Her Designer Baby: (Loving Over 40 Book 1)

by Washington, Shawna

  “Come home,” he says. “Radiah.”

  There is the heat of something that is almost desperate in his eyes, as though he can see my thoughts. It feels like he knows. He knows that we are standing here together, inches apart, losing each other.

  Home is like a raindrop teetering on the edge of a leaf; a word that hangs there, hopeful between us. He wants me. And I want him. We are home for each other.

  This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I can’t stop myself from letting it show in my face. My lips twist. It’s a contortion of pain.

  “No.” I whisper it. It’s so low the sound of my voice doesn’t rise above the soft hush of the leaves scattering across the path.

  I take a moment. I half close my eyes. I force my voice into being stronger. Firmer. Surer. “I can’t, Alexei. I can’t go with you.” I don’t say it strongly enough. I need to be firm. I need to make this an end. We can’t go on this way. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go with you, Alexei.”

  The steel in his eyes wavers. I want to break it. I want to shatter his eyes the way he is shattering my heart. I can’t look him anymore. It hurts too much. I have to keep reminding myself what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.

  I look to the trees. I want to say it in a way that will make him stop calling, that will make him stop texting and that will make him stop hoping. “I can never go with you. We’re done, Alexei. Whatever we were. Whatever we had. It’s over now.”

  His chest rises. I see the ‘no’ in his eyes. I see the silent protest, the unwillingness to believe this. I see the unwillingness to let me go and I know inside that I don’t want him to let me go. I know inside I want him to keep fighting for me, and I hate myself for it because I know too that there is nothing left to fight for.

  Turning, because I can’t stand looking at him anymore, I run. I run away from him, and I run away from myself. I run down the path until I am at the edge of the park, until I am in the streets and the streets can take the quiet of only us away. The streets can keep me sane, can keep my heart from hurting for us so much that I turn back, that I try to take back anything that is already lost.

  Radiah

  The next day, thankfully, I have plenty of work to keep myself occupied. It’s not enough to keep the door closed on my thoughts—not completely. Every time I have a quiet moment I hear him, or I see him, and myself; I see us together and apart on that path in the dark. I wonder how long it will take me to get over him, to move on, especially now, after what just happened with Emilio.

  What if I never move on from Alexei? What I’ve given him up for some imagined future I’ll never get to experience? Will he haunt me for the rest of the life? Every time I close my eyes will I imagine his touch, his whisper, his eyes?

  Squinting, I push my chair in closer to the desk. The letters are starting to look like little, blurry ants. The words are a jumble of meaningless sounds I try to turn into something real. I read the email again. And again.

  I need to focus. People are depending on me. I don’t want to let them down. I don’t want them to suffer because my own life is a mess. I need to separate work from everything else. But I can’t. And...

  “See you Monday, Radiah!”

  I jump out of my reverie and give a small, apologetic smile to Kelly.

  The pretty blonde flashes me a smile of her own. I know why she’s smiling. It’s been a long week. It’s Friday, finally. And it’s way past time for us both to go home.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! Are you about done? Do you want to walk down together?” She leans against the doorframe.

  I wave away her apology. “I guess I could be almost done. Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me it’s time to go home?” I ask her.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Maybe. Okay. Most definitely. You do realize we’re the last two here, right? And you do realize it’s a Friday night, right? And you do realize we’re two relatively young, relatively pretty women who both should have other things to do besides work on a Friday night?”

  It makes me laugh. But even I have to admit, my laughter sounds pretty weak. Damn feeble, even.

  Her voice softens. “Are you okay?” She is about to say more, then hesitates and shrugs. “I mean, I know we don’t know each other too well. So I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. But, Radiah, if you need to talk, I just want you to know I’m always here for you. It just seems like you’re always there for everyone else and if…” She blushes a little. “If you need someone to be there for you, I can be that girl.”

  Leaning back in the chair, I give my coworker a small, but genuine, smile. Kelly is one of those people who is easy to talk to, easy to joke around with. We’ve never talked really in depth about things that matter, but I like her, and I believe her now. This is pretty much the nicest thing that has happened to me in weeks. “Thanks, Kelly.” I release a long, low breath. I can literally feel the tension in my shoulders. If Kelly has noticed, maybe everyone else has too. “I’m sorry I’ve been down lately. I know it doesn't make me easy to work with.”

  “No, no!” She shakes her head so hard her little blonde bob whips across her cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’m used to you always smiling. And always laughing. And these last few weeks… Well. You’re not. You just don’t seem like yourself. And I was just worried, is all. Trust me, I wouldn’t trade working with you for anything. And I think I can speak for everyone in this office when I say that.”

  Looking down at my hands, I take a moment. It’s a moment that almost makes me fall silent again. I’m so used to not talking about Alexei. So used to keeping him, everything about him, everything about us, bottled up inside. “I broke up with my boyfriend. We’d been together for five years. So it’s just…” Looking back up at her, I find myself suddenly, horribly, feeling the pain of it all. Suddenly the loss is irrevocably, inexorably, everywhere. “It’s just hard.”

