by Kim Bailey
“I worked at it,” he says. “It’s easy now, but it wasn’t always. It took a lot of time and effort. But some things are worth the effort—some things give you a rush, even when you’re going slow and steady.”
I can’t tell if the heat crawling up my face is from his familiar words, or from the evocative way he’s looking at me.
“I need to get ready,” Chante says. “Zadie, you’re obviously fine. Why don’t the two of you go hang out like the degenerates that you are? Some of us have to work.”
Smiling slyly, Caleb raises that damn cute eyebrow at me. “What do you say, Zadie? Want to go hang out? Could be fun.”
Yes, it could be. I imagine hanging out with him in the park. Me bundled in a sweater. Him dominating a sketchy looking board on four wheels. He’d make it look effortless. I’d watch from the sidelines, appreciating the graceful way his body moves. Maybe with some more coaxing he’d convince me to give it a try, giving us an excuse to touch each other again.
The look in his eyes hints that his fantasy’s not far from mine, but fun isn’t exactly in the cards for us right now. Not with the rage still in my system, and the goose-egg forming on my skull.
“I can’t,” I dismiss, my head now throbbing. “Chante, can I talk to you a minute?”
“If you don’t mind talking through the shower curtain. I’m running late.”
Walking ahead of her, I don’t dare glance at Caleb—I don’t want to see his reaction to my brush off. The bitchy part of me kind of hopes he’s disappointed. The other part of me—the part that wants to feel his body next to mine again—can’t manage the guilt.
Chante whispers something to him before following me to her room. I don’t know what it’s about, and at this point, I don’t know if I should care. All I want is to step back in time to ten minutes ago. Back to the feeling of joyful exuberance.
“So?” Chante demands. Closing her bedroom door, she casually starts stripping. She leaves a trail of clothing, like breadcrumbs, as she walks to her bathroom.
“So?” I ask, diverting my eyes to the floor. She may be fine with her nudity but it still makes me feel a little uncomfortable.
“Babe, you’re the one that wanted to talk. So, talk.”
“It’s nothing. Well, not true—it’s actually everything.” There’s no response from behind the shower curtain, just the lull of the rushing water. “I got my test results back. They’re clear.”
“That’s good news.” Her reply is clipped, almost annoyed sounding. Chante’s not the fuzziest girl I’ve ever known, but even for her, this is a bit cold.
“I was worried. I mean, I’m still worried, but now it’s just about the other stuff.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Zadie. When will you stop with the hiding and the avoidance?”
“What?”
The water shuts off, and the curtain whips open. Chante stands in all her natural glory, glaring at me with a hand on her hip. “You.” She points at me. “Need to start acting like a responsible adult. You’re going to be a mother, after all. Call Sean, tell him about the baby, you’ll feel better. Then, quit stringing Caleb along, tell him the truth about the baby, about how you feel. He’ll accept it, trust me. This is real life, Zadie, not an episode of 16 and Pregnant.”
“Can you put on some clothes, please,” I ask, handing her the robe hanging from the door hook.
Ignoring the offered garment, she steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the bar and walks past me to her room. “I’ve got to go, I don’t have time for this.”
“Why are you so mad at me? I plan on calling Sean. I just need to work up to it—he’s not exactly my favorite person.”
“Well, you seemed to have no problem with him when you were fucking him.” Her angry words are punctuated by the forceful way she closes the dresser drawer. “There’s no doubt you were screwing him, right? That is how babies are made after all.”
Chante and I have fought over everything. From dull shit, like is the paint on the wall eggshell or cream. To the most existential of arguments, like is Degrassi The Next Generation better than the original. Never, in all our bickering has she spoken to me this way. Even with her blunt, tell-it-how-it-is attitude, she’s never been so harshly cruel.
Heat radiates from my cheeks, the wound on my head now throbbing in time to my accelerated heartbeat. My tears—no longer happy—threaten to overflow.
“Fuck, and now the tears,” she condemns. “Listen, I love you, but I can’t handle your insecurity. You know what you want—why are you letting this irrational fear hold you back? Just dive in. You know how to swim, and you know I’ll be holding the life jacket, just in case.”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“I know babe. I know. I’m scared too. Every single day. Every time I walk into the emergency room I’m scared someone’s going to figure out I don’t belong there. Or that a patient’s case is going to be too complicated and I’ll lose someone. Or...” Her chest is heaving, her eyes glassy. “Never mind. I’m sorry—I’m totally projecting. This is about you, not me. You’ll be fine. I’m here for you. Other people want to be here for you too, but you have to let them. You can’t stay closed off forever.”
I want to believe her, I want to believe she’s right. I know she believes it, and yet it does absolutely nothing to dampen the doubt that I’m plagued with. I’m not sure I can trust my best friend. I know Sean’s not reliable. Not to mention, the real rejection I’ve already received from Caleb. Protecting myself is the only option.
“I’ve really got to go. Please, just think about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I tell her, as she’s walking away.
Before I’m able to collect my thoughts, or put one foot in front of the other, she’s out the apartment door. She’s gone.
Now, I realize how far apart we’ve fallen. So far apart, she doesn’t even know I’ve already told Caleb about the baby.
