by Vivien Vale
My efforts are ended in vain, because Maggie speaks up for him. “He’s five years old,” she jeers. “That’s something I guess you would already know if you took any effort in his life.”
“Maggie,” I begin and point a lecturing finger at her. “How the hell…” I trail off, sheepishly remembering that the kid is in the room before starting my argument over. “How in the world would I know about him if you never told me?”
Maggie rolls her eyes and breathes out a frustrated puff of air. “I’ve tried to contact you.”
“Uh…that’s news to me,” I retort, dripping with sarcasm.
“I found out I was pregnant with him shortly after we broke up.” Maggie’s tone softens as she glances at her offspring with a nostalgia that I can’t relate to.
Suddenly, I remember something that I can use as an ace up my sleeve. Maggie is bluffing, and I can prove it.
“Is there any way that we can speak privately?” I lean in and whisper in her ear.
“No.” Maggie shakes her head with antagonism. “He’s not leaving my side.”
“Fine,” I say and shift my weight. I already have enough to argue about with Maggie, I don’t need to add more things to the already leaning tower.
“I don’t think he’s my kid,” I tell her and cross my arms insolently.
Maggie laughs like a shrieking hound dog, then glances from her son and then directly back to me. “Are you kidding? He looks exactly like you, spitting image.”
I scrutinize the boy’s features for a minute or two, then shake my head. “I’m unconvinced, Maggie. First of all, you were on birth control pills when we broke up.”
“I stopped taking them,” Maggie blurts out as if she’s pulling the most outlandish excuses out of a hat.
“I know that’s not true,” I say and give her a knowing look. “You were always adamant you didn’t want kids and took the pill religiously. Remember? You always talked about how you weren’t ready for a family yet because you were diligently trying to pursue your modeling career?”
I raise an eyebrow and stare at Maggie, daring her to argue my exceedingly valid set of points. She’s not going to derail me to a plummet of burning flames just yet.
“Well, I…” Maggie grasps for straws, stuttering and falling over words.
“Then,” I remind her and point my finger in her direction, wagging it while another memory in my favor comes to me. “Then you left me. Do you remember that part, Maggie?” I slice through her confidence like it’s day-old bread.
“We grew apart,” Maggie counters with another sizable portion of pure bullshit.
I erupt into laughter like a wailing hyena. The boy stares at me with perplexity, and Maggie covers his ears.
“Maggie, you sound ridiculous right now. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“I’m not,” Maggie protests defensively.
“You left me for a celebrity and shattered my heart into a million pieces that I’m still trying to pick up to this day,” I confess and then immediately regret it.
Shit, I wish I could take that one back. I just admitted to a vulnerability that’s been absent ever since Rose came into my life, but is now coming screaming back, thanks to Maggie stirring up settled dust.
I glance at the floor, afraid to make eye contact with her. We’re silent for a few pauses while we both digest that information.
Then another issue dawns on me.
It was around the exact same time that Maggie left me that I started becoming aloof. That the condom issue surfaced.
This new realization rears its ugly head, but I have no choice but to cling onto control of the situation.
Maggie is staring down at her little boy, who also says nothing.
“Maggie.” My voice slices the air and startles all of us. “There’s only one surefire way to determine whether he is my son or not.” I point to the kid who’s shuffling his feet and glancing at the ground, looking uncomfortable.
“Oh yeah?” Maggie sneers. If we were in middle school I’m sure she’d be sticking her tongue out at me, because that’s how immaturely she’s behaving right now.
“Yeah.” I nod my head adamantly, ready to throw her kryptonite in her face. “Get a DNA test,” I demand of my ex.
“We don’t need a DNA test,” Maggie retorts. “He’s your son. I wasn’t with anyone else at the time―and besides, he looks just like you.”
Maggie appears smitten with her argument, thinking that I’ll just throw in the towel and grovel for forgiveness at her feet.
She probably expects me to cut her a fat check on her way out soon. Well, unfortunately for Maggie, she has sadly underestimated me.
“Maggie.” I try to enlist reasonable compromise into her brain. “I want the DNA test.”
“What, you’re a scientist now?” Maggie laughs, degrading me, which is apparently one of her favorite hobbies. “The truth will come out,” she adds, a quality of darkness moving across her features.
There’s a part of me that really prays this kid isn’t mine. I feel like I’ve been hit with an enormous life hurdle that I’m going to have to jump across in order to come out stronger on the other side.
I’m ready to build a family with Rose, and Maggie is certainly throwing an unwanted wrench in those plans.
Determined not to derail from what’s supremely important to me, I continue to forcefully persuade Maggie on the DNA testing idea.
I try to look at the bright side. Even if this little boy staring up at me with huge, confused saucer eyes—I think that even if it’s determined that he is my son after all—at least I’ll know that there’s a way to potentially conquer my coming problem.
Believe me, nobody wants a solution to my psychological issues more than I do. Well, maybe Rose is high up there on the list, too…but I need to have hope that I can father more children when the need presents itself.