  “Oh no. Of course it is! I’m so sorry. Radiah…” She frowns. “I’m terrible. I mean, we’ve worked here for the past year in offices right next to each other and I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”

  “That’s my fault, not yours. I don’t…” How do I say it? There’s no way to say it except to say it. “I don’t talk about him.”

  “Well.” She straightens. She looks me in the eyes. “If you ever need to talk. About him. Or if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”

  “Thank you, Kelly.” I mean it. I might even take her up on it, once a little time has passed. Arching my eyebrow, I give her a look. “Same goes for you, I hope you know!”

  “I do know. And don’t thank me. We have to try to keep each other sane, right? And,” she turns to walk down the hall, “speaking of sane, don’t work too hard either! It’s Friday, go home!”

  Her footfalls echo through the empty floor. And then, it’s quiet. ‘Go home,’ she’d said. I’m not even sure where home is right now.

  Home is Carla’s, I suppose. And it’s not like Carla has made me feel like I’m wearing out my welcome, nothing could be farther from the truth. A part of me does feel like being done with today. A part of me just wants to walk away. And the other part of me knows too well where my mind tends to wander when there is too much quiet. Maybe working late, and working hard, is what I want to do, or maybe, while it’s not what I necessarily want, it is what’s best for me. The idea of going back to Carla’s, the idea of spending the night curled up in the bed trying not to think isn’t too appealing, at all. It’s pretty much the most unappealing thought in the world. Because it turns out that trying not to think is something I’m really terrible at. I could find plenty to do here, right? Work the whole weekend, or at least work until I feel like I’m going to go to Carla’s and collapse. I think I’m willing to do anything to not dwell.

  I won’t be doing that though, neither working all weekend or dwelling all weekend either, if Carla has her way, because Carla’s already texted. She’s already texted several times. She’s pic
king up Chinese food, our favorite Chinese food, and she’s grabbing us a movie. Maybe Magic Mike, she’d added in a final text—a tried and true favorite. I’d love to just sit with her, just relax and laugh and live in a little fantasy world for a couple of hours. I haven’t told her everything that’s happened, but she knows enough to know I’m not feeling my best.

  At any other time, the triad of Carla, Chinese food and Magic Mike would sound like a great evening.

  I know she, more than anyone, knows enough to know I’m feeling far from my best. She knows enough to know how much I’m hurting. And I know she’s only trying to make me feel better. She’s trying really hard to make me feel better and I love her all the more for it. She’s the best friend a girl could have, and probably better than I deserve. But, honestly, right now I’m not even sure I want to feel better. Right now a part of me feels like literally wallowing. I want to face this and I want to deal with this and then I want to move on from it. Alone.

  Alone, which is how I feel. And, I consider, alone is very likely the way I will spend the rest of my life too. I don’t see a husband or children or a white picket fence in my near future. Maybe not even in my faraway future.

  At least, Carla likes to say when one of starts talking like that, at least we have each other. She’s right. Except for the ‘at least’ part, because I’m more grateful for Carla than I can really ever say. She’s going out of her way for me. And the least I can do is show her, just a little, how much that means to me. Which means I’m going to her place to eat Chinese food and ogle Channing Tatum.

  Sighing, I shut my computer down and snap the lid closed. Shuffling a few papers back into place, giving one last look at it all—maybe hoping to suddenly see something that will make me have to stay—and seeing nothing, I give up. Grabbing for my purse, I head out through my office, and then to the door that leads to the hall. The floor is already empty and so is the elevator, but there are plenty of people downstairs in the main hall. I don’t know why I bother taking note of it; I’ve never felt spooked out here before. But ever since the other night in the park, or maybe ever since Emilio shouted at me that way, I keep looking over my shoulder.

  It’s not a habit I intend to get into.

  I’ve never been the overly anxious or paranoid type and I don’t want to start now. I definitely don’t want to start because a man has made me fearful. I don’t want any person to have that kind of power over me, not in any sense of the word. But I can’t pretend this away. Even on the ride over here this morning, one of my favorite times of day, I kept looking over my shoulder.

  Thankfully all of those feelings go away once I’m out front. It’s late, the sun is already dipping low between the buildings across the street, but it’s a beautiful, warm evening and, best yet, I rode my bike today, which means I can take Riverside Drive back uptown.

  Kneeling down beside the bike rack, I take the chain and start to undo the lock. That’s when I notice I’m still in my pumps.

  It’s enough to make me groan out loud. Really?

  Which means I need to go back upstairs and grab the sneakers I’d forgot under my desk. Rising from the bike lock that I leave done for now, I turn to head back inside. The street stretches out at my side and, without thinking about it, I glance down the rows of parked cars, and at the people walking down the sidewalk. The gray of the endless buildings line up one after the other, narrow down towards the horizon, and…

  The small flash of something catches my eyes. My attention shifts. Something doesn’t feel right. I feel like someone is looking at me again and before I can tell myself to stop being so paranoid, I see him.

