by Jane Igharo
“Pregnant. I’m pregnant, Christina.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Seriously.”
“Shit. I did not see that coming.” For a few seconds, she says nothing. She gawks at me, her wide eyes unblinking. “What the hell, Azere?” she finally says. “What were you thinking? Didn’t you use a condom?”
“Of course I did. We were safe, but I guess it wasn’t foolproof.” I groan and push my fingers through my braids. “This is bad. This is so bad.”
“Zere, honey, you don’t look so good. You’re sweating.”
She doesn’t have to make the announcement. Moisture seeps through my pores, drenching my face and my neck and my armpits, making my skin icky.
“I’m pregnant, Chris.” That word, pregnant, bears a distinct hint of bitterness that tickles my gag reflex. “And trust me. When my mom finds out, she’s gonna kill me. And I know people say that all the time, but this is no joke.” I tap my chest, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. “Getting pregnant out of wedlock is one thing. Getting pregnant by a one-night stand is another. Getting pregnant by a man who isn’t even Nigerian, is taking things to a whole other level. My mom won’t forgive that.” I can’t contain my emotions any longer. Tears finally fall, and I feel like throwing caution to the wind and jumping off a cliff. I search the room for an open window.
“Azere, look at me.” Christina snaps her fingers and promptly gains my attention. “Listen to me. We’ll figure this out. Do you understand?”
I hesitate, and she squeezes my hand.
“Azere, you’re gonna be fine. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now, what did your gynecologist say about—”
“Um . . . I never met with my gynecologist. I just took a home pregnancy test. I picked one up at Dollarama yesterday and took the test before going to my mom’s.”
“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m confused,” Christina says, shaking her head. “You said Dollarama. Did you buy a home pregnancy test at the dollar store?”
“Mm-hmm.” With the back of my hand, I rub tears and sweat from my cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Honey, does that sound rational to you?”
“It was cheap,” I say, sniffing.
“My point exactly. You’re betting your life on a test you bought for a dollar?”
“Plus tax.”
“Azere, you need to get a real test from a doctor.”
“I already made an appointment with my gyno. It’s this afternoon.”
“Good. When we get a real confirmation, we’ll take it from there. Now, what about Rafael? I’m guessing you haven’t filled him in.”
I shake my head.
“Good. Don’t tell him anything—not yet. Wait until you’re totally sure. Got it?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Got it.”
“Good. Now, eat your lunch.”
Just as I unwrap the silver coating on the burger, Arianna, the office receptionist, comes prancing toward me.
I’m sure an invisible fan follows the girl wherever she goes. Long, blond hair flutters in the air, moving to the beat of her steps. A short, beige skirt clings to her toned thighs like skin. The cleavage exposed by her red blouse is small but eye-catching. She’s one tall, hot blonde, and she knows it.
“Hey, pretties.” She glances from Christina to me. “Dev wants to see you.”
“Me?” I ask. “Why me?”
“I’m not sure, but it sounds important. He’s waiting in his office with Rafael.”
“Wait. What? Rafael?”
“Yeah. The new guy.” She smiles, a small gesture that proves her interest in Rafael exceeds professional boundaries. “Anyway, bye.” She waves and struts away with all the flair of a runway model.
“Oh my gosh.” My heart jerks, a new frenetic beat derived from the utter shock of the news. “Christina, do you think he told Dev? I mean, why else would he want to see us both?” My fingernails dig into my sweaty palm. “He must have told him. Shit. The whole HR crew is probably in there too. I’m so screwed.”
“Azere, relax.” She draws circles along my spine. “It’s probably nothing.”
“You think?”
“Mm-hmm. Yeah. Totally.” She isn’t the best liar, but she’s trying, trying hard to convince me my world isn’t imploding. I love her for the attempt.
At Dev’s door, I dally while contemplating whether to enter or take off. It’s just him and Rafael, seated across each other, exchanging words that aren’t audible. There are no HR reps present, but maybe they’ll make an appearance at any moment.
Any moment.
Suddenly, taking off seems like the most rational action.
“Azere,” Dev calls out. “Come in. Sit.”
I obey. What choice do I have?
“Hi, Dev.” I acknowledge Rafael only by glaring at him from the corner of my eye. What the hell has he done? And how do I fix it? I’m on the edge of my seat, too anxious to relax into the cushioned chair.
“Azere, Dev called us in for a work-related matter,” Rafael says to me, straight-faced. “A new campaign.” He must sense my discomfort.
“Yes.” Dev folds his arms and reclines into the leather chair, giving us his undivided attention. “FeverRun energy drink. The product is on the verge of launching in North America and will require a huge campaign. I’m assembling a very small team to put together a pitch. In case it isn’t obvious, the very small team is you and Rafael.”
“I’m sorry, what? Just the two of us? Working? Together?” I clench my teeth, maintaining the stoic expression that’s concealing the rampage in my head—the crying, shouting, sulking. No, no, no. Why am I working with him? Why is this happening?
