Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  “Do you like him?” She sounds uncertain.

  What the fuck do I say to that? I’ve seen prettier babies, but this isn’t a beauty pageant, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Ro elbows me. Hard.

  “Good-looking kid,” I lie through my teeth, and she beams. I’ve said the right thing.

  “He’s yours,” she announces and then reaches down and starts fishing around in the car seat like she’s going to hand over the baby. And… do what?

  Wait. Rewind. Mine? I’m beyond certain I don’t have any mini-mes running around. This world can barely handle me—it doesn’t need a sequel.

  “Are you—” I get two words out and skid to a verbal halt. Sure clearly isn’t the next word that’s supposed to come out of my mouth. Nor is crazy, delusional, or on the make. Okay. That last one’s three words, but you get the point. Vann and Ro glare at me.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Babies aren’t like Christmas presents. They don’t come with gift receipts or tags stuck to their foreheads, and even if they did and the tag fell off, you can’t just unwrap them to figure out who should get the present.

  And honestly? I don’t want this present.

  I agree. That makes me a horrible person. I stare at the baby some more, and it scares the fuck out of me. There’s no good way to ask if Em’s sure. There’s no good way to tell her that I’m not entirely certain I even remember her. Maybe? I’m drawing a blank, but the truth is I’ve banged enough women that maybe I did have sex with her and simply forgot. I’m always careful, but accidents happen. I’m living, walking proof of that.

  And because karma’s not quite done crapping all over my life, bare feet slap on the steps behind me. Vali’s come down to check on me. She’s put on some more clothes, but she still looks like she spent the night in my arms. It’s a good look for her, but Em’s eyes widen. Maybe I really did sleep with her, because I recognize the competitive gleam in her eyes.

  “Oh.” Em chews on her lower lip, and like he’s some kind of feelings magnet, the baby in the car seat opens his eyes and starts to wail. Loud, ear-piercing howls that sound less human and more like an air raid siren. Maybe he could be mine, because that’s exactly how I feel right now.

  Em scoops the baby up and starts patting him on the back, babbling nonsense words. A ripe odor emanates from the bundle in her arms, and then, before I can fall back or adjust my position, she hands him over.

  To me.

  Vali leans in, smiling. I don’t know how she feels about babies, but there’s lots I don’t know about her. I’m working on that. From the way her eyes soften when she looks at the baby, though, she’s clearly not baby-adverse.

  “He’s gorgeous,” she says, with just the right degree of sincerity in her voice.

  “He looks just like his daddy,” Em announces, satisfaction filling her voice as she attaches herself to my right side. FYI? There are way better ways to be the filling in a two-woman sandwich. “He got Finn’s nose for sure.”

  Vali lets go of my arm like she’s been burned, and my fantasies crash and burn so badly that they have road rash. “He’s yours?”

  “Yes,” Em says at the same moment I say, “I don’t know.” I’d like to say no, to flat out deny it, but what if it’s true? Why would Em lie?

  Ro throws me a lifeline. “We’re going to work this out.”

  If I weren’t watching my life swirl down the crapper, I’d appreciate it. He plucks the baby out of my arms with an expertise I didn’t know he had—but thank God for—and heads toward his ride. I don’t know what kind of help he thinks he’ll find there—it’s not like he’s got a DNA kit in the glove box or the complete video of our sex lives so I can prove I didn’t do this thing—but I’ll take what I can get.

  Part of me—the immature part that’s a bastard—hates Em on the spot. Why is she here screwing up my life? Why did she pick now to come knocking on my door? She’s blindsided me with a baby in front of Vali, and any other time, I’d be telling Em to fuck off.

  But she’s a party of two.

  She has a baby.

  That might, just possibly, in some kind of weird, horrific, alternate universe kind of way, be mine. One of the first things I learned as a SEAL was that civilian casualties are never okay. Innocent bystanders shouldn’t get hurt by my war, and I have a responsibility to point my weapons in the appropriate direction. The baby—Roger—didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t get to throw a temper tantrum and drag Vali back to bed. I don’t get to ignore what’s happening, because it may be my mess and, even if it’s not, Roger still needs my help. I can’t think of any acceptable reason for his momma to be chasing me through the Florida Keys rather than raising him in a house with a roof and a front door and a nursery other than her needing help.

