Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

  Will the moment of rebellion I experienced tonight set me on the same path to a happily ever after? I don’t have the answer, but looking at Rafael, I’m hopeful. And when his lips caress mine, I ignore my mother’s nagging, disapproving voice that’s resonating in my head and focus completely on Rafael.

  chapter

  27

  Rafael

  It’s hard not to ogle Azere when she struts around in those heels, commanding the attention of every single person in the conference room.

  Today, we’re having a meeting with the team working on the FeverRun campaign. All eight of them—copywriters, graphic designers, web developers, and artists—sit around the table that’s piled with papers, tablets, laptops, and cups of coffee. One after the other, they direct questions at Azere, seeking her opinion and waiting for her direction. She doesn’t delay any of her responses. She answers questions quickly, gives orders and deadlines, and explains to each member of the team what she expects of them. The confidence she’s projecting is incredibly sexy. I’m tempted to pull her on my legs and kiss her. I push the distracting thought aside and refocus on the meeting. Though, my attention veers off again when I notice my colleagues’ stares darting between Azere and me.

  Earlier this week, when we told HR about our relationship and our status as expecting parents, we knew the news would circulate gradually, finding its way into everyone’s ears until accuracy was lost, the truth distorted to suit each’s own outlook. There were questions—some voiced with an air of humor and others expressed with squinting, shifting gazes. Nick from production took the former.

  “Damn. You move fast, man,” he said yesterday morning as I filled my cup with coffee in the kitchen. “You didn’t just get booed up. You practically became a family man.” He laughed, then frowned, smacking his lips as if he suddenly gained an intolerance for the taste of his laughter.

  “You know, I asked her out once. Well, I wanted to but . . .” He dropped his head and shrugged. “She probably would have said no anyway. Arianna told me she’s only into black guys, but . . .” He raised his head and gave me a once-over. “How the hell did you two happen? How did you manage to—”

  Annoyed, I walked away before he could complete the sentence.

  “When do you think it will all stop?” Azere asks after the conference room clears out, leaving only the two of us. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

  “It will,” I assure her. “Just give it some time—a couple more days. Everyone will get bored and start talking about something else.”

  She nods, but the wrinkle between her brows proves she isn’t convinced. Since the fallout with her mother a month ago, work has been her anchor to normalcy. It isn’t anymore, and I feel responsible for that. I insisted we tell HR about us, and she agreed, despite being hesitant. She wanted to keep our budding relationship safe, nurturing it within the confines of our homes, allowing no additional negativity to stunt its growth. The attention from our colleagues seems to pose the threat she feared.

  “Azere.” I walk to her, reducing the distance between us and caring very little about the audience beyond the glass walls. “Don’t let this bother you. Things will get better.” I take her hand in mine. “I promise. Okay?”

  She bobs her head slowly and then briskly as if suddenly gaining more confidence in my words. “Yeah. Okay. It has to.”

  “It will.”

  She exhales, expelling all the tension in her body and relaxing her posture. “So.” There’s a liveliness in her eyes that wasn’t there seconds ago. “Are you still making me dinner tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “Want me to bring anything?”

  “Just an appetite.” I lean into her, my eyes on her lips. “You know, I really want to kiss you right now.”

  “Unfortunately, that can’t happen.” She looks through the glass. “Don’t wanna give them something else to talk about. So, save that kiss for later.” She steps back and moves toward the door, her laptop pressed to her chest. “See ya.”

  “By the way,” I say before she leaves, “the meeting went well. Despite all the staring, you did an incredible job managing the team. You were brilliant, Azere. As usual.”

  Her brows bend slightly as she considers me.

  Did I say something wrong? While reassessing my words and tone, she shrugs and marches to me.

  “Oh, screw it. They’re already talking, so to hell with it.” She wraps an arm around my neck and plants her plush lips firmly on mine.

  Shock grips me, tensing my shoulders, but then another emotion takes over, heating my insides and loosening my lips. My tongue strokes hers. I love the sensation. I savor her taste, crave more of it, and then she pulls away unexpectedly, shocking me again.

  “I’ll see you later.” A coy smile lifts one corner of her lips. “We’ll continue this then.” She steps through the door and struts to her office, ignoring our colleagues who undoubtedly caught the brazen display of affection.

  It takes a moment for my heart to fall back to its routine rhythm, for my mind to be centered again, for reality to become more vivid. Reality fades when Azere kisses me and touches me and I do the same to her. Emotions disorient me, temporarily preventing me from seeing what we have, in such a short time, become—a couple expecting a child.

  I’m going to be a father.

  The news stunned my family more than it did me, especially since they believed I wasn’t dating. Frankly, I had no intention to date. I was minding my business in a hotel lounge when I saw Azere drinking alone at a bar. Her mere presence highlighted all the inadequacies in my life and made me utterly aware of the loneliness I had forced myself to grow comfortable with. There was a clear definition of happiness I had boxed away. Azere made me want to open that box and reclaim all the contents within it. When I explained this to my family via Skype, omitting the one-night stand, their expressions altered from shock to a mixture of happiness and relief—relief that I had a fresh eagerness for life, that I was gradually reverting to the man I used to be. Though, even with their relief, they were concerned the relationship was moving too fast.