Finally, I get Maggie to conform to the DNA testing. She’s hell-bent on making sure she keeps a tight grip on me in the meantime, and she’s proving to not go down without a fight.
“Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a sullen-child-type of look. “We can get the DNA test.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask with annoyance because I’m not a fucking idiot. I know that Maggie will want a favor in return.
“I’m going to stay here with you at your penthouse,” she says firmly, as if there is no reason for me to debate with her.
“That’s an absurd demand, Maggie,” I growl.
Maggie shrugs, as if my comfort is the least of her worries. I hate the idea of sharing a living space with Maggie again, but what if Darren really is my son?
“Take it or leave it,” she says.
I don’t want to scream and fight with her until I’m blue in the face. I want to leave a favorable impression on the poor kid.
I shake my head, and my knees involuntarily buckle under me. Good thing the couch is nearby, and I collapse into a heap on top of it, trying to get my head on straight.
I place my head in my hands and rub my throbbing temples. I have no choice but to agree to Maggie’s demands.
“Okay.” I nod, appeasing her as she looks at me with a smug smile. “You can stay,” I tell her, “But only until the results come through.”
I decide that I’ll place the confrontation with Rose on the back burner. It’s only fair―she doesn’t need to be involved in the never-ending drama unfolding in my life. Once everything is clear and out in the open, we can hopefully resume right where we left off.
Chapter 39
Rose
I guess taxi drivers are used to seeing people cry in the backseat.
If I had decided on an Uber Pool instead, or if I decided to hoof it all the way down to my apartment, I may have had to deal with concerned looks, or people uncomfortably trying to not look at me at all.
Instead, the seasoned pro of a cabbie has no discernable reaction to my puffy, red eyes or my tear-strewn cheeks when I climbed in.
Even though I’m barely able to verbalize my address through the sobs, he repeats it back perfectly before calmly starting the drive down to the Battery Park City area.
The streets are quiet downtown. There’s no traffic, apart from the few other taxis bobbing and weaving between lanes.
The weather’s warm, but the sidewalks are empty.
I look at myself in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize the miserable, weeping face I see. My occasional sniffles sound like they’re coming from someone else.
The numbness is back, but I can’t stop the tears from coming out.
“There are tissues,” the driver points out helpfully.
I look down and see the small tissue box just in front of the back seat. I grab one, and a second one, and begin the task of wiping the accumulated tears from my face.
“Th-thank...” I blow my nose. “Thank you.”
I have tissues in my purse, too, but I’m not even thinking like that.
Like someone who’s crying.
But I am. I’m still in shock, knowing that it’s going to hit me, but not ready for the pain and the reality to strike me yet.
My tears are way ahead of me, though. I was crying while I was on my way out of Daniel’s penthouse, and I’ll be crying when it does hit me―probably after I get home.
Then, there’ll be even more crying.
That bastard.
I’ve always wanted to live with the attitude that nobody can bother you unless you let them.
And it’s always easier said than fucking done.
We merge onto the West Side Highway. I see all the luxury yachts sailing in the Hudson, all the upscale condo high-rises being built in Jersey City, of all places.
And all the hotels.
Even if I could perfectly adopt that attitude now, to just not let Daniel get to me one second longer, then...
No, that’s not an option. Not if I could be pregnant.
And I couldn’t do that not ‘not letting him bother me’ shit anyway. Does that ever fucking work?
It must.
It really should, anyway.
Maybe it can work. For me.
I open my purse and find a fresh pack of tissues. I start clearing the next batch of tears.
I’m breathing a little clearer, and I don’t hear myself sobbing any longer, but there are some fresh tears making it difficult to see clearly.
After I clear the tears away, I see that we’re passing Stuyvesant High School and the Borough of Manhattan Community College.
A public high school and a community college, and they’re still two of the best schools in the entire region.
Anyone lucky enough to grow up around here, or to raise kids here, has some great options.
I look at my stomach. It looks the same as always.
Not that it would look any different at some point in the pregnancy, but...
I pat my abdomen lightly a couple times. I don’t think I feel anything different.
Do I?
The driver’s used to seeing people cry, but I wonder what he’ll think if he happens to look in the rearview now.
The numbness fades, making way for a strange, giddy kind of confusion. I put my hand over my eyes and feel fresh tears still forming.
This is not the time to try and convince myself that I’m pregnant.
But if I am, somehow, then cutting Da―that bastard out of my life becomes much more problematic.
Both of my hands are clenching into fists.
No more numbness, not much more confusion―it’s mostly just outrage.
I can’t even get myself to think his full first name.
The taxi winds through the quiet blocks of my neighborhood too quickly and screeches to a halt perfectly at my front door.
Dammit, now the shaking’s starting again.
I steady myself as best as I can and carefully fetch a few bills from my wallet. I can’t even fucking count them right now.
The driver smiles when I hand over the fare. It must be enough.
Shaking and weeping, I propel myself inside, past the doorman and concierge, to the elevator and to my sofa—no, my bed, all through sheer force of will.
