by A. S. Green
“Mmm-hmm,” Nisi says, but not like she’s agreeing with me—more like she’s congratulating herself on her own intuition. I look up from the test stick, and my peripheral vision tunnels until all I can see is Nisi’s mouth moving.
“My sister gets the same look as you’ve got. I noticed a couple days ago. You’re all clammy looking. I’ll set you up with an appointment with my gyno. She’s good. You’ll like her. That is, unless…”
“Unless what?” I ask.
“Well…do you mean to keep it?”
“Keep what?” I ask woodenly.
“Keep what?” Her voice goes up like she’s been slapped on the ass. “Girl! The baby! What are you talking about, ‘keep what?’”
My brain hadn’t even gone to that possibility. Do I want an abortion? I don’t think so. Do I? “Nisi, you won’t tell anybody, will you?”
“That’s insulting. I’m offended. A woman doesn’t do that to a sister.”
“Okay, just…don’t.”
“Lips are sealed. You think on things, girl. If you want a clinic, there’s an old-school phone directory in the break room. Clinic numbers are likely on the back. If you want me to set you up with my doctor, though, say the word.” Then she turns for the bathroom door, murmuring, “Jackson Sparke’s baby… Ooh-eee, that would be one pretty little hell-raiser.”
Suddenly my mind is filled with an image of that beautiful little baby. A second later, I’m whirling for the toilet.
…
Later that night, I pick up and set down my phone a million times before I finally complete the call home. I have no idea how my mother is going to react to my news. She’s always pushed me to be responsible, to take charge. That’s why she handed over the Summer Fest responsibilities to me two years ago. This isn’t exactly what she pictured for me, or what I ever pictured for myself.
By the time I’m done telling her the news, there’s only silence on the other end of the line. “Mommy? Are you there?” I can’t remember the last time I called her that. It just slips out.
“I’m here.” Her voice is soft and kind. I can almost feel her arms around me, her hand patting my back in consolation.
“What do I do?”
“Ah. Well. That’s up to you. What do you want to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me about…the father.” Thankfully she doesn’t scold me for sleeping with my boss as if I’m some sort of work-your-way-to-the-top cliché. “You’ve told me all about his work, but very little else. Do you…love him? Is he good to you?”
“We’ve loved each other for six years.” When I hear her inhale, I fill her in on everything I left out before. I finish with, “And he’s protective.”
“What does he need to protect you from?” Mom’s tone tells me she’s been worried for a while.
I decide not to mention Fenton, New Orleans streetcars, or any back-alley ambushes. “I mean that he’s good to me, and he’s working on being good to himself, too.”
“Should I ask what that means?”
“He’s been through a rough stretch. Sometimes it makes him pull back.”
“I see.” She’s silent for a while. Then, “So how is he going to respond to a baby? Would he be a good father? Would he even want to be?”
I blink back tears, because that is the question, isn’t it? We’re living together, or at least we will be when he gets back. But has Jax let down his walls enough to be a true family? With all he’s been through with his parents, with all the loss he’s suffered, and now with his life so tangled with his work, can he be a family man, too? Would he even know how to go about it?
“I don’t know, Mom. Should I not tell him yet?”
“You don’t have to tell him, love, but in my opinion, he deserves to know. It’s his child as much as yours.”
“Uh-huh.” The reality of it still bowls me over. I am having a baby. With Jax.
“You know… Things haven’t always been perfect between your father and me. Obviously. But there was one thing we always agreed on, and that was how much we loved you, how happy we were to bring you into the world, and how much better people we are because of you.”
“Mom.”
“Just think on that, honey. But the decision is yours.”
…
That night I think on it.
If my mom had asked me a few weeks ago what Jax would think of my news, I would have said he’d freak. Definitely. Now I’m not so sure. For six years I’ve fantasized about there being a real future for us. Ever since he opened up to me last week, that fantasy has felt more like reality.
He’s still a badass on the job, but with me there’s a new softness that didn’t end when he put his box of keepsakes back on the shelf. The next two days, right up until he left, brought more casual touches and brief inconsequential kisses, the kind that mean both nothing and everything all at once. Since he’s been on the road, each day has started with a phone call, a sweet “Good morning” and “How did you sleep?”
I could see him as a father. I could see him wanting to do better in the role than his own parents did. Almost like it was a personal challenge, and maybe even a debt he owed his grandmother for all the love she gave him.
Maybe he’d even think he owed it to Charlie to live the life he couldn’t.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that that’s exactly what Jax would think about it. Maybe not at first. I mentally brace myself for his initial reaction. It’ll be a shock. I was shocked. He has the right to an honest reaction. But once the news settles in…
As the night wears on, I wallow in insomnia but grow in confidence. Jax understands that family is important to me, even if his own parents torched his ability to fully understand. He at least has a clue of what it can be. His grandmother gave him that gift, and he can get it back. He could be the kind of father our child deserves.
Then I roll over, thinking, holy shit. Our child!