“Check your emails. I sent you both the product profile. Look through it, do your research, and get to work. You’ll be pitching tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow?” My mind is reeling. Everything is happening so fast. “You expect us to put together a presentation in less than a day. Why the rush?”
“The company was with another agency but experienced some issues.” He pauses and touches the thin strands of hair strategically arranged over his bald spot. “Anyway, they’re considering us as well as two other agencies, and I want to give them a solid pitch—an overview of our campaign to assure them we’re the right choice. I’m sure you and Rafael can handle that.”
“Dev, correct me if I’m wrong, but FeverRun is a Nigerian brand. Right?”
“It is. And?”
“Well, I’m Nigerian, so I can probably add a favorable perspective to the campaign. You know who else is Nigerian? Christina. She’s also a very talented copywriter. So maybe we should work together on this instead. I mean, that makes more sense to me.”
“Azere, I’m not assigning Christina to this campaign because of her ethnicity. It’s certainly not why I assigned you to it.” He puffs and rubs his temples. “Your work on the Fruit Infusion campaign was impressive. Frankly, it was brilliant, and I thought you and Rafael would make a great team. He’s only just started working here, but make no mistake, he’s got years of experience in the industry. We’re very lucky to have him.”
“Thanks, Dev,” Rafael says, standing. “We’ll get started and have everything ready for tomorrow.” He leaves the room, and I’m forced to follow even though I’m not satisfied with the conversation.
“Hey. Rafael.” I stride after him and almost trip over my rushing feet. “Wait up.”
He keeps moving and doesn’t stop until he’s in his office.
“Thanks for finally stopping, Road Runner.”
“You tried to get me off the campaign.” Anger makes his tone brisk and rough. “Seriously, Azere? This is my career.”
“Rafael.” I close the door, giving us as much privacy as we can get with transparent walls. “We’re supposed t
o be staying away from each other, not working together. That’s what we agreed to.”
“No, that’s what you decided. What you selfishly decided.”
“Excuse me?” I’m taken aback. “Selfishly? How am I being selfish? I’m just trying to make the best of this situation.”
“You’ve been acting like this situation only affects you. Maybe if you stopped avoiding me and stopped trying to kick me off campaigns, you would see that I’m in this with you, Azere.”
He says nothing else, and neither do I. Looking at the digital clock on his desk, I calculate a minute of silence between us. A full minute spent not looking at him. A full minute spent observing the view through the window and the office’s minimalist decor. A full minute realizing the truth in his words and the fault in my actions.
“You’re right,” I say. “We’re in this together.”
It was easier to keep him at a distance. It helped me ignore the memory of us—our naked bodies sprawled over wrinkled sheets, our lips pursed and locked, and our hands keenly exploring. That memory, as sweet and forbidden as our first kiss, is so hard to dismiss, especially when I’m looking at him and fighting the urge to touch him. But that’s my fault, not his. He shouldn’t be punished for my inability to disregard a one-night stand.
“I’m sorry, Rafael.”
This time, when we fall silent, my eyes don’t wander. I focus on him. The view through the window is a blur. The decor in the room dissolves to white space. Everything is suddenly void of shape and color, except for him. I become acutely aware of only him, of only us. He breathes and I breathe and that’s all there is, the gentle rhythm of our inhales and exhales creating a harmony of their own.
“You thought I told Dev about us. Didn’t you?” he asks, his voice low and mild.
“Yeah.” I drop my head, ashamed of the truth.
“I gave you my word, Azere.”
“No offense, Rafael, but I don’t know you well enough to hold you to your word.”
“Okay.” He frowns but nods. “Fair enough.”
“But maybe it’s time we start to coexist.” It’s the only reasonable approach. “Maybe it’s time we get to know each other. As coworkers, of course.”
“As coworkers.” He hesitates but nods again. “Okay. Yeah. I would like that.” He smiles, and in an instant, the atmosphere becomes lighter. “So, about the campaign. How about we do our individual research and meet in an hour or two to go over ideas.”
“I’m actually leaving in two hours. I have an appointment today—a very, very important appointment.” That will confirm if I’m indeed carrying your child. “So, how about I meet you in your office when I get back around five?”
“Sure.” He clears his throat and looks me over. “So . . . can I get your number?”
“Um . . . why?”
“In case I need to reach you while you’re at your appointment.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” I extend my hand, and he places his cell in my palm. “Use this responsibly,” I say, inserting my number. “No prank calls.”
“I’ll make sure my thirteen-year-old self gets the memo.”
“You do that.” I hand him the phone, make a move to leave, and then halt when he calls me.
“Dev had a lot of wonderful things to say about your work.” He watches me intently, a glint in his blue eyes. “I really look forward to working with you, Azere.”
“Thank you, Rafael. I look forward to working with you too.”
As I walk out of his office and maneuver between the rows of desks in the open-plan workspace, I turn around. Through the glass walls, our eyes connect, and he smiles. I hate myself when my heart skips, when my skin turns hot, when I smile back at him.
chapter
7
I’m sitting in my gynecologist’s office, praying for a miracle— confirmation the dollar-store pregnancy test was indeed bull.
