coffee table in front of him. Rihanna’s “Diamonds” came on.
“Now you dance for me,” he ordered, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Oh, you are such a sultan wannabe. I should be repulsed.” Paris wrinkled her nose at him, but her lips were twitching and so were her hips.
And so we danced for him. And we laughed at ourselves. And we had the best time ever.
Paris gave Neal a comical version of a lap dance, which scandalized me only a wee bit. I stopped caring that I resembled a whale as I merengued in place. Whales weren’t clumsy. They were graceful creatures. They swanned out of the ocean and twirled in the air, water spinning around them like tutus. They always made a splash. And dolphins. I loved dolphins. I could be a dolphin, I thought. I could make a splash.
Neal joined us again. We rolled through a rumba, a salsa and a tango. He knew how to twirl Paris and I knew how to twirl around him. Group dances were my thing, after all.
A few dances later, Paris excused herself to go to the bathroom, and so for a bit I had Neal all to myself. I liked it. No, I loved it. Group dances were always boisterous and fun. But dancing with a partner, a man, was sublime. Kaivan had been a good dancer. He and I had done a mean bachata.
“Let’s do the bachata.” Though how we’d manage with my football stomach, I had no clue. “It’s like the merengue. Or no, like a tango. You know how to tango, right?”
Neal nodded, shimmying toward me.
“Hold me like you would for a tango but less formal. Closer.” I put my left hand on the nape of his neck, and he took my right in his. But he was too tall, or I was too short for our positions to feel comfortable. And the belly wasn’t helping.
I laughed when my belly bumped into his hips. “Okay. Not as close. Maybe we should try this at an angle. Oooh, feel that music?” The song—oh, the song was singing through my veins. I walked him through the steps, nothing fancy. And every movement was slow, sensual.
“It’s like Dirty Dancing,” he murmured, smiling slowly.
“Exactly, my lad.” I twirled away from him and sashayed back. The bachata was all about attitude. There were no complicated steps or fixed routines, it was just whatever you were in the mood for, and what the music made you do. And right now, the music was dirty.
I had to look ridiculous dancing, but I didn’t care, and by the end of the song, Neal and I were in splits. He shuffled the playlist to another Latin song, encouraging me to continue teaching him. The next number went a little smoother—he was getting the hang of it, getting confident. We were moving in sync, and he’d stopped thinking about the steps and was simply holding me, letting me dance as I wished, stopping me when my momentum would’ve spun me off the floor. He even dipped me, as far as I could bend my back—which wasn’t far right now—and then pulled me up again as the song ended.
Our hearts had been racing already with all the dancing we’d done, and it showed in the way our chests moved up and down. His T-shirt had wet patches in the middle of his chest and armpits. His face was red from exertion, mine was too. Probably. He was still holding me as I dropped my hands. I was sweating—dancing did that to you—and a drop of it rolled off my forehead down my nose to hang there, shivering, at the tip. He flicked it off sweetly, his other hand squeezing my waist. Then his lips twisted into a slow, lopsided grin of thanks. Somehow, I knew he was thanking me for more than this dance.
I smiled in mute thanks in return. But the moment called for a hug, so I hugged him. His arms came around me slowly, squeezed me in affection. I sighed, feeling beyond contented right then, radiantly happy. When I stepped back, I saw Paris watching us from the hallway, a funny expression on her face.
“What’s the matter, hen? Are you feeling okay?” Neal asked before I could.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She just stood there staring at us with a face leached of color.
A ghost crawled up my spine. She could not think... I couldn’t even put the horrible thought into words.
“Paris. No.” I moved toward her. But she didn’t spare me a glance. Her focus was on Neal. I couldn’t tell if her eyes glittered from anger or tears. She shook my hand off when I touched her.
“You gave her my smile.”
What? I looked at Neal in fright, wondering if he knew what she was talking about. But, I may as well have been invisible because he wasn’t looking at me, either. He was frozen in a staring contest with his wife. Then slowly, like in a time-lapse video of an artist working on a watercolor, strokes of remorse colored his face.
Oh, God. Oh, my God.
He reached for her, but she threw her hands up in a Do Not Touch gesture.
“You protect her. Okay. You tease her, laugh with her...fine. But you cannot look at her the way you look at me.”
I backed away from them. Whatever was happening here was not good, not at all good. Not for any of us. And yet...a bad, bad desire took root inside me. A desire I’d made a conscious effort not to address. It made me not feel good about myself. I put both my hands on my belly where our bairns—their bairns were coming awake. They knew I was upset. Their parents were upset.
“Paris.” It was a plea. He was begging her to let it go.