I’m not taking this well, but that’s right now. I allow myself to let lose in a way I couldn’t in the taxi, or the lobby. I need to get it all out now so I’m ready to deal with this rationally soon.
I sob into my duvet cover until I’m worn out on every level of my being.
I feel like I just had an intense workout, but without the spirit-lifting endorphins or sense of accomplishment. Fortunately, the worst of my physical reaction to the ridiculous, horrible revelation is over.
I turn over to lie comfortably on my back, looking up at my plain, white ceiling.
“Maybe it’s time to paint this room,” I say in a collected, tranquil voice.
Now is probably the time to think of something, anything positive that I can find in this shitstorm.
At least I found out about it tonight, right? This could’ve gone on much longer.
But what did I find out, exactly? I have some ideas, but now that I’m no longer a bawling mess, I should use my brain to solidify the obvious.
I zombie-walk to the bathroom to wash my face. I keep my eyes on the sink to avoid seeing the current state of my makeup in the mirror.
I scrub hard with foaming face cleanser and hot water, washing off the layers of deceit.
Without looking in the mirror, I pull out my makeup removal basket—yes, that’s what I call it—from under the sink and methodically cleanse my face of mascara and foundation.
One more wash, and I look in the mirror to see a red but clean face. I like the look of it—that’s another positive to come from tonight.
An heir.
That’s what it’s all about to him.
An heir for the fucking hotel magnate.
How I feel doesn’t factor into it, except for how he wants me to feel as means to an end.
It could be the way things work―or the way things are often done in that world, at that towering level of that industry.
That’s not my concern, though, because that’s the way that Daniel is doing things, and it’s selfish, disgusting, and downright fucking immoral no matter what.
I pull a washcloth from under the sink and dry my face, starting to breathe a little faster.
I take another look my reflection. A deepening shade of red is taking over my face.
How long could this have gone on for?
It’s like he didn’t miss a beat when we walked in to find that woman.
And his son.
He just kept looking at me. So weirdly calm.
I shout out some angry, nonsense syllable and throw the washcloth across the room. It falls harmlessly to the floor. I’m glad I wasn’t holding something breakable.
I don’t know. I likely won’t be in a state to figure out every part of the situation for some time.
I let out a small burp.
No more champagne—not until I’m sure I’m not pregnant.
Damn it, if I am, then...
Then, I’m pregnant. Daniel needn’t have a damn thing to do with it.
I retrieve the washcloth from the floor. It’s still close enough for me to just lean over and pick it up.
I’m feeling calm as I put the washcloth over to my clothes hamper, but when I toss it in, I notice that I’m still wearing my purse.
I get a peculiar pang of nausea, and I look down at my stomach again. I pat it a couple times.
Then I break down weeping again.
I rip my purse off my arm, let loose another angry yelp and throw the Fendi bag to the other side of the room with gusto.
The bag hits the far wall and drops peacefully to the floor without a single item tumbling out.
I acknowledge my luck with a quick nod.
“Okay, no more angry throwing.”
The tears only last another minute or so, but I know I won’t be falling asleep easily tonight.
<
br /> Almost without thinking, I walk into the kitchen, open a drawer and pull out a stack of Post-It notes and a ballpoint pen.
I sit down at the table, ready to write something.
I stare at the yellow notepad for a long, uncomfortable stretch of time before finally scribbling something down.
Daniel doesn’t need to know.
Okay, what does that mean?
After staring at it for a bit, I realize that it means that even if I am pregnant, Daniel does not need to know about it.
He has an heir already. That kid—Darren.
“Okay.”
Now that I’ve decided, I doubt I’ll forget. I crumple up the note and throw it in with the paper recycling.
I go to bed and try to fall asleep.
Chapter 40
Daniel
You can’t escape it.
You get to a certain point where you think, At least I have my own place, a place that I’ve been working hard for pretty much my entire life. At least I could have a penthouse for myself.
But nope.
There’s no escaping certain things.
That’s a lesson I’m learning now, and I’m trying my best to do what’s right—like sleep on the leather lounge chair so Maggie and Darren can have my bedroom.
The kid is only five years old. I have to be as accommodating as I can.
And he might really be my son.
It’s Saturday morning, a good time for sleeping in, for catching up on the shuteye that I may have missed during the week.
Instead, at five-thirty in the morning, I’m awoken by the jarring sensation of a bright green Nerf football smacking me in my face. Yes, I think the fact that the football is colored bright green makes it hurt even more.
I’m even getting used to it. Seriously, a Nerf football is one of this kid’s favorite toys.
Maybe he just likes hitting me with it, even though he acts oblivious―or, in some cases, convincingly contrite.
And now I’m still lying here, hours after my initial Nerf wakeup call, trying in vain to get maybe just a few more minutes of sleep—only there’s a relentless sound that I know will make it impossible.
The sound that keeps me awake so often these days can’t be described as a pitter patter of little feet that I may be able to actually sleep through, especially with these uncomfortable foam earplugs I picked up at the drug store. Without seeing what’s making this sound, I would think it could only be produced by Andre the Giant wearing tap shoes, tearing back and forth across my floor.
