by Lexie Ray
“How are you doing?”
Pumpkin came in and sat down on the edge of my bed.
“I took a nap,” I croaked, still feeling groggy. “Did we close already?”
“Yep,” Pumpkin said. “You slept through everything.”
I sighed. “Are you doing anything tomorrow morning?” I asked. “I’m going to go to the clinic.”
I couldn’t make out Pumpkin’s expression in the darkness of the room. I was kind of glad for that—it meant she couldn’t see my face, either.
“Is that what Mama was talking to you about?” she asked. “Taking care of the problem?”
“Pretty much.”
“And what do you want to do?” Pumpkin asked.
“Go back in time,” I said, not caring if it sounded petulant.
“So you wouldn’t ever have hooked up with Jake?”
No, I wanted to say. I’d turn back time all the way back to my high school years. I’d call Child Protective Services years before I did, and get myself and my siblings the help and support we needed and deserved. I would’ve figured out how to go to college—netting more scholarships and grants or taking out a loan, and I would’ve seized my future. I never would’ve learned how to mix a drink, never would’ve worked behind a bar, and never would’ve met Jake, who had abandoned me at the news that I was carrying his child.
“Something like that,” I said finally.
“I’ll go with you,” Pumpkin said. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to do it alone.”
“Thanks, Pumpkin,” I said. “Sorry to be so weird about all of this.”
“You’re allowed to be weird about it,” she said. “It’s a little person growing inside of you.”
She left, closing the door behind her, and I put my hand on my stomach. A little person. Half me, and half Jake.
I stared into the dark for a long time before I was able to sleep again.
Chapter Five
The next morning, I told Pumpkin to forget about going to the clinic with me—at least that morning. I was bone tired and didn’t feel like having doctors poke or prod at me.
It was even easier to not go the next morning. And the next. If I didn’t see any changes in myself, the fact that I was carrying a child was easy to ignore.
The fact that I actually was pregnant hit me hard after I missed my third period since the fateful test. I was having more and more trouble wearing my skirt for work, the buttons and zipper squeezing me. I’d taken to just leaving the button open and pulling my work blouse down over it.
It wasn’t a true baby bump. It was more like I’d been stuffing my face full of fast food and never exercising. Nobody said anything, but I got a girdle all the same. It wasn’t something I wanted Mama knowing, especially since I’d taken the money she’d given me for the abortion and stashed it with the rest of the cash I’d been saving.
At four months pregnant, I knew I was past the point of return. What had been a gut turned into a full-fledged baby bump. The future wasn’t my endgame; it was just getting past the challenges of my everyday existence. I purchased a larger blouse to help me conceal the bump, and I stopped sauntering down the hallway naked after taking a shower—my usual way of getting laughs from the other girls. I withdrew into myself and my room, thankful for the first time that I didn’t have a roommate to share the space with. I kept my door closed, looking at my belly in the mirror, and trying on clothes to see if I had anything that still fit.
Everyone knew something was wrong with me, but only Pumpkin—and Mama—knew the details. Pumpkin gave me my space, but I ran into Mama when I was in just a bathrobe—and girdle-less—downstairs in the kitchen one morning.
I was currently undergoing a wicked craving for a hotdog. It’d bounced me out of bed earlier than I was used to getting up and kicked my ass right down the stairs. It had to be a big hotdog, slathered in mustard and relish. That’s what I wanted—no, needed.
I was rooting around in the refrigerator in the kitchen with more seriousness than I’d shown most pursuits in my life when I heard the door open.
“Morning,” Mama said, her voice bleary. I stiffened, thinking of the cash I hadn’t used on an abortion, and looked at the package of hotdogs I was clutching. This looked exactly like it was—a pregnant woman succumbing to a vicious craving at an ungodly hour.
I turned, carefully pointing my bump inside the fridge.
“Morning,” I returned, trying not to sound suspicious. “Did we do good last night?”
“You know we did,” Mama said. She’d coated her face in a green mask of some sort, and her hair was in a shower cap. I could smell her hangover from where I was standing, and it made my stomach turn precariously.
“That’s good,” I said, swallowing a gag. With no small amount of regret, I replaced the hotdogs and took out the orange juice. Still keeping my front away from Mama’s view, I got a glass and poured the juice into it.
“Can you pour one for me, too, child?” Mama asked. “And would it be too much trouble if we went to the bar to splash some vodka in it? I need a hair of the dog.”
At the word “vodka,” I did gag, but was able to cover it with a cough. Terrible cravings and now a horrible aversion to alcohol? Life was getting interesting.
“Sure thing,” I said, pouring Mama’s glass and walking past her as casually as I could. I was going to have to start wearing the girdle everywhere I went, I realized, pushing out the door, Mama on my heels.
“I don’t want to get too personal, because I know you’re private with your life, Blue,” Mama said, as I slipped behind the bar, thankful for the cover it gave my bump. “But did you take care of that thing that we talked about?”
For a woman as ruthless as Mama could be, I found her euphemisms laughable.
“Yes,” I said, unscrewing the bottle of vodka and trying to keep it as far away from my nose as possible. If I sniffed just one tiny waft of the alcohol, I’d probably vomit all over Mama.