I willed her to let it go.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Neal stilled. And I pressed my lips together to stop the moan that wanted to spill out.
“Do what?” he asked, his tone harsh.
Would she destroy the family we’d created—hoped to create—because of a look? A smile?
I pressed my back against a wall as Paris began to systematically list the things she’d been thinking about for a while, that she’d been feeling but hadn’t voiced. She didn’t look angry or upset. She didn’t sound it, either. She just stood in front of us, ramrod straight and admitted to feeling jealousy and revulsion and anger and hurt.
“I wanted you to have everything you’ve ever wanted, so you don’t regret loving me.” Her gaze flickered in my direction, then sprang back to Neal as if she couldn’t bear to see me. “I didn’t
foresee the complications.”
“Didn’t ye? And ye call yerself smart?”
I turned to Neal in shock. His face was already shiny and pink from the dancing, now slashes of angry red marked his cheekbones. What was he doing? Had they both gone mad? I wanted to yell at them for being stupid, for even having this stupid, meaningless fight. But it wasn’t my place. It had never been my intention to come between them. And it wasn’t me Paris was upset with. It was him. And he was equally angry with her.
“I did the best I could. I think it’s time to cut my losses.” Her voice would have frozen the Hudson. And the colder Paris got, the angrier Neal seemed to grow.
And me? I didn’t know what was happening to me. I only knew that if I moved away from the wall, I’d fall. And everything would be finished.
“Coward.” The accusation rang across the room like a whip.
It ticked her off. “If I’m a coward, then you are a bloody, filthy liar. You never should have agreed to it...to any of it. You...” Her voice cracked then, and like an iceberg splitting into two, so did her facade. Oh, God, she’d bottled-up so much hurt.
“You betrayed me. I knew better than to trust my heart to you.”
“Me? Ye brought this on us,” Neal roared.
I flinched. I didn’t want them to fight. I didn’t want them to regret anything we’d done because this whole journey had been beautiful. We’d each given the best of ourselves to this cause, didn’t either of them see that?
But if they did...split up... Where should my loyalties fall?
I wanted to scream at them to stop it. Couldn’t they just put the babies first?
“I know what I did,” Paris cried. “I’m trying to fix it.”
Neal’s hands curled into fists by his thighs. “What the fuck does that mean? There’s nothing to fix.”
“I wanted to give you a family and I have. Don’t you see? I’m the redundant clause in this agreement. I’m the one who doesn’t fit. And moreover, I don’t want to fit. This is not what I want. I don’t want a family. I’ve never wanted it. I don’t want a house. I don’t want family holidays and rituals and dogs and...bairns.” Her voice wobbled on the last word. Abruptly, she walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water with shaking hands.
“What are ye saying?” He wasn’t shouting anymore, wasn’t angry. It was as if Paris had thrown a glass of icy water on his face and snuffed it out.
“I’m saying this is not my scene. Not even a little bit. But it’s yours. And hers. And you both deserve it. I mean that in the best possible way.”
She said it so sincerely like she meant every word. She stopped next to me, tried to smile, failed.
“I should have chosen adoption,” she whispered, and bruised my soul worse than my husband ever had. Then she walked out of the house.
And still, I stood where I was, afraid that if I moved, if I took my hands off my stomach, Neal would know what was wrong. He couldn’t know. I didn’t want him to get focused on me. He needed to run after his wife.
But instead of storming off after her, he sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. I rubbed my belly, round and round, trying to calm the babies.
“She didn’t mean it,” I said softly. “You know that.”
He looked up, his face hard. “She meant it.”
I shook my head. “You know how she gets when she’s afraid. She lashes out. Or builds a wall around herself. She’s done all of this...” I looked down at my belly. “She put herself through this for you. Only for you. You have to know that.”
A dull throbbing had started in my lower back. I didn’t know if it was because I’d been standing for so long or the stupid dancing or if it was part of labor. For a second, I entertained the thought of telling Neal that I was most likely in labor and handing the reins over. But only for a second. He wasn’t my knight in shining armor. He wasn’t my anything at all.
“Go after her. Woo her back. Be the man she needs you to be.”
He stood up and I thought he was going to go, but he started pacing up and down in front of me. The desire to lean on him was so strong. To let him sweep me off my swollen feet and carry me to the hospital so I could push our babies out. But I’d been selfish long enough, hogging all his attention, his goodness. I didn’t blame Paris for thinking badly of me.
“And what if she makes me choose between her and the bairns? What then?”
God. What a thought. No wonder he looked as if he wanted to rip his head off.
“Just go. You’ll figure it out.”
What else could I say? I couldn’t speak for Paris or make promises on her behalf. All I could do was hope it wouldn’t come to that.