  And Roger needing a daddy.

  Roger definitely deserves that.

  “Finn—” The way Vali says my name isn’t a good sign.

  “I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who Roger is.”

  I want to pull Vali close, to swing her up into my arms and fall back to our bed. Whoever Em was to me, she’s no one now—unless she really is my baby momma. Fuck. Me.

  Why didn’t I wear two condoms? Get my swimmers’ exit route snipped so that at best I shot blanks? Not that I want anyone coming at my dick with a scalpel (or whatever the fuck they use these days—doctors might have a big ass laser beam for all I know). That’s always been off-limits territory for me, but… I wasn’t planning on a baby. Or being anyone’s daddy. In fact, it’s safe to say that when it came to my sex life, I didn’t plan at all.

  “Go on.” Vali makes a little shooing motion in the direction where Em, Roger, and Ro have headed, presumably to use his Jeep as an impromptu changing station. Vann is fastening the car seat into my Jeep. Manly or not, I realize I just might have a panic attack. Our Angel Cay audience would love that. “You need to take care of this.”

  Take care of them hangs in the air between us. It’s like B.B. 2.0, except I’m dying of invisible injuries, and I never intended to hurt anybody. Logically, I realize your dick doesn’t just trip and fall into the nearest vagina. It gets there because you put it there. So… this is my fault. There are no excuses. For the first time, I second-guess my choice to screw around and sleep with pretty much anyone who asked.

  “I need to tell you something.” I get the words out, but Vali looks everywhere but at me. Mostly, she watches Em and Ro bent over the still-squalling baby. She’s already moving on from me, and I don’t know how to stop her. I don’t have any practice at holding on. There has to be a way to fucking tell her that I love her.

  Because I do.

  The baby screams so loudly, I start wondering if I should get a head start and dial 9-1. Keep my finger over the last button just in case he bursts something or needs medical assistance. That can’t be normal, can it?

  “Go,” Vali repeats, and then she turns around and marches back toward the stairs. She’s leaving me, and there’s not a goddamned thing I can do except head in the other direction, toward Em and Roger, because she’s right. I’ve missed my chance to tell her that I love her, and while I may be the biggest dumbass in the world when it comes to relationships, I do know one thing. Words count. It’s not so much the number of words (I love you is only three words and eight small letters) as the message. And I didn’t bother telling Vali that she’s become my everything… so now I have nothing.

  VALI

  There’s no Emily Post for what you do when your faux fiancé and lover suddenly becomes a daddy—and you’re not the momma. After Finn’s baby makes his grand appearance in Angel Cay, I hide. There’s no other word for it. The only saving grace is that at least Em and Roger made their grand appearance when I was at home—I don’t have to slink away from Finn’s place in the ultimate walk of shame.

  I lick my wounds for a day, mentally replaying the scene of Finn driving away with Em and Roger in his Jeep, and then I text Marlee. Maybe it has something to do with the pictu
re I snapped on my phone and sent her—making a photo-documentary of my relationship imploding was stupid and way too revealing, but like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t help myself. I had to look over my shoulder when I was walking away, and I saw way more than I’d bargained for. They looked like a real family.

  Marlee disagrees. She says appearances can be deceiving (as if I’ve never heard that line before), and then we analyze every second of that morning. I’m sure Finn wasn’t expecting to wake up and discover he was a daddy. He’s lots of things, but he’s not a liar, and he has a code of honor that, while sometimes twisted and/or unfathomable (he has a penis, after all, and years of service as an active-duty SEAL), is largely admirable. Given his anger at B.B.’s extra-marital activities, I don’t think he’d cheat on Em with me if he’d known. Or more accurately, I don’t think he’d cheat on Roger.

  “Maybe Roger’s not his,” Marlee points out. She’s zoomed the picture in as far as it will go, so she can examine the top of Roger’s head and his profile. There’s not much to see, and even less to base a paternity claim on. The car seat swallows up most of the baby, but you can just see his nose and his forehead, still red from his tantrum. In the picture, he’s snuffling, settling down as the Jeep’s motion calls to him like a siren.

