by Farlow, LK
That cakewalk I mentioned early? Yeah, not so much. His rapid-fire questions make my chest feel tight, like an elephant is sitting on me, its weight slowly pressing the air from the lungs.
Luckily, Mom shuts him down…right before he could call me stupid. The word may have not left his mouth, but I know it’s what he was going to say.
“Luke. Let’s tackle this one issue at a time.” She lays her hand on top of his, and he covers it with his other. Together, they’re a united front, able to conquer any obstacle with grace—including their seventeen-year-old daughter being pregnant.
“Like your father was saying, you’re certain your pregnant?” Her tone is soft, and it makes me feel so shitty, though I know that isn’t her intention. I almost wish she would shout at me too. Her compassion is too much.
I give a small nod. “Yes, ma’am. I took two tests.”
“They aren’t always accurate!” Dad exclaims.
Mom gives him an indecipherable look. “That may be true, but that is typical with negative results. False positives are incredibly rare.” His shoulders slump. “When did you take these tests?”
“A week ago.”
“Well, you’ll need to call the OB-GYN and make an appointment.”
I want to argue and beg her to do it for me, but I don’t, because if I’m going to be responsible for the life of another human, I sure as shit need to be responsible for my own.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call first thing tomorrow.”
She nods, pleased with my response. “Natalie, as much as I want to lecture you on poor decisions, waiting until marriage, and safe sex…it’s obviously too late for that. So, instead we’re going to talk about your options.”
I blink at her. Surely she doesn’t mean… “Options? Like abortion?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t!” I rush out, my lower lip quivering. I’m all for a woman’s right to choose, but it’s not the right choice for me. Sure, I’ve only known I was expecting for seven days, but it only took minutes to know I loved this baby.
“There’s also adoption. Have you spoken to the father?”
I shake my head. “N-not yet.”
“So, you know who the father is?” Dad asks through clenched teeth.
I can’t tell them that Alden is the father. Not only will my father murder him, it will destroy his friendship with Nate. Not to mention the havoc it would wreak on his new relationship with Mia…as jealous as I am over their relationship, I know he must really like her, because in all of the years I’ve known him, he’s never publicly announced dating anyone.
So, instead, I hang my head and lie. “No, I don’t.” My voice cracks, right along with my heart.
Years from now, I’ll regret this decision, but in this moment, it feels like the right choice. Alden has so much going for him, and I love him enough to not drag him down with me. No red-blooded, college junior wants to be a father.
Not to mention, if my parents wanted to, they could go after him for statutory, and that’s not something I’m willing to risk. Alden Warner is a good man with a bright future, and I’m not going to jeopardize it over a night he doesn’t even remember. Plus, this baby…our baby…will link me to him forever. Even if he is never aware, I’ll always have a little piece of him to call mine.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dad shouts even louder than before, causing me to cry harder. “How could you not know? You’re better than this, Natalie. We raised you better than this!”
Mom tries to calm him down, but he’s too far gone. As much as his words sting, I can’t really blame him. If letting them think I’m a loose girl prone to bad choices protects Alden, then so be it.
Dad stands from the couch, refusing to even look my way. “Go to bed Natalie. We’ll talk more tomorrow, but right now…I need some space.” He stalks out of the room, not sparing even a single glance back my way.
Mom stands and walks over to me. “Give him time, sweetie. Give us both some time. I know this is hard, but we both love you very much.”
I nod, too choked up to speak. She presses a comforting kiss to my forehead and follows after my dad.
4
Natalie
Four Years Later
Hoops or studs? Hoops or studs? I repeat the question internally as I stand in front of my vanity holding one earring up to my ear before swapping it for the other. Good Lord, it’s not like it matters. It’s not like my earrings will make or break this date.
This date I’m already reluctant to go on. Because I already know exactly where it’s going…
Nowhere.
I mean, Kevin’s a catch—good-looking, employed, and gentlemanly to boot. But, they all seem that way at first. They all seem charming and attentive and interested until I drop the whole single-mom bomb on them.
Then they run weeping with their tails tucked. Typically, after some variation of: You’re a mom? But you’re so young…but you’re so hot, and so on and so forth. Because apparently being old and dowdy is a prerequisite to childbirth.
For real, the fastest way to ruin a first date is to mention your kid. But, I still do, because I have nothing to hide. And anyone who tucks tail and runs at the mention of my girl isn’t the man for me.