***
Caleb
I’VE BARELY FINISHED PUTTING the living room furniture back in place when Chante goes flying by me. She doesn’t say goodbye, just slams the door on her way out.
Something’s off with her, and she’s not doing a very good job of hiding it. She’s been a tornado of emotion for days now. Those of us in her path get tossed in whatever upheaval she’s experiencing. This time it’s Zadie taking the hit. I couldn’t hear what was being said but the tone was clear, even through the closed bedroom door.
Now the door hangs open and Zadie’s on the other side, standing motionless with her back to me. At least she’s still standing—Chante didn’t completely obliterate her.
Other than the slight rise and fall of her shoulders, she still hasn’t moved.
“Zadie?” I call, making my way toward her.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey, are you alright?” I try again, bravely stepping closer.
She still doesn’t react, her small frame like a statue.
“Zadie?” I whisper, feeling like an intruder. I get as close as I dare, close enough to reach out and touch her on the shoulder.
Finally, she turns to me, letting out a desperate sounding sob. Her face is streaked with tears, her nose red from crying. I can’t stand seeing her like this. She’s so good at hiding her hurts and her fears. Even though I know she’s got them, it’s painful to see the evidence.
Tightening my hold on her shoulder, I pull her, unwillingly, toward me. “Ah, Zadie. Come here. I’m sorry,” I tell her as I soothe my hand over her back.
Pushing me away, she scowls up at me while wiping her face. “You should be fucking sorry. I’m so mad at you.” Her words sound more hurt than angry. This girl—this woman—she’s not going to take crap from me, or anyone else. She is bravery in the flesh and she’s impossible for me to resist.
How the hell could she ever expect me to be just her friend?
“You should be,” I agree. “I’m angry at myself. I’ve made everything between us difficult, and I
totally ruined our first date.”
“Our first date?” Her eyes widen. “You say that like you think there’s going to be more. I told you I’m pregnant, Cal... I’m pregnant.”
The pulse in her neck beats visibly. I want to run my tongue over it. Suck on it. See just how fast I can make her heart race. If she calls me Cal one more time, I may not be able to control myself.
“Are you getting back together with Sean?” I challenge.
Jolting back a step, like I struck her, she folds her arms over her middle. The look she gives me is shocked distress. “What?” she gasps. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I don’t know—you’re having his kid, aren’t you? It didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. I figured you’d at least consider it since you’ve taken him back before.”
Narrowing her eyes, she steps back toward me, pointing her finger into my chest. “You think I’m that weak? You think I can’t do this on my own?”
“Of course not. I think you’re incredibly strong and exceedingly capable. I know you can make it on your own, but you shouldn’t have to.”
Tears start flowing down her face again. Her pointed finger curls into a tight fist, my shirt captured in it.
“I don’t know if I can,” she admits, her voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t feel very strong. Crying’s the only thing I seem capable of.” Choking down a sob, a look of pure anguish takes over her features. She looks so broken.
Still, so fucking beautiful.
Without thought, I embrace her. My arms curl lightly around her shoulders, my hands cupping her head to my chest. I hold her there, gently.
I half expect her to reject me again, to push me away or to remind me that being just friends means no hugging, no touching. But she doesn’t. The opposite, in fact. Her body sags into me, her forehead resting on my chest, her hands molding firmly to my sides.
And then she sighs.
I never knew an exhale could be so intricate. So penetrating. So profound. Her breath feathers up and out, lacing around me and pulling me in.
“When I was thirteen,” I tell her softly. “I broke my arm—fractured it in three places—skateboarding, of course. At the time, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt. But I didn’t cry. I sucked up all the pain, held it in tight. Until the doctor examining me picked up on something else. He didn’t say anything, but he had this look on his face and I could tell it was something way worse than a broken arm. I had no idea what might be wrong—had no reason to cry—but I’ve never bawled harder in all my life.”
Shifting her head, she rests her cheek against me, her hands moving up my sides. I continue holding her tenderly.
“What was it?” she whispers.
“Cancer.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, but I halt her words with my own. “Sometimes there’s no choice, Zadie. Sometimes, the strength finds us.”
We stand in silence—her clutching me tightly, me breathing her in deeply. This time, our silence feels truly connected. No more invisible barriers holding us back.
Clearing her throat, she starts to push away, lifting her head from its resting spot. She looks up at me with those big eyes that I can’t resist—eyes so full of uncertainty—and I’m suddenly on fire.
Burning with urgency.
It’s an overwhelming need to fix the part that’s broken. To make things better for her. To give her more. “I think you need to de-stress. Why don’t you let me start you a bath? I’ll light you some candles and help you relax. We can turn up some music—you can just bliss out. What do you say?”
Sniffling a bit, she nods her head. “Yeah, okay. That actually sounds really nice.”
She looks for candles in Chante’s room, while I start the water in my bathroom. Finding the bubble-bath that was there when I moved in, I pour a hefty amount under the running tap. The room fills with steam as the water runs hot. Foam covers the entire surface of the tub. It bubbles up, threatening to spill over the sides, just as Zadie enters with a lit candle.