  Roger’s going to be okay. Finn won’t abandon him, and Finn’s awesome at rescues.

  “It’s been two days,” I point out.

  Marlee wraps her arm around me. She’s a hugger, which I definitely appreciate right now. “Has he called?”

  “Texted,” I admit.

  “And?”

  I nudge my phone toward her so she can see. Finn’s given the emojis on his phone a workout. I’m nuts about you (although I think the picture might be an acorn and not a nut-nut). A dancing stick figure man. Bear with me (presumably I’m the girly emoticon surrounded by teeny-tiny growly bears). Does Finn have a serious bone in his body, or is this just how he thinks? I haven’t responded. I mean, what’s there to say? Are you, in fact, a daddy? Where’s Roger now?

  “Wow. Points for creativity.” Marlee sounds impressed, but I bet you can Google half this shit. And really, communicating in sixteen pixels isn’t all that effective. I have no idea what Finn’s trying to say to me—or what I want to say back.

  Did I mention that mom radar works overtime? As if she’s sensed my personal life imploding, my Mami makes a surprise visit to Angel Cay. She texts me when she’s ten minutes away—which gives me just enough time to slip out the back door or schedule a dentist appointment if I really want to avoid her.

  Which I don’t.

  Mami drives a big, pink Cadillac that probably guzzles more gas and punches more holes in the ozone layer than any one car should. I learned to drive in that car, and my sister and I borrowed it every chance we got. It’s the kind of car you feel glamorous in, like you should be wearing a head scarf and glasses à la Marilyn Monroe as the paparazzi chase you down the street because you’re just that famous. Where do you think I got the idea for a pink VW from? Mami’s Caddy is the mothership.

  As soon as she pulls up in front of Bee Sweete, she lays on the horn. Honks doesn’t quite cover it. She slams a palm onto the horn—and doesn’t let go. Anyone with any kind of hearing in Angel Cay knows she’s here. I go flying down the stairs to meet her. The first few minutes are hugs and kisses and about a million half-sentences where we try to share every thought and feeling we’ve had since we last saw each other. I think we make up more than a few new words, but I’m absolutely clear on one thing. I’m loved unconditionally.

  Five minutes later, I’m helping Mami pull an enormous stack of dress bags out of the back seat of the Caddy. It’s kind of like those Russian nesting dolls. I lift one bag, and there’s another underneath. That’s a whole lot of baggage.

  “Are you moving in with me?”

  Honestly? I wouldn’t mind. Other than when it comes to bridegrooms and babies, Mami is flat-out fantastic. We may bicker occasionally, but we get along well, and maybe having her here would fill up some of the loneliness that Finn left behind. Not that he and I actually had a full-blown relationship, but we were working toward it. I’m almost certain of that.

  She shoves another dress bag into my arms and heads for the stairs. “Three’s a crowd, niña. You don’t want me here with you and Finn.”

  Right. Finn. My mystery man she has yet to meet and who has disappeared into the sunset with his new family.

  She marches through the door to my apartment. “Where is he? I need to meet this new son of mine.”

  She looks around as if she expects me to have Finn tucked behind the furniture or set out waiting for her inspection. It’s easy to imagine his grin at meeting Mami. He’d like her—I’m sure of it. They both have a mouth on them, and Mami likes to have fun. Of course, if she knew about Roger, she’d probably skin him alive.

  I drop the dress bags onto the couch. “He’s away this weekend.”

  I should just confess the truth—that I was never engaged in the first place—but part of me isn’t ready to let go of Finn. It’s pathetic. At best, he was a really, really good dream—and at worst, he was a complete and total illusion. I should be singing hosannahs that our budding relationship got nipped by the baby.

  Instead, I’m singing the blues. I feel myself tear up, and Mami wraps her arms around me. “It’s okay. We’ll cook and gossip, and by the time he comes back to you, baby girl, you’ll have a dress.”

  She waves a hand at the stack of dress bags. Oh. Shit.

  “Since you couldn’t come up to Miami,” she continues, “I brought you some dresses to try for the wedding.”