There is a person growing inside me. A living, growing person. My hand goes to the spot below my belly button. I’m not showing, but there’s a definite thickening there. A more solid feel beneath my fingers.
I flatten my palm against my belly and let the warmth sink into my skin. “Hello, pretty little hell-raiser.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Jackson
The Next Evening
Cars are backed up at the tollbooth and all the way into the Holland Tunnel. My fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. Seems like traffic’s always at its worst the more eager I am to get home.
Home. The word sounds different in my head these days.
The Mers play from the stereo. She was down for the money, flew to the show, my little wild child don’t go slow.
The clock on the dash flips to 6:25 and, right on cue, my stomach growls.
Take a look and you might find a girl who’s waiting all the time.
I probably should have stopped for lunch, but I’ve spent the last five days picturing Natalie’s face when I give her the tickets that are now tucked safely into my wallet. Foo Fighters at the Garden two days from now. She’s going to flip.
Besides imagining her excitement about the tickets, I’ve also wondered if my apartment will look the same as when I left. Will Natalie have another bunch of flowers in the kitchen? Maybe some of those fancy pillows on the couch—white furry ones, no doubt, or purple velvet. Would she be so bold as to completely redecorate my life according to her inner rock star?
I wouldn’t bet against it, even though I can tell she’s still holding a part of herself back. Probably afraid I’ll snap again.
Maybe she’s got the hi-fi going and some of our new records spinning on the turntable—Deep Purple or the Stones. Maybe Bowie. I drum my hands against the wheel in rhythm with the music. To grab you tight and make the show; wild child, wild child, please don’t go.
Maybe her clothes are littered all over my bedroom floor. I laugh out loud—it’s
still a strange sound to my ears—because I doubt I’d even notice that sort of thing if her scent was in the room, on my sheets.
Reflexively, I inhale deeply, then drift toward the shoulder to see if I can get a bead on what’s holding us up. If only I could drive up the shoulder and jump the line. I lean on the horn. Surprise, surprise. No one clears a path for me.
While stopped, I take the opportunity to send her a quick text: Meet me at Cuigini’s. 7:00. I miss you. I toss my phone into the cup holder and enter the tunnel before I realize what I’ve done.
For years I’ve avoided this route, avoided the hell out of being stuck under the river in a twelve-foot-high, mile-and-a-half-long tomb. My hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles flare white. Chantry’s drum solo is ramping up, blasting through the speakers like rapid gunfire. Surprisingly, my heart rate remains steady.
This is new. This is promising. Keep moving, keep moving, I say, encouraging the cars in front of me. I’m going to make it. Just a little farther… Almost there… Please. Yes. No, don’t brake. A little bit more… Faster… Yes!
When I come out on the other side, I fill my lungs with air and sink back in my seat, letting my shoulders fall. I did that. Fuck, yeah.
Buildings stand out like cardboard cutouts against a bright-blue sky. I can’t remember it ever looking so blue. It’s as blue as Natalie’s hair when I first met her.
Such a rebel. No fear.
I can still see her climbing onto the stage, right in the middle of Chantry’s drum solo. With that hair of hers, she looked like another member of the band. Security didn’t immediately notice. I even remember being critical of that before Natalie reclaimed my attention.
The way she moved, dancing with such reckless abandon. It was addictive. Contagious. If she had been anyone else, the band likely would have had her removed. Instead, they saw she wasn’t there to interfere and quickly incorporated her into their performance.
That’s the way it was with Natalie. Still is. She’s never had any interest in claiming the spotlight for herself—not because she’s a wallflower (far from it), but because she gets caught up in the excitement around her. Her motivation is only to help make the spotlight bigger, brighter, more inclusive, and more exciting for everyone.
That’s what she did for me back then. She was the bright light in an otherwise dark pit. When I let a curtain fall over that light, I lost my hold. I lost my way. I lost Gram and Ridgeway. Charlie. Then me.
And now I want it back. I want it all back. And for some unfathomable reason, she wants it, too. Nothing can separate us now. This is our time to focus on us, to triage the world around us and make us the priority.
My phone pings with an incoming text. Natalie has responded to my dinner invitation in emoji. An electric guitar, a heart, and the imprint of a lipstick-coated mouth: Rock on! I love you. Kiss.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Jackson
Cuigini’s is a small Italian joint a block away from my apartment. Our apartment. Natalie is already seated at a small table in the middle of the room when I walk in. Her face is lit by the votive candle on the table. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail under her ear, and it falls forward over her shoulder in one thick, perfectly formed spiral.
She watches me cross the floor. It’s incredibly hot the way she looks at me. Everything about her has always been incredibly hot, but tonight there’s something different.
As soon as I get to our table, she reaches up. I take her hand, then lean down to kiss her cheek. Once I’m seated across from her, she looks at her hands, which are palms down on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Her fingers are spread wide.
“How’ve you been?” I ask her.
“Pretty good,” she says quietly. I’m confused by her tone. She’s never been shy around me. I still get hard thinking about the attitude she gave me back on her island a couple months ago.