“Ummmm... I think you may have overdone the bubbles, just a little.” She laughs.
“It’s fine. All the better to relax you with, my dear.” I tease, waggling my eyebrows at her. “Music preference?”
“Something mellow. I trust you to get it right.”
She trusts me.
It may be inconsequential. It’s just music selection, after all. But it feels good to hear her speak those words so effortlessly. So truthfully. Warmth expands, growing inside me. The wall she’s built between us keeps falling—brick by invisible brick.
My phone’s already on the audio dock in my room. Scrolling through my playlists, I smile when I find a song that says it all. I set Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You on repeat and turn up the volume before returning to the bath.
Ignoring the closed door, I walk straight in, bobbing my head to the slow steady beat of the music.
She’s naked from the waist up. Immediately, she jumps to grab her top. She holds it up to cover herself, but not before I have a chance to admire her heavenly breasts. The flickering candle light casts a warm glow over her milky skin.
It’s a quick flash, but both my mind and my body appreciate the unintentional seduction.
“Cal! What are you doing?”
“Helping,” I explain. “I told you I would. Just turn around, I’m not going to look.”
She hesitates briefly but, keeping her shirt held firmly to her breast, does as I ask, turning her bare back to me.
I’m mesmerized by the messy tumble of her dark hair as it shifts against her pale, exposed skin. So much skin. Freckled and supple. Tempting as hell.
I’ve always found women to be enigmatic, dazzling creatures. All women. I never really thought I had a type. But after seeing Zadie’s half-bare body... The way her slim waist is emphasized by the delicious curve of her hips. The swell of her bottom. The thickness of her thighs. Her hands, hiding those luscious fucking globes of perfection. I realize, I most definitely have a type. A very specific type.
Gathering her hair, I move it off her neck. My aim is to pile it high on her head—the way I’ve seen her do it herself—but I get distracted. The graceful curve of her neck beckons to me. It’s so slender, so smooth. With one hand in her hair, and my other moving to her shoulder, I bend down and place a kiss on her nape. She flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.
So I do it again.
I run my lips over her fragrant skin, from her hairline down to where my hand holds her firmly. Her breathing increases, coming out in little panting bursts, leading me to believe she’s as turned on as I am.
Testing my theory, I kiss her again. And then, very slowly, very deliberately, run my tongue up the long line of her neck, all the way to the spot behind her ear.
She tastes like sugar mixed with sweat, and I love it.
When I kiss her ear, adding in a playful bite, she moans.
My theories all prove true.
She wants me. Or, at least she wants this physical contact. I’m at a point where distinguishing between the two is irrelevant—my body’s screaming at me to do something. Do more.
Touch her. Touch yourself. Fuck her. Now, now, now!
My body’s a fucking traitor, so I ignore it.
Grasping her shoulder tighter, I pull her back into me, until our bodies are almost flush. Letting go of her hair, I reach around and pop the button on her pants.
Her inhale is jagged, almost panicked.
“Take off your clothes and get in the tub,” I say softly, in her ear. “I’m going to close my eyes.”
“What?”
“I promise not to look. Get under the bubbles, and let me know when you’re covered.”
I kiss the shell of her ear and then promptly step away from her—my hands protesting their loss. My throbbing erection curses me and every chivalrous thought that ever crossed my mind.
She turns to me, looking expectant. I almost forgot my promise not to watch, immediately after making i
t. The temptation is real.
“I’ll turn around,” I tell her. I say it out loud, otherwise my body might not get the message.
When my back is to her I listen intently for the sound of her clothing being removed. She’s quiet, but there’s a distinct sound of something hitting the floor—most likely her pants. There’s a small splash as she gets into the tub.
I imagine she’s slow and graceful. I imagine she’s glistening and gorgeous.
Fuck, I’m imagining a hell of a lot.
“Okay,” she says, “It’s safe to look.”
Turning toward her, I try not to seem too eager. Slowly, I step close to the tub, stopping when my foot hits the mat on the floor.
“I guess it’s a good thing I put in so many bubbles, eh? If I couldn’t see your beautiful face, I’d wonder if you were actually in there.”
Lies.
I can see a hell of a lot more than just her face—probably too much—but she doesn’t need to know that. I can restrain myself from looking. Mostly.
“Were you planning on getting in here with me?” she asks. Is that a hint of trepidation in her voice, or a touch of lust?
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Especially not for two people who are just friends. Do you?”
Her face heats, making her look young and innocent.
“Besides,” I reassure. “Getting in there would make this about me. That’s not why I’m here. This is about you.”
Crouching down, my knees hitting the bath mat, I keep my eyes on hers as I lean on the lip of the tub.
“I wasn’t sure what you were expecting,” she admits.
“The only thing I want is for you to feel better, nothing more. I’ll do whatever it takes to help that happen. Please tell me this is helping.”
“It’s helping.”
“Maybe you had other expectations?” I ask, getting even closer. Getting even braver.
Leaning over, I dip my hand into the tub.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“I told you, I’m helping,” I say. My smirk feels foreign—arrogant and predatory.
Bracing my hand on the bottom of the tub, I lean in, until my mouth is hot against her ear again. Her breath is now a rapid pant.
