by Liz Crowe
And then, seemingly as quickly as he had appeared as Prince Charming, Scott Miller revealed his true colors—those of selfish dickhead. Her sister exploded back into her life, into their childhood home, and Alicia had been made unofficial, near full-time babysitter for the five-year-old Zach while Mel blew off steam, partying every night then showing up pregnant, with a supposedly forgiven Scott in tow.
The second breakup was worse, especially after Mel screamed at Scott in front of Zach that Tanner was not his child and that she had no idea who Tanner’s father was, but that a mystery, one-time fuck would make a better father than Scott ever would. He left for good, trailing a cloud of debt behind him.
Because of him, all men were good for one thing, one time, and nothing more to her sister. And now, Metin Sevim, the handsome, successful foreign athlete had proven to type, knocking Alicia up and retreating to Spain.
“You know I made him leave, right? He didn’t just go. He wanted to stay, to work with me, help me train. And….”
“Stop defending him. I get it. He’s fabulous. Whatever. But now you are pregnant and do not need to be. You can’t be. Not and finish what you started in first grade. Do not let him convince you otherwise, Alicia. I mean it.”
A rush of fury made her headache worse. She struggled to keep angry words unspoken. “You don’t have to sound so fucking happy about it.” She wished it back into her mouth the second she said it.
Her sister’s laugh was loud, and brittle. “If you honestly think I’m happy about this, you are more selfish than I give you credit for. Damn. Alicia, I’m trying to help you here.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
“You deserve better. Better than some two-bit, Eurotrash playboy.”
“He’s not… never mind. You won’t be satisfied until we’re both sitting around our parents’ house, old and covered with cats, bitching about how we got screwed over by men.”
“Fuck you, Alicia. Stay there. Get the abortion and get caught doing it if you must, but get the goddamned abortion.”
She stared at the phone, dead silent in her hand, the ugly word her sister had used twice in one sentence clanging in her brain. She hit redial, determined to finish this, not hide and pretend they never said harsh things to each other.
Metin’s description of his family’s loud, epic arguments and sometimes-physical fights between brothers ghosted through her memory. We fought. A lot. But we also talked. A lot. About everything. I loved both sides of it. It made for healthy relationships, I think. Honesty above all else.
She closed her eyes and listened to the ring, willing her stupid, stubborn, beautiful, miserable sister to answer it which she didn’t, of course. Calling her coach next, she concocted a sob story about a sick father and a harried sister with her two kids and no husband, who needed her home “just for a week.” He agreed, reluctantly, telling her that she missed a paycheck when she missed a game. Alicia sat, running her feet across a soccer ball, as the day broke on the West Coast, wanting more than anything to call Metin and tell him. So he could come and save her from herself.
Chapter Eleven
“Metin!”
He cringed at Graciella’s screech.
“Lover boy, I’ve missed you so!” She gave him a very public hug and kiss in front of the team. “I hope you learned your lesson,” she whispered in his ear, “and that the blonde girl is gone.” She smiled and turned, taking him with her in a practiced move, as she waved for the cameras.
Metin yanked his hand out of what felt like a gripping claw. She took her sunglasses off slowly and dramatically for the benefit of the watching crowd, all poised and ready for a scene.
“Graciella, we are through,” he said softly, in English. She frowned. The photogs nearest the couple murmured, translating it for each other. “You and Juan should admit that you were using me as a front. Go to him.” He took her hand, kissed it, and touched her cheek.
She glared at him, stunned as her dreams of being the glamorous wife of an international soccer star with her photographer as a side bonus boyfriend gurgled down the drain. Walking off the pitch, he ignored everyone and everything.
Tugging his phone out of the locker, he sat, allowing about a half second to chicken out before hitting Melanie’s number.
“Hello,” she said. Not a question but a statement.
“Where is she?” he demanded not bothering with any preamble since she hadn’t. “Something is wrong with her, and I know it. I’ve felt it for the last two weeks. Talk to me, Melanie, or my next call is to your father.”