Has it only been that?
I’m not surprised it feels longer. She got under my skin six years ago, and even though I crusted over, she left her mark.
“It looks like you have something on your mind,” I say as she fiddles with her napkin. Yep. Natalie definitely has something to say. She probably wants to confess some interior decorating decisions she’s made in my absence.
“Oh, um. Not really. Why?”
I shake my head. So beautiful the way her cheeks flush. I wonder if we could get to-go boxes now. Would that be obnoxious?
We’ve only had our salads and the first few bites of pizza when her phone rings. She frowns down at it like she’s surprised it isn’t on silent mode. “It’s my mom.”
I clench my teeth—it’s certainly been a week for mothers. I expect Natalie to pick up the call in the middle of our meal. She surprises me by not answering. Instead, she sets down her fork with a loud clank. Then she wipes her mouth with her napkin and lays it across her lap. Her posture tells me she’s about to make a speech.
“Actually, Jax. There is. Something I want to say, I mean.”
I lean into the edge of the table. “Is it about moving in with me? I know I’ve been alone for a while, and maybe I haven’t been the best with making room for you. But now that we’re both home—”
“That’s not it.” She looks down, her thick lashes fanning across her cheek, then her eyes are back on me. “But as far as making room for things…”
I reach out and take one of her hands in mine. “I know. The place is pretty sparse, and probably not to your taste. If there’s some furniture pieces from home you’d like to have shipped out, maybe some furry throw pillows…I’ll cover the cost.”
“That’s sweet. I appreciate that.” She raises her hand and tugs on the end of her ponytail.
“Anything,” I say. “I want to make this work between us.”
Moisture springs into her blue eyes. I feel a stab of panic in my gut, but I shove it back down.
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear that,” she says, so they must be happy tears. Good. My shoulders relax. “But it’s not furniture I want to talk about. I need to tell—”
In that moment her phone rings again. She frowns, then says, “It’s my mom again. I’m sorry, I think I need to take this.”
“Natalie,” I say, not hiding my irritation. She was right in the middle of something important. She narrows her eyes at me for a second, then puts her phone to her ear. “Mom?”
It’s too loud in here for me to know what her mother is saying, but I watch in fascination as Natalie’s face morphs through a series of emotions: apprehension, surprise, confusion, fear.
She suddenly swings her body sideways in her chair and bends over, putting her finger in her opposite ear. “Mom, slow down. What’s the matter?”
I put my fork down and lean back in my chair. Her mom’s probably misplaced the blender. Or maybe she can’t remember how to start the lawn mower without Natalie’s help.
Natalie stands up. “Did you tell him?” she asks, glancing nervously in my direction. “Is that what triggered it?” She then strides out of the restaurant to finish her call on the sidewalk.
Trigger what? I watch her go, then, with some reluctance, go back to eating. It doesn’t taste as good as it used to. Maybe we should take a vacation. Get back on the road together, but this time to the Hamptons. A little sea air…a little sand between our toes…a little midnight sex on the beach…
“Jax.” The voice is high and thin above me, like it’s been starved of oxygen.
I turn and look up at the person standing beside my chair. “Natalie?” I say, surprised. I take her hand. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad,” she says, still in that voice.
“Sit down.”
Her hands shake as she walks to the other side of the table. She hesitates by the side of her chair, as if she needs to remind herself of the mechanics of sitting. Her face looks practically gray before her head bows. I give her a second.
Finally she lifts her head. “My dad’s had a stroke.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
I reach across the table and take her hand. “I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”
She nods, then shakes her head, then gives a little shrug. “He’s in the hospital. He’s not c-conscious. Mom wants me to come home.”
“Why?” My question is innocent enough, but it does something surprising to her expression: a cross between confusion and alarm.
“What?” she asks.
“Why?”
“My dad’s had a stroke,” she says, measuring out each word like its own sentence.
“You said that. You also said he was unconscious, and the last time I checked you don’t have a medical license.”
“What are you saying?” The color is back in her face. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. Something seems off.
“Babe, I understand you’re worried, but it’s not like going home is going to change anything. He won’t know you’re there, and there’s nothing you can do to make the situation better. He needs professional help.” I get a flash of my conversation with Debra several weeks ago. You’d probably only be in the way. Let the doctors do their thing. There isn’t anything you can do to help.
“I can be there for my mom.”
“To do what?” I ask.
“Are you insane?” Her voice is rising unreasonably.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Why are you acting like this?” She doesn’t sound mad; she sounds panicked. I’m not used to that from her.
“I’m trying to understand your decision making. You’re not making sense. You and me, we’re just starting out here. We need some time to—”
“I don’t make sense?” She isn’t doing anything to strengthen her case. She looks like she’s going to lose it. “I don’t? I’m acting like a normal person. A normal person who cares about other people. Who cares about her family. You don’t know the first thing about family.”
Oh, I know a whole helluva lot about family. “Family doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fiction and an institution, just as fallible as any other.”