  Cautiously, I ease the zipper down on the closest bag. A gorgeous, sparkly puff of ivory tulle explodes out of the opening. Oh. God. It’s beautiful. I absolutely shouldn’t touch it, but instead of backing away, I pull it towards me. The dress is even more fabulous when I can see the whole thing—a long, sleek column of delicate gauze that begs me to try it on just for a few minutes. It’s so easy to imagine myself exchanging vows beneath an oceanfront gazebo or barefoot on a beach in this dress.

  “Get naked,” Mami urges. “I brought a mirror, too. I’ll go get it.”

  My Mami makes hardcore survivalists look unprepared. And because I’m weak and Mami’s gone to so much trouble, I strip down in my living room. And for the next hour, it’s like I never left home, never grew up. I try on one spectacular dress after another, twirling in front of Mami’s mirror or sashaying down my living room like I’m a supermodel while Mami snaps pictures and texts them to her friends. It’s like playing the grown-up version of Barbie—if Barbie’s mom had the kind of credit that let her borrow thousands of dollars worth of clothing.

  Afterwards, when we’ve put the dresses away, we cook and talk. We make enough food for an army, which makes me think of Finn’s first family, the old guys in the veteran’s home. I should bring some of this out to them—they’d like it. When we cook in Cuba, we like to feel full. Too many families have gone hungry too often to deal in small, fancy portions. We fill the table, and if there’s a mistake in the cooking, we adapt.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say when the last dish is tucked into my dishwasher, and all that’s left is a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Mami nods. “Always, niña-piña.”

  It’s been years since I’ve heard my childhood nickname, but I refuse to tear up now. I keep going; I always have. First when cancer struck our family, then when I learned I had the genetic mutation that made me, too, first in line for cancer. And later, when I told the surgeon to do it, to cut off my boobs. I just have to get through these first days, and everything will be better.

  I pour the wine. “I’m not sure it’s going to work out between me and Finn.”

  She nods, but she doesn’t look surprised. “So he’s not working this weekend?”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing,” I admit, “but he had some stuff he needed to work through.”

  “You should be
helping him,” Mami declares. “Men don’t always think clearly.”

  Don’t I know it.

  “This was personal.” I’m pretty sure I’m not invited to a family party like the one he appears to have going on.

  Mami looks utterly unconvinced. “And his asking you to get married was impersonal? And the sex was too?”

  Wait. What?

  My mouth gapes open unattractively. “We’re not discussing my sex life.”

  I don’t sound as certain as I’d like, and she laughs. “I’ve been married. And I was engaged twice before that.”

  This is news. I stare.

  She shrugs. “It took me three tries to get it right, but once it’s right, it’s right.”

  We lost my father to a massive heart attack ten years ago. Everyone cried, because my dad was the kind of guy you couldn’t not like. He owned four restaurants in Miami, but he was never too busy to cook for us. His Saturday barbecues were legendary. The whole neighborhood would stop by, on one pretext or another, and everyone left with a plate of food. He loved beer, the Miami Heat, and my Mami. She’d walk in the room, and he’d light up. They were the two halves to a whole, yin and yang—you get the picture.

  Mami rubs my hand. “Do you want a second chance?”

  I don’t have to think about it. “Yes, but—”

  “Shhhh.” She smiles, and there’s so much knowing in her eyes that I shut up. “There’s nothing dignified about going after him. You don’t get to keep your pride all the time, not if you keep the boy. You just have to decide if he’s worth it, niña-piña. I went after your papi, and most days I never regretted it.”

  “Almost never?” I have to ask.

  Her smile gets wider. “He was a guy. Some days, I wanted to kill him. All the other days—he was perfect for me. You want him back; you go get him.”

  I tell her about the meet-and-greet with Em. About Roger, and Em’s claims that Finn is the father.

  “Did he say he was?”

  “He didn’t say he wasn’t.”

  “So you need to ask him, face-to-face. Not on the phone. You go there, and you ask him who Em is to him, who Roger is. And then you ask him who you are—and if he doesn’t say she’s his past and you’re his future? You kick him in the balls, and you go, niña.”