  It’s a rational concern. In such a short time, so much has happened. Azere and I have become so close, so dependent on each other. Most nights, we fall asleep in the same bed. We share meals, laugh together, exist in such proximity, it’s as if our individualities are merging to form one idea—a family. That’s what we are—me, her, Milo, and our unborn child, who I already love more than words can express.

  A family.

  Things have moved fast. However, I’m confident that no matter what path Azere and I took—whether we first met at Xander or bumped into each other on the street, whether we dated for months or years—we would have eventually ended up just as we are, a couple expecting a child.

  There’s nothing to support this. It’s just a feeling, an unfounded certainty I have grown to rely on.

  chapter

  28

  My reaction is always the same.

  The elevator that leads to Rafael’s penthouse slides open, and my eyes expand as blue skies and the harbor come into view through the large windows that wrap around the open-concept living space. I’ve stayed here a few times now, but I still gape with fresh interest.

  Clinging to the duffel bag in my hand, I step out of the elevator and look from the elegant sitting room to the sleek, modern kitchen where Rafael’s chopping bell peppers with the swift precision of a culinary mastermind.

  When he looks up and sees me, he smiles. “Mi cariño.”

  Perplexed, I frown. “What does that mean?”

  He wipes his hand and extends it to me. “It means my darling.”

  “Oh.” The term of endearment hits me in all the right places. “I like it.” I take his hand, grip it tightly, press it to my chest. Does he feel it—my heartbeat quickening? Does he understand he’s the reaso
n?

  “You look beautiful.”

  I assess my attire. “Really? I’m in leggings and a T-shirt and my hair is—”

  “I stand by my statement, Azere.” He inches to my lips, observing my expression before finally kissing me.

  It’s here again—that feeling, the one that tingles my insides and makes me less aware of everything else and utterly enthralled by him. Will it ever go away? Will time eventually dilute it, make it less potent? I’m scared of what will happen then. Will I still stand by my choice when the sweetest phase of our relationship—the newness and awe—becomes dulled by routine and the consequences of choosing him are no longer possible to ignore? And in that case, will I still consider him the right choice or a mistake? It’s a lot to consider—too much to consider right now, so I don’t.

  “Dinner smells amazing,” I say when his lips leave mine. “What are you—”

  Movement against my ankles causes me to look down.

  “Milo!” I crouch and pet the toy fox terrier. “Hey, buddy.” He wags his tail as I stroke his neck.

  “I think he loves you more than he does me,” Rafael says, looking down at us.

  “Oh. I’m certain he does. Don’t you, Milo?”

  Right on cue, the dog barks as if voicing his agreement or disagreement. Though, I hear what I want to hear.

  “You see? Told you he loves me more.”

  Rather than disputing my interpretation, Rafael laughs until a frown pinches his lips downward. “Is that your overnight bag?”

  “Um . . .” I glance at the bag beside my feet that’s crammed with clothes and toiletries. “Yeah.”

  “So, come tomorrow, you’ll pack all your things in there again?”

  “Yeah. Like I always do. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s just that I . . .” He shakes his head and turns away. “Forget it. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” His attention returns to the chopped peppers; he tosses them into a salad bowl along with cucumbers and tomatoes and then drizzles olive oil over the colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables.

  “Rafael.” I stand, depriving Milo of a belly rub. “What’s going on? What’s on your mind?”

  “We can talk about it after dinner, Azere.”

  “I’d rather we talk now.” I stand in front of the oven and prevent him from reaching the handle. “What’s wrong?”

  He dishevels his hair and huffs. “It’s that overnight bag, Azere. I’ve told you, you don’t have to lug it around like baggage every time you stay over. You can leave your things here. I’ll give you a closet if you want.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Rafael.”

  “Of course it is. You’re not some random girl who’s in and out of my life. You’re my girlfriend. You’re going to be the mother of my child. Azere, you have a place in my life and in my home. That bag makes me feel you’re not totally settled with me—like you don’t want to root yourself in my life.”

  “Rafael, that isn’t true.”

  “Then stop with the bag, Azere. This place is big enough for us.” His hand falls on my slightly protruded stomach. “For the three of us. Move in with me, Azere.”

  Shocked, I flinch and take an unsteady step back, away from him. I look at the space I’ve created and then at his confused eyes that are trying to interpret my reaction. “Rafael, um . . . moving in together is a big step.”

  “And so is having a baby. Things between us are already moving at an unconventionally fast pace, so why not? We already spend so much time together—at your place, at mine.” He takes a step toward me. “Azere, I care about you, and we’re having a baby. I want us to raise our child under one roof—together. As a family.”

  A lukewarm smile touches his lips, an imploring one that doesn’t compare to when he really smiles and his dimples deepen and his eyes glint. “So? What do you think? Will you move in?”