He let the deadly silence run its course, clenching his jaw, his temples pounding with stress.
“She is here right now, Metin. Resting. She…it’s none of your business.”
“What is your problem anyway? Why are you so set on making her miserable by convincing her I’m no good? I am not him, Melanie. I’m not Scott.”
“You’re a man. You were here, and nearly ruined my sister’s career with your stupid, show-off dinner date. Now you’re gone. Remember?”
He winced. “She was hardly ruined. And if I recall correctly¸ she had the opportunity to try the L.A. team again because of it, but her stubborn Matthews-female gene kicked in and she refused it like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Jesus, you guys are impossible.”
“Really. Then why are you calling us?”
“Because, you crazy bitch. I love your sister. I’m sorry that pisses you off. I’m sorry no one loves you and that your life sucks, but I will be goddamned if you ruin this for me or for her.”
He began to pace, determined to get to the bottom of the strange feelings of dread he’d had for nearly two weeks. Instead of fading, Alicia’s memory had gotten brighter, sharper, until the moment a few nights ago when he’d sat straight up in bed from a dead sleep, calling her name, sensing something was truly wrong with her. “Put her on the fucking phone. Now,” he ground out.
“She’s not here.”
“Why did you tell me she was then?”
“Because she was. Last week. When she had an abortion and I took care of her afterward.”
A buzzing started in one ear, grew louder, so loud he had to put a hand over his other ear, trying to block it. When he realized it was coming from his own head he sat down hard, short of breath, eyes burning with furious tears. “Goddamn you. Both of you.”
He hung up, hand over his eyes. Then threw his phone so hard it shattered against the locker room wall. When that wasn’t enough to quell the rage building in his chest, he punched his locker door until his knuckles were raw and bleeding and the team sent in the trainer to calm him down.
But he shoved the guy aside, grabbed his keys from his bag, jumped in his car and pointed it toward the airport.
Later that same morning, Alicia rubbed her eyes and sat up, confused and disoriented. Her heart pounded, and the nausea rose right on schedule. Her nephews hollered at each other across the hall, but she couldn’t make out their words. Stretching, she allowed one split second of peace until she couldn’t ignore the urge to puke another minute.
Still clinging to the toilet seat when Mel’s slipper-clad feet appeared, she dropped onto her butt and leaned against the tub, moaning and miserable. Mel flushed the toilet, handed her a wet cloth to wipe her mouth, then bent at the knees so they were on eye level. Alicia tried to focus, but tears blocked her vision.
“Honey.” Mel rubbed her shoulder. “C’mon downstairs. I couldn’t get you into the clinic until Thursday. Sorry. You’ll need to tell the coach you have to stay another week.”
“I don’t care anymore.” She stared up at the ceiling. Because she truly did not. Until she got home she hadn’t realized how much she hated her life in Portland, how taking the shit team assignment simply to prove something to Metin was the dumbest thing she’d ever done in the name of stubbornness.
“Don’t be silly. Of course you do. We’ll get this all taken care of, and you’ll be back on your way to soccer stardom.”
; Her knee-jerk temper flared, made worse by the stew of hormones bubbling in her bloodstream. “Soccer stardom, my ass. There is no such thing. Not for women. Jesus. Screw it. I’m gonna get a job and stay here where I belong.”
Mel’s face remained impassive as she held out a hand. “Up you go. Let’s try and eat something.”
“Leave me alone.” She curled into a ball on the floor, willing her sister gone, willing Metin there. “I hate you.” But she really only hated herself for being so unbelievably stupid.
Mel heaved a sigh and left the room. Alicia climbed into the shower. Their father was due home that afternoon from an international trip and she had to rally, to put on a not-sick-as-a-pregnant-dog face for the poor man.
She flopped around the house, ignoring everyone, sunk deep into her self-pity until Trevor Matthews showed up. She flew into his arms and didn’t cry or puke, a first for her lately. He kissed her cheek, accepted the hugs from his grandsons then tugged his tie lose. Alicia and Mel sat, as the familiar gestures of the one man they loved and trusted centered her, reminding her that maybe things would be all right after all.