But, I could control my own actions. I had to step away. Neal wasn’t my husband. These babies weren’t mine. Oh, but how I wished both those things were true, if only for a second.
“Please go, Neal. Before it’s too late.” He had to leave before either one of us did or said something irrevocable.
* * *
I called Paris as soon as Neal left but it went to voice mail. I left her a message, a pithy one telling her to stop being an idiot and to call her husband, who was roaming the streets of New York like a madman, yelling out her name. I also told her that I forgave her for what she’d said to me and the twins. I told her I was sorry for making her feel...all the awful things she’d been feeling. I promised her I’d leave New York, move away after the babies were born. That she need never feel redundant. Because she wasn’t. I was.
Then I called Dr. Kapoor and told her about the backache and the baby gymnastics, which were still going on but were restricted to a very small area of my belly.
“Did I induce an early labor by dancing?”
“I doubt it.” She chuckled. “It’s coincidence. We discussed that it was unlikely that you’d carry the twins to full term. A month early is not bad at all. You say you’ve been having mild back pain for a couple of days? And some nausea? That was probably the start of your early labor. Some labors are slow. So, don’t panic. Just gather your things for a hospital stay, and go there. I will see you there. Good luck.”
I couldn’t believe I wasn’t panicking at the thought of doing this alone.
But I wasn’t alone, was I? I rubbed my belly. My babies were with me and would be with me through all of it. Maybe they’d be with me forever if Paris didn’t want them.
Stop it. Stop thinking psycho baby-snatcher thoughts.
I waddled into my room and added extra sweaters and socks into my half-packed hospital bag. The weather had been seesawing between hot and cold since the beginning of October.
Whoa. Had it already been a year since I’d come to New York? I couldn’t believe it. So much had happened since then.
I changed out of my yoga pants and tank into a maternity dress. Then I called a taxi and took the elevator down.
I forced myself not to think about what would happen after. I only wanted joyous and positive thoughts while bringing these two beautiful babies into the world.
The doorman rushed to help me with my bag when I waddled out of the elevator and into the lobby. He pressed the steel button with a blue wheelchair embossed on it, and an automatic door opened for me to shuffle through. I stopped short when I saw Neal striding back toward the building, head down and frowning at his phone.
No sign of Paris. Oh, God.
He looked up, noticed me and shook his head helplessly. “Were ye off to look for her too? Dinna bother. She’s not answering her phone, is she? Where in fuck are we supposed to look for her on a Saturday? She’s not at work...” He trailed off as he watched the doorman roll my olive green Briggs & Riley cabin bag out of the building and place it by my sneakered feet.
Neal’s eyes went from my frozen face to my belly, now covered in a long winter coat even though it wasn’t that cold yet. Slowly, his hand
floated up and settled on my head to shake it hard. “Ye wee fool. Ye were going to suffer this alone?”
I was undone by his kindness, again.
“What about Paris?” I asked once we were on our way to the hospital, and I’d stopped wetting his chest in a deluge of gratitude.
He didn’t answer immediately. He was staring out of the window. “I’ll leave a message. She’ll come or she won’t.” Then he looked at me. His blue eyes were bleak and stark when they should’ve been sparkling with joy. “That’ll be my answer, aye?”
Why did people like Paris and Kaivan make life so complicated? Why did they bulldoze their decisions on everyone as if only they knew best?
chapter twenty-three
Paris
I ran all the way to Lily’s house in White Plains.
Well, not literally. I took the Metro-North and then ran along Hamilton Avenue to the small white cottage just off Church Street. I was crying and shivering when I walked into the house because I’d rushed out of my apartment without a coat or my handbag and in my house slippers.
I’d realized my folly as soon as I stepped out of the building, but I would’ve died before going back to the apartment and facing them. I borrowed money from the doorman and... Yeah, so here I was.
I headed straight into the hall bathroom. I simply had to pull myself together. What was the use of crying now? It was done. I’d broken us. In trying to control my life, I’d lost control of it completely.
“Here’s a sweater for you, dearie.” Rachel knocked at the door gently.
“Dank you,” I croaked, opening the door. I barely recognized my voice. I sounded like a frog with a clogged nose.
I took the sweater from Rachel and pulled it over my old NYU sweatshirt, my at-home garb. I felt a bit more composed now, less shivery and growing angrier by the minute.
Why hadn’t he stopped me from leaving? He could’ve run after me. I’d waited by the elevators, letting three of them go before taking the fourth one down. But he hadn’t come, hadn’t even poked his head out the door. He’d chosen them—his bairns over me. Maybe even Naira.
The Object of Your Affections Page 30