  The answer is heavy on my tongue, making it difficult to voice what is, in fact, a refusal. “Rafael, um . . . I—”

  Just as I conjure the words and the nerve, his phone on the countertop rings, cutting off my sentence. I’m more than grateful for the interruption. With any luck, I’ll have a moment to weave together an answer that lacks the sting of rejection. If that’s possible.

  “Your phone, Rafael.” I nudge my head toward the device. “You should get it.”

  “Azere, we’re in the middle of something.”

  “What if it’s an important call?”

  After considering what I’ve said, he grabs the phone and looks at the screen. “It’s just my sister. I told her you were coming over, and she mentioned calling. She wants to talk to you— say hi. But we can do that another time.”

  “No. Let’s do it now.” I haven’t spoken to any member of his family. Maybe the connection I make with them will prove that I am fixed in his life, that I’m not going anywhere. “I’d like to say hi to her. It’s about time we got acquainted.”

  Reluctantly, he answers the call. “Hi, Selena.” He listens then nods. “Yeah. She’s right here. Hold on.” He extends the phone to me. “Just a warning, she can be a lot.”

  I take the phone and clear my throat. “Hi, Selena. It’s Azere.”

  “Tell him I heard that.” She laughs, clearly not bothered by her brother’s assessment.

  The conversation between Selena and me is casual and pleasant, a brief introduction that lasts two minutes and ends with her promising to come to Toronto before the birth of the baby. I hand the phone to Rafael just as mine rings. When I pull it out of my purse and look at the screen, my chest tightens.

  Elijah.

  The last time I spoke to him was in the hospital, when he and my family discovered the truth. Since then, he’s called a few times, but I haven’t answered. He wants to be with me—my mother said so herself. Maybe that’s why he’s calling—to tell me himself, to convince me to end things with Rafael. The phone is still ringing in my hand, still presenting me with two options— accept or reject. I surprise myself by sliding a finger across the screen and holding the device to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Azere! Finally!” He releases a loud huff, and it’s not a melodramatic act meant to imitate relief, but the real thing. I note the way strain steadily eases from his voice until his pitch reverts to its normal state. “I’ve been trying to reach you. How are you?”

  “Um . . .” Rafael is talking to his sister and pulling browned potatoes out of the oven. I walk to the terrace, slide the glass door open, and step out. “I’m fine, Elijah.” Out here, his name means nothing—the sound of it, each syllable, is just another chord in the city’s bustling chorus. It isn’t singled out and taken into severe consideration like it would have been inside with Rafael at earshot. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Azere. Though, I’ve been worried about you. I spoke to your mom, and she said—”

  “Please, Elijah. I don’t want to talk about my mom and the things she might have or might not have said to you.”

  The line grows silent. He breathes deep and heavy as if taking more effort than usual to accomplish the simple task. “Azere, why are you with him? Is it because you’re pregnant?”

  There’s an appropriate reaction that should follow Elijah’s questions—one that would comprise shouting and cursing. Considering the insensitive, intrusive, offensive inquiry, I am fully entitled to that reaction. Though, the impulse to backlash doesn’t rise. Looking at the view beyond the iron railing—the lake snaking through glistening high-rises and sailboats drifting in the distance—I sigh and offer an answer free of spite.

  “No, Elijah.” Maybe this is what he needs to hear, so he can move on. “I am not with Rafael because I’m pregnant with his child. I’m with him because I care about him. Very much.” I look through the glass door, into the penthouse where Rafael is setting the dining table. Our eyes connect and ev
en with the tense conversation we were having minutes ago, he smiles—no anger or resentment straining the extent of his lips. “Elijah, I’m happy. Rafael makes me happy. That’s why I’m with him.”

  He expels a long, brash breath as if something has popped and deflated inside him—hope, maybe.

  I end the call and return inside where there is an appetizing spread of food on the table. “Rafael, this looks amazing.” I bite my lip while gaping at the perfectly bronzed whole chicken. “Another of your grandmother’s recipes?”

  “Yeah.” He unties the apron around his waist and places it on the kitchen counter. “You know, when I was a kid, my family would spend every summer with her in Spain.” He walks toward the dining table, Milo trailing him. “It’s funny because whenever she would make my siblings and I help her in the kitchen, Max and I would always throw a fit. We called it child labor.” He chuckles at the memory. “But Abuela always said cooking was a labor of love.” He looks at me, smiling, and pulls out a chair. “She was right.”

  We eat the delicious meal, laughing and discussing many things but the topic of living together. Later, on the couch, while he rubs Milo’s ear, I babble about the movie The Age of Adaline.

  “It’s really good, Rafael. Trust me. Have I ever picked a movie you didn’t like?”

  “Um . . .” He considers briefly. “No. You haven’t. And I was very skeptical about Tangled.”

  “But you loved it. Didn’t you?”

  He reclines into the couch and draws me over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Azere. But, yeah. I loved an animated movie specifically targeted at children.”

  “Relax. I won’t tell anyone it’s your favorite movie of all time.” I clap my hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle. “I’ll just keep it between us—don’t want you getting picked on at the playground.”