The boys chattered away about school, soccer teams, and various nonsense things she barely heard. Zach had been toeing the line in a serious way since his mother made him do eighty percent of the household chores, including mowing the giant lawn twice a week. Plus he had to volunteer at a homeless soup kitchen three times a week as part of his underage pot possession punishment. He seemed calmer, without a doubt.
The boys showed their grandfather test scores, YouTube videos, clamoring for his attention. At one point, he closed his eyes.
“Boys, give Pops some space. He’s had a long trip,” Mel insisted, shooing them away.
“Did you bring us some Chinese stuff?” Tanner bounced around in his always-upbeat way while Zach dropped onto a couch, fiddling with his phone and acting like he didn’t care.
“Check my suitcase.” Trevor put a hand on his younger grandson’s shoulder. “I missed you guys.”
“Woo hoo!” Tanner bounded over to the case and unzipped it. A surge of nausea forced Alicia to her feet. Mel covered for her, distracting their father, whose sharp eyes missed very little. She sat in the first floor guest bath trying not to groan too loudly as the sounds of laughter came from the front room. Surrounded by the people who loved her, she’d never felt more alone.
By Thursday, the nausea had progressed from a few hours a day to pretty much around the clock. She stayed in her room, alternating between puking, sobbing, and cursing for two days, hiding from her father. The increased dizziness and mind-numbing exhaustion only served to make the whole thing more real. She would catch herself with her hand on her stomach, half asleep between bouts of throwing up, muttering Metin’s name and dreaming about the small cluster of cells slowly forming itself into a child, his child, their child.
The morning of the procedure, she sat on the side of the bed, willing herself to her feet and wondering if she possessed the stamina to do this thing today. After dragging herself in to the shower, rallying the energy to rub soap over her skin, rinse, and climb out, she pulled on the first set of clothing she found.
“Let’s go,” Mel hollered up the steps. “Time to get this over with.”
Alicia winced. The room faded and she sat until it righted itself and the dizzy spell passed. A tear dropped to the hardwood floor. She was so tired of herself at that moment. Tired of being sick, of wanting what she couldn’t have, of feeling like a useless, love-addled, knocked up loser. Why not have the baby? She could live here, with her sister and father…with her child. For that matter, why not call Metin and tell him?
She stared in the mirror. The vision that greeted her eyes—hair in a messy ponytail, eyes red and puffy, skin with a green tinge to it that would be funny under other circumstances—infuriated her. She put a hand on her stomach, as words to the effect of “I can’t do this” bubbled up to her lips.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. Since arriving in Michigan, she’d left it off, communicating with her coach via email. She’d forgotten she even had the damn thing or that she’d turned it on the night before, clutching it tight with the effort of not calling Metin.
The long string of strange numbers for the incoming call confused her for a half second. It vibrated in her hand like a live thing. Metin. He knew. Somehow she felt it, sensed him, heard his heartbeat against her ear as if he were right in the room with her.
“Metin,” she whispered, hitting the ignore call button before setting the phone on the bed and heading downstairs.
She accepted a glass of water from Mel and sat, quiet, taking in the familiar contours of the kitchen. “Do you still miss her?” She blurted out as her sister bustled around, doing busy work to avoid conversation.
“Of course.” Mel started the dishwasher and wiped down the already-clean countertops.
“I hardly remember her,” Alicia said, holding onto the water glass.
“You hardly knew her,” Mel replied, matter-of-factly. It wasn’t the first time her sister reminded her how much more time Mel had with the woman Alicia truly did barely remember. Cathy Matthews died within six months of being diagnosed with cancer when Alicia was seven and Mel sixteen. It had not been pretty, and the way their strong, in-charge father lost it, once, in front of them, had been the most terrifying thing Alicia ever experienced.
“C’mon, sweetie. Let’s go.” Typical Melanie—take charge, no extraneous chatter, moving forward and not back.