  I see him. I’m not imagining this. He’s here. I see him sitting in one of the parked cars down the street. It has to be him, even with the way the sun is reflecting against the window, shrouding half of his face in shadow, I recognize him. It has to be him. It’s not a coincidence. It’s not someone that just looks like him. It’s not paranoia. It’s Emilio. He’s sitting there, in the car, behind the wheel, looking at me.

  He’s staring right at me.

  I can’t help my frown, but I don’t let my looking linger, and I don’t stop moving. Without missing a beat, acting like I hadn’t noticed him, and hoping he believes that is true because I really don’t want to have to confront him now, I walk back up the wide, granite stairs that lead to the front of the building and I push one of the double doors open. Absently, I hold it there for the woman who is passing through from the other side. I can hardly return the small smile of thanks she offers. My mind is racing.

  Everything feels like it’s moving slowly, everything feels like a dream. I’ve heard people describe moments like this, moments when the hyper focus makes a kind of tunnel vision. Is that what’s happening to me right now?

  Is Emilio stalking me? Had he been in the park the other night too?

  It doesn’t feel real. Why would he be sitting there in a car, waiting for me to come out of work?

  Internally, I start chiding myself. I start making up excuses. Maybe I’m being more paranoid than I’d even realized. Maybe I’d been mistaken. The car had been parked a ways down the street; how could I even be sure of what I’d seen? And as I’d been leaving the building...I’d been nervous. Maybe my nerves had made me see something that hadn’t been there. It had to be that. My imagination, and my nerves, really and truly must be getting the best of me. It wouldn’t have been him. Why would he be stalking me? I can’t think of a good reason; he’d walked out when I’d told him to go. He hadn’t looked back, right? He hasn’t tried to call. But I can’t stop thinking about the flashing glare of his eyes and the anger in his voice. His voice echoes in the quiet and I find myself frowning. Radiah, I think to myself, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into? Had I met a man that was simply...crazy? One of those men that fixate on women, that stalk them, that hurt them? If I had, I was determined to have the better of him. I was determined that he would not make me afraid.

  I’d stop him. I’d make sure he never made any other woman afraid either.

  Exhaling a deep breath, I take the elevator up to my floor. I feel alone in there—should I have taken the stairwell? My questions keep coming faster and harder. Am I not taking this seriously enough? Am I taking this too seriously? Should I call someone? Alexei is the first person who comes to my mind. He’d be here as soon as he could. I know that. But I can’t call him. I can’t. I’d just told him, and told myself, that we were done. He’d just tried to get me to go home with him because he’d thought I’d be safer...safer from everything in the world, I suppose. But I said no, and I need to stick to that, not call him at the first sign of trouble. That’s no way to make a clean break.

  Carla? She could come pick me up.

  The police?

  He hasn’t done anything yet to warrant that. Really, he hadn’t done anything and I am freaking out over, potentially nothing.

  As the doors open to my floor, I walk out with a new resolve. I will not let my imagination get the better of me. And if it’s not my imagination, I’m not going to let Emilio, or anyone else, get the better of me either.

  Crossing the open office space that is empty now, I reach my office door and push it wide. Inside, I head to my desk, reaching to retrieve my bag from where I’d stashed it earlier and slinging it over my shoulder. I’ll change my shoes outside. Go for a nice, long, leisurely bike ride. Clear my mind. Just play it cool until I’m really feeling that way again—fake it until you make it, as the saying goes. A part of me really can’t get over the idea that I’m somehow imagining this. Maybe I just don’t want to even consider any other possibilities.

  “Radiah.”

  In the emptiness of the office, his voice is loud, a shout in the silence. It is not my imagination. I know that voice. He’s followed me up here. Why? My heart literally jumps but I don’t allow that jump to reach down to the soles of my feet. I don’t want him to know how much he’s unnerved me. I know I need to be strong. I need to show hi
m he’s not dealing with someone who's going to back down. Turning quickly, I take a step back, and bump back against the desk. He’s standing by the office door. Looking at me. Without thinking about it, I’m looking through my periphery, looking for anything I might be able to use as a weapon. Against him.

  Emilio Peroni. With him standing here now, with his eyes narrowing in this smug, self-satisfied gloating, I can’t believe I’d considered him handsome. Because there is nothing that a great body or a great smile can salvage out from those cold, hard eyes. How had I been so blind? Right now, looking at him, all I see is a snake—a snake with a temper.

  I don’t see a damn thing on my desk that seems heavy enough to hurt him. And I don’t want to take my eyes off of him to look for something anywhere else.

  Trying to keep my voice even, I ask him, “What are you doing here? What do you want?” My eyes flash. I feel like pointing out how ridiculous his excuse the other day really seems now that he is showing his true colors. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask me for a mint.”