“And are you doing okay?” she asked. “It’s not an easy thing to do, I’m told.”
Inspiration struck at the strangest moments, but strike me it did, right as I capped the vodka and pushed Mama’s doctored drink toward her.
“I’ve been sad,” I said, “and I think I’ve been eating too much. I’m getting kind of fat.” I took a chance and patted my bump through my bathrobe.
Mama took a long drink from her cocktail and nodded. “You might be a little thicker around the middle, but you’re prettier than ever,” she said. “People deal with things in different ways. You’ll get past this, honey.”
She patted my hand and made her way back to the office, cocktail in tow. The moment she closed the door, I threw up in the trashcan behind the bar. I realized that it hadn’t been the vodka that bothered me. This was legitimate morning sickness. I was screwed.
Wandering back into the kitchen, the hotdogs in their plastic packaging disgusted me. Hotdogs? How had I ever wanted hotdogs?
Pizza was what I’d obviously been craving.
What was I doing? I asked myself as I retrieved a microwavable individual pizza from the freezer. There was no way I could sustain this. I was right on the edge—soon, I wouldn’t be able to get an abortion, even if I wanted to. Mama would be furious about me lying to her and I wouldn’t be able to stay at the nightclub with a newborn infant.
A newborn infant whose father was in no way interested in being a part of the baby’s life—or mine.
That night, I worked through my shift, numb and confused. The DJ who had replaced Jake was playing tonight, and he wasn’t half bad, but it was hard to appreciate the music when I didn’t care about the person who was playing it.
Part of me wanted to crawl up to my room and call Jake, but the rest of me knew it would destroy me to have him ignore another one of my phone calls. The best thing to do was stay busy, distract myself from my pain—and the reality of what I’d have to do.
I’d have to get rid of this baby—as soon as possible. In the
morning, even.
My misery tripled when a customer sat down at the bar. I really couldn’t flirt with someone right now, not with the state I was in. I couldn’t.
I thought about Cocoa, and about how she was able to turn it on and off like a switch—the personality she tapped into for working at the nightclub. Maybe it’d been actually useful, allowing her to put on a mask and costume in order to get away from whatever real problems she’d been battling. I could do that, too, just for tonight. After tomorrow, my problems were going to be resolved. I needed a distraction to get myself through tonight.
“Howdy, baby,” I said, mustering a smile and leaning over the bar. “What can I do for you tonight?”
I looked up and my smile faltered. This customer was handsome—dark hair styled carelessly but nicely, just a light dusting of gray at the temples, warm eyes, and an easy smile. He was completely hot, in fact, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him somehow—or had seen him before.
“I’d like to see about what I can do to keep that smile permanently on your face,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took it and shook it, wondering at what this could mean. I was more likely to get fondled while working at the nightclub than to shake hands politely, but his grip was strong, and something resonated in me long after I let it go.
“You’ve caught me on a strange night, baby,” I said, grinning for him. “Pick your poison.”
“Vodka sour,” he said, his eyes so kind it hurt me a little.
“My kind of man,” I said, grabbing a bottle of vodka and triple sec, spinning them around on my fingers, and transferring them both to one hand so I could grab a tall glass.
He raised his eyebrows and started applauding as I juggled the bottles again, pouring them into the glass before twisting in some lime juice. I bounced the mixer on my elbow and snagged it out of the air with one hand, pouring the concoction from the glass into it with the other. I capped the mixer and started shaking it as I scooped ice into the glass and then poured it with a flourish, garnishing the glass with a lime wedge before stabbing a straw into it and sliding it over to the customer.
“Very impressive,” he said, taking a sip. Those wonderful eyes widened even more. “And perfectly made. I ask for vodka sours all over this city and this has been the best one yet.”
“Now you’re just blowing wind up my skirt,” I teased, smiling. It was getting easier by the moment to smile. That was encouraging.
“It’s the truth,” he protested. “I’m always in search of the perfect vodka sour, and I think I’ve finally found it.”
“You want me to believe that you’ve been crusading around the Big Apple, trying to find the best cocktail?” I raised my eyebrows to make sure he knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“Believe it,” he said, shrugging and toasting me. “Can I know the name of the bartender who has finally won over my taste buds?”
“It’s Blue,” I said, sticking out my hand before withdrawing it, laughing at myself and feeling stupid. We already shook hands.
But before I could draw it all the way back, he seized it again, shaking it firmly, slowly, lingering.
“Dan,” he said. “Dan Fraser.”
My heart hiccupped at that last name. Fraser? Why did his last name have to be Fraser? It was common enough, I guessed, but it booted me right back into my despair. Couldn’t I escape thinking about Jake for one single moment?
Nothing got past Dan, apparently. “I’m sorry,” he said, cocking his head at me. “Did I say something wrong? Was it Dan that you didn’t like? Or Fraser? You can call me whatever you want.”
I laughed at that. “Neither of them bothers me,” I said. “Like I told you earlier, you caught me on a strange night.”
“Hope everything’s okay,” Dan remarked, sipping on his drink.