Alicia followed her out, the nausea ever-present, dread, and a lick of fear joining the roiling emotions in her gut. Before climbing into the passenger’s seat, she stopped. “Mel, I don’t want to.”
Her sister glared at her across the top of the car. “Don’t be stupid. You have to. You have a job, remember? One that pays you to play soccer. That does not mesh with being pregnant. Get in.”
The clinic was an annoyingly cheerful and upbeat place. Alicia hated it and everyone in it from the moment she walked in. The receptionist chirped her instructions from behind the tastefully decorated desk. Alicia’s overwrought brain noted the lack of the usual waiting room magazines, since most would have pictures of, you know, babies, in them. There were fresh flowers on the three tables, their perfume instantly raising the gorge in her throat. She closed her eyes. Counted to ten. And it passed.
She filled out the forms, stood, and then sat back down, frozen and terrified.
“Here, give it to me.” Mel took it the clipboard to the counter, handing it over to the beaming receptionist.
What is it with these people and their fucking smiling? Nothing happy happens here. Alicia stared down at the hotel-grade carpet, trying hard not to leap up and run out. Mel whispered something to the woman, who glanced over at Alicia. Within a few minutes they called her name, leapfrogging her over the four other unhappy-looking, knocked-up females sitting in the comfy chairs.
Mel gave her an encouraging smile. “I’ll be there for you in recovery.” She squeezed Alicia’s hand, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s for the best, honey. Please. You know it is. Be strong. You have always been the strong one. Prove it.”
With a nod, Alicia dragged her feet the few steps between her and the beaming nurse at the door.
“Follow me,” the nurse said, shutting the door between them and the waiting room with a firm click.
Alicia fumbled her way through a short, rote, government-required therapy session that included a graphic visual of what was going to happen in the next few minutes. Gulping back vomit, she agreed to everything, signed her name, and got to her feet once more. Her ears hummed and her heart pounded in a way she recognized but refused to accept. She must be projecting, wishing for him so hard, she thought he might be close, right now.
Stupid. He’s in Spain and has no idea about this and likely could care less.
Concentrating on the back of the woman’s head, she took steps, then a few more, and arrived at the room, the surgery. Gripping the door
frame, she shook her head at the sight of the bed, the instruments, gagging on the rubbery smells.
Someone put a calming hand on her arm. “Alicia. Are you okay?”
“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” she ground out. “I don’t want to… I mean… I have to….”
“Let’s go in. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need your help. Just give me the gown.” Her voice sounded harsh in her ears. She let anger fuel her before abject terror took over. The woman handed her the folded cotton and a square of blue paper. Getting out of her sweats, she tried to tie the gown on with hands that shook so badly she gave up after a few attempts.
She sat, then swung her feet around and lay down, staring up at the ceiling, tears flowing nonstop, the sobs breaking free from her lips. With a hand clapped over her mouth, she rolled onto her side, curling into a ball, sniffling and hiccupping.
A sudden outburst of noise hit her ears. The calm, cushy clinical atmosphere shattered, the sounds of people yelling, footsteps running, and a deep masculine voice rumbled past her closed door.
Great. They’re probably being attacked by crazed protesters. Perfect. I can’t even get this done right. Exhaustion covered her brain with its now familiar fuzzy blanket. Her eyes drooped as the sounds increased outside the door. Mel’s voice broke through the melee. “You can’t do this, goddamn you. You have no right to….”
Alicia sat up so fast the room swam, nearly fading all the way to black at the low, sing-songy sound of the next voice.
“Metin,” she whispered. Then yelled, “Metin! In here!” She tried to stand, clutching the trailing ends of the hospital gown together to cover herself. The door crashed open, banging into a shelf, sending boxes of latex gloves and other paper products to the floor.
He materialized, in all his glory, chest heaving, eyes dark with anger. The fork in the road appeared in Alicia’s mind again, as it had at the party where they first met, then again on the field where they’d played, and at that perfect dinner. She took a step toward him.