And before you think I’m some psycho out shopping for a father figure for my daughter, let me set the record straight.
While none of the men I’ve dated have ever met Tatum, much less seen her picture, I’m always upfront about her existence. Chemistry only goes so far, and at the end of the day, she comes first…even if that means the only action Mama gets is of the solo, battery-operated variety.
I finally settle on the hoops when I feel my rambunctious toddler rake her nails down my belly. “Rawr!” she yells as loud as she can. “Raaaawwwrrr!”
I pull my robe tighter and retie the knot, effectively blocking her access. “Whatcha doin’ Tater Tot?”
“I’s bein’ the tiger that scratched you all up.”
“The tiger? What tiger?”
“The one dat gave you all those marks on your tummy,” she says, giving me a duh look that’s far beyond her three years.
Ah. That tiger.
“Those are called stretch marks. When you were in my belly, my skin had to stretch to make room for you.”
“See!” she squeals excitedly. “I the tiger!”
I run a hand through her messy curls—the exact same russet color as her father’s. “You sure are.” She follows me like a pint-sized shadow as I shuffle away from my vanity and into my closet. “Are you excited to hang out with Uncle Nate tonight?”
Like I flipped a switch, she begins jumping up and down, like a demented kangaroo. “Unc-ah Naaaaaate!”
“That’s right, Tater Tot. He’ll be here in about ten minutes. Why don’t you go pick out a few toys to show him?”
With a yell worthy of a battle-cry, she darts out of my closet, presumably toward her bedroom. I soak in the peace and quiet for a beat—don’t you judge me, I love the kid, with all of my damn heart, but she is loud—before flipping through the hangers in search of my favorite navy blue wrap dress. It’s lowcut and clings in all the right places while still being modest—the perfect I’m interested, but don’t put out on the first date dress.
Once it’s on, I slide my feet into a pair of champagne espadrille wedges that make my calves look amazing while still being comfy. I assess myself in the mirror and smile—I’m no supermodel, but it’ll do. I spritz myself with my perfume, slick a coat of shiny pink gloss across my lips and smile. It’ll definitely do.
I can hear Tatum in the living room, and when I enter the room, it’s all I can do to stifle a laugh. She has somehow managed to lug her tea set from her room, along with her Barbie castle, a plethora of stuffed animals, and four feather boas. “Wow, looks like you have big plans for Uncle Nate.”
“Yes, Mama.” She nods solemnly. “I does.”
“You do,” I correct her gently.
“D
at’s what I said.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I squat down so that we’re eye to eye. “You said does Tater Tot. When you refer to yourself, you say do. Does that make sense?”
She tilts her head to the right, thinking before replying—which is so like my girl. It’s something else to watch her think through things. “I fink so.”
I’m about to haul myself back to standing when there’s a hard knock on the front door, followed by the sound of it opening. “Where’s my girl?” my brother hollers as he steps into the room, and Tatum rushes to him, knocking me flat on my ass.
The oomph sound I make causes both of them to look my way. My brother tries to hide his smile, the faint laugh lines around his eyes give him away.
“Mama! Did I…do…that?” We both smile at her use of the word.
“It was an accident, baby girl. No worries,” I say, soothing away any worries she may have had. Nate extends a hand down toward me and helps me up.
The second I’m steady on my feet, Tatum grabs the hem of my dress. “Mama! I gotsta potty!”
“Then go, Tater Tot! Call me if you need help.” Like a flash, she takes off down the hall to the spare bathroom, leaving Nate and me alone.
He wastes no time grilling me. “So, who’s the lucky loser tonight?”
“He’s not a loser. His name’s Kevin, and he’s twenty-nine and works in accounting.”
Nate scoffs. “Total loser. Bet he still lives at home too.”
I roll my eyes. “He does not. His profile says he lives in the suburbs just outside of Bay Ridge.”
“Suburbs totally equals his mom’s basement.”
“You dipshit, we live in South Alabama. We don’t have basements.”
Nate holds up his index finger and tips it my way. “False. They aren’t common here, but they exist.”
“Whatever. Your argument’s weak, and you know it.”
“Your argument’s weak,” he whines, attempting to mimic me in that annoying way only a sibling can do.
“Mama! Mama! I did the poops!”
The toilet flushes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom. “You did?” I ask enthusiastically, clapping my hands.