“It will be,” I said, smiling. “But until then, I think you’re the perfect distraction.”
And he was. Throughout the night, I continued making vodka sours for Dan, ordering a selection of tapas for him, and chatting over the blare of the DJ. It was almost a relief when the first set was over and the pop songs came on.
Dan revealed that he worked at a marketing firm, helping companies decide on what advertising approaches to use and who their most likely customers would be. The more he talked about it, the more fascinated I was.
“So, how does a company not even know who’s going to buy their stuff?” I asked. “That seems like it would be the first thing they’d hammer down.”
“It should be, but it often isn’t,” Dan said, putting his fork and knife down on his empty plate. I whisked it beneath the bar and propped my chin up on my fist. “Most of the time, a company simply starts with a product.”
“A product that they don’t know how to sell,” I said dubiously.
“Unlucky for them,” Dan said. “Lucky for me and my business.”
“Oh, your business?” I said. “Do you own it?”
“Several shares,” he said casually. “I’m one of five partners. We started it right out of college.”
I could be going to college right now, I thought glumly as I poured a tray full of shots for one of the girls. Instead, I was bartending at a brothel and was pregnant to boot. As nice as he was, the man in front of me could very well pay for the pleasure of my body at any point—whether I wanted to have sex or not. What was I doing with my life? Even the best-laid plans went to shit, I was starting to realize.
Dan’s hand covered my own and I looked up at him.
“Sometimes, you look so sad that it squeezes my heart,” he said, his eyes so kind that my heart gave its own little squeeze. “You know, the bartender/drinker relationship can go both ways. I’ve been yakking on and on about my life. You can talk about yours, too, if you want.”
I laughed and patted his hand. “My life is nowhere near as exciting as yours,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” Dan complained. “Try me. I basically ride a desk all day. What’s the most interesting thing about yourself?”
The most interesting thing? I was currently growing a baby inside of myself that belonged to a DJ who should be starting his second set right about now. The reason I was such a good bartender was because my parents had been both drunk and absent. I’d picked caring for my younger siblings over furthering my education and ending up squandering what could’ve been a successful future.
Somehow, none of those things seemed appealing.
“I can draw,” I said finally.
“You’re an artist,” Dan said, clearly delighted.
I laughed and shook my head. “I said I can draw, not that I’m an artist.”
“Anyone who has artistic ability is, by definition, an artist,” Dan maintained. “Well, let’s see it.”
“Now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Dan said, nodding emphatically. “I’d like a portrait of myself, please. I’d pay you, of course. I’d never ask an artist to give me their artwork for free.”
“It’s not going to be artwork,” I said, smiling as I pulled a marker and a pad of order tickets from beneath the bar. “It’s just going to be a crappy marker drawing on an order ticket.”
“Art comes in many different forms,” Dan said stubbornly. “Who knows? We could have a Picasso on our hands.”
“Very funny,” I said, my voice dry. “Strike a pose, then.”
Dan extended one arm up into the air and curved the other behind his head, looking absolutely ridiculous. A couple of Mama’s girls serving tables nearby covered their mouths to hide their laughter at the sight. I laughed outright.
“Is something wrong with my pose?” Dan said, staring straight up in the same direction of his outstretched arm.
“Nothing wrong with it at all,” I said, chortling as I sketched the outline of his body as lightly as I could. When I got the shape right, I laid in the details a little more surely—the buttons on his shirt, the spikes in his hair, all the way down to his kind eye
s and clean fingernails.
“Here we are,” I said. “You can stop doing that pose now. Please. People are looking at you.”
Dan relaxed his arms and took the pad as I handed it to him. I thought it was a fair sketch, realizing that I needed to practice some more, but he was thrilled with it.
“Blue!” he exclaimed. “This is great! And it took you like, what? A minute?”
“Oh, stop,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “It’s not that good. I’m out of practice. You should’ve seen me a few years ago.” Never mind that a few years ago I was still in high school and struggling to raise my brothers and sisters.
“I’m being serious,” he said. “This is a great sketch. How much will you sell it to me for?”
“Sell it?” I snorted. “I’ll give it to you.”
“Nope,” Dan said adamantly, shaking his head and getting his wallet out. “I told you that I’d be paying for your art and I intend to. Name your price.”
“A dollar?” I said uncertainly.
Dan clucked at me. “Take some pride in your work,” he said. “This is great stuff we’re mining, Blue.”
“Two dollars?”
“I’m giving you twenty,” he said, peeling the bill from his wallet and holding it out to me.
I recoiled. “The sketch isn’t worth that,” I protested. “It’s not worth the paper I drew it on, or the marker I drew it with.”
“I insist,” he said. “I want to buy this artwork from you for twenty dollars.”
“Fine,” I scoffed, snatching the bill. “But you’re crazy. I could do better.”
“Then do another one,” he said. “I’ll even do a different pose.” He propped his chin up on both fists and gave a big cheesy smile, batting his eyelashes at me.
I cackled at how ludicrous he looked.
“Here’s an idea,” he said, dropping out of his pose and leaning forward earnestly. “Let me give you a taste of the marketing firm where I work.”