A dollar is pretty cheap for a reliable test. What the hell was I thinking? What if the test is wrong? What if I’ve been stressing for nothing? What if I’m not pregnant? This could be a possibility, but I refuse to be optimistic or pessimistic.
“Azere.” Farah, my gynecologist and close friend, enters the room with a clipboard in hand. She smiles, and her extended lips lift her round cheeks. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I see you like three months ago?”
“This is a different kind of visit.”
“You sound serious.” She walks to the table and occupies the chair across from me. “What’s up?”
“I think I’m pregnant.” I blurt it out. There’s no alternative.
“Hmm.” Farah smooths the black hijab veiling her hair. “The last time we spoke, you told me you weren’t sexually active.”
“Well, I was. For one night. Hence my current dilemma.”
“Wait.” She stands and strides toward me. Her dark eyes have grown broad with interest. “You had a one-night stand?”
“Yeah. At the time it felt right. But now . . .” I curse under my breath. “Farah, I’m in serious trouble. I’m freaking out. You, more than anyone, should understand what I’m going through.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Well, what would your traditional Pakistani parents say if they found out you were pregnant and unwed? They would basically disown you, right?”
“Well . . .” She taps a finger on her chin and contemplates the scenario. “Yeah. They probably would.”
“Okay. Now, throw this into the mix. The guy who knocked you up isn’t the Pakistani man they envisioned you starting a family with. He’s white.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” She contemplates again. “In that case, I’d simply have to leave the planet. See if there’s a vacancy on Mars.”
Exactly.
“Wait.” Farah shakes her head. “Your one-night stand is a white dude?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” She sighs, then walks to the far end of the room where there’s a cart. “Well, let’s do this.” She rolls it to me, looks through it, and pulls out a needle and a vacutainer. After connecting the two objects, she goes through the cart again and pulls out a plastic band. “Make a fist.”
“I took a home pregnancy test. It was positive. Think it might be wrong?”
“Those things aren’t always accurate. A few of my patients have put themselves through the wringer because of those tests.”
“So I might not be pregnant?” My heavy heart lightens. So much for not being optimistic.
“Azere, how about we wait for the results? No speculations until we get the results.” She ties the plastic band around my bare forearm and wipes a spot with a damp cotton ball. When the needle pricks my skin, I wince. Blood fills the vacutainer, and she slides the needle out.
“When will I get the results?” I ask. “Today?”
“Definitely not. But since you’re a VIP, tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Farah.”
“No problem. So.” She clears her throat. “What if you are pregnant? What will you do? Will you keep it?”
I’ve been considering that question since last night, and I still don’t have an answer.
“Just so you know, whatever you decide, there’s no judgment. Do what’s best for you, Azere.”
What if what’s best for me puts me at risk of losing another parent?
chapter
8
Walking through a deserted office is equally unnerving as walking through a graveyard. It’s past six in the evening, and the natural light that usually radiates through the large windows has dimmed significantly.
My heels click and clack, the sound echoing against the uncanny silence. If I were a character in a Gothic romance such as the stunning and terrifying Crimson Peak, I would be the overly curious girl, walking through dark corridors with a candelabra in one hand and the length of a nightgown bunched in the
other, opening doors she shouldn’t dare to only to find the most intriguing creature waiting for her.
“Rafael?” I enter his office, and he looks up from the computer. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. There was traffic. Really bad traffic.” I pull off my jacket and settle into a chair.
“It’s fine, Azere.” He sits up straight. “Don’t worry about it.”
“There’s a storm coming,” I say. Through the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk, the view of the city is clear. Dark clouds extend over the beautifully lit metropolis, indicating an impending storm. The few people on the street are pushing forward, contending with the strong wind that’s hauling them back. I watch them struggle to reach the subway entrance and then turn to Rafael. “It’s really bad out there.”
“Yeah. Everyone took off in a hurry, trying to avoid getting caught in it.”
“So, it’s just the two of us?”
When he nods, I pull my laptop out of my handbag and try to remain calm.
Maybe this is a bad idea. A brewing storm, an empty office, a hot one-night stand turned colleague, and a single black female with little self-control and a lot to lose. These are the exact ingredients for a memorable night and a regret-filled morning. I instantly consider kicking off my heels and running for the exit. I consider it, but the thing is, I really love my shoes. They’re nude Mary Jane pumps. They pair well with anything, especially the red knee-length dress I’m wearing. I should come up with an escape plan that doesn’t involve leaving them behind.
“Azere.”
I shake off my reverie and look at Rafael.
“Everything okay?”
“Um . . . yeah,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” I trash the escape plan, open the laptop, and then a file. “I’ve got a few ideas for the campaign. Would you like to hear them?”
“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
“Okay. Since the product is being introduced in a new country, I think it should get revamped. Let’s start with the slogan.” I glance at my notes. “The energy drink is called FeverRun. The slogan is: ‘Live long, prosper, and stay energized.’ First, that’s a horrible slogan. Second, I don’t appreciate the Star Wars reference.”