Honest to God, if someone would’ve told my seventeen-year-old self that I would be this excited over poop in a few years, I would have laughed in their face—and I mean laughed hard.
“I did! And I wiped my butt too!”
I widen my eyes and give a little gasp. “Well, aren’t you just all grown? You know what this means right?” Tatum shakes her head. “It means…dance party!”
My little girl squeals and immediately we begin jumping around, waving our arms and stomping our feet. No doubt, we look nuts—but potty training this kid was tantamount to making water flow uphill. So, this is absolutely a dance-party-worthy feat.
At the sound of our commotion, Nate ventures back to the hallway, where we’re shaking what our mama gave us. Ever the doting uncle, he doesn’t come empty-handed. No, sir. He’s armed with a glass of chocolate milk topped with whipped cream and a swirly straw.
Tatum looks up at him, all doe-eyed, batting her lashes. “Dat’s for me?”
“Sure is. A little bird told me you’re using the potty like an old pro!”
“It’s true! I am!”
She reaches for the beverage, but I stop her. “Not so fast, Tater Tot. You gotta wash your hands first!”
Once she’s as germ-free as a three-year-old can be, we retreat to the living room, where she instantly snuggles up to my brother on the couch. “We watch Poppy?” she asks, reaching for her chocolate milk.
“Poppy?” he asks. “Oh! You mean those things with the hair!”
“Trolls,” I inform him through a laugh.
“Yeah. That.”
“It’s on Netflix,” I tell him, scooping up my purse from the table by the door. “Y’all have fun. I won’t be late—call me if you need me.” I walk over and press a kiss to Tatum’s whipped-cream-sticky cheek.
Nate’s voice stops me right as I’m about to step over the threshold. “Same goes for you. Call me if you need me.”
5
Natalie
Kevin and I met through FindLoveOnline. Yeah sure…judge me, but how else am I supposed to meet men? At the grocery store? Get real. That shit only happens in books and sitcoms. Initially when we made plans for tonight, he offered to pick me up, but I declined and offered to meet him there, for two reasons.
One: the last time a date picked me up from my apartment, my overprotective brother—who’s a cop, in case I forgot to mention—had his buddy run his tags and check him out. A gross misuse of power, if you ask me. Then again, homeboy ended up having a warrant out for his arrest. Turns out Paul liked to deal pot to high schoolers on his off days.
Which leads me to reason numero dos: Paul the pot dealer. He was a mega wake-up call for me. These dudes have no business knowing where I live, and I was incredibly naive to not suggest meeting them from the start—especially with Tatum.
I realize this makes it sound like I’m going out with random men nightly, so let me set the record straight—I go out once a month, if that! Between working at the café, my online classes, and my sweet Tater Tot…well, let’s just say I’m busy as fuck. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even on the most stressful days—you know the kind…
You wake and you’re out of coffee, your kid’s favorite sippy cup is M.I.A., your car doesn’t want to start, you manage to grab a coffee at the Circle K only to spill it on your shirt, aforementioned kid has the meltdown to end all meltdowns in the middle of the store, and by the time you finally make it home, the only thing that sounds good for dinner is half a bottle of wine, but you have to cook. Can’t feed your toddler fermented grape juice for dinner—pretty sure that is heavily frowned up, not to mention illegal.
But even on the most hellacious of days, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Well, maybe one thing…it’d be nice for Tatum’s dad to know she exists, but that’s a story for a different day. Thinking of Alden always makes me melancholy, and that’s definitely not the right mindset for a first date.
* * *
Finding somewhere to park ends up taking longer than the drive over. After looping the block four times, I finally manage to snag a spot about half a block from South Bay Kitchen—the eatery we’re meeting at. When Kevin suggested we eat here, I immediately said yes, as it’s an absolute favorite of mine. Their chef uses only the best local ingredients and breathes new life into longstanding traditional Southern dishes.
The second I exit my car, the balmy late summer heat and humidity envelopes me, causing a fine sheen of sweat to dot my hairline. It’s beyond gross…but that’s the price you pay to live below the Mason Dixon line.
By the time I make it to the restaurant, I can feel little beads of sweat sliding down my spine. I pause outside of the entrance and fish my compact out of my purse. I use the powder puff to dab at my nose before swiping another coat of gloss over my lips.
I step into the dimly lit space; the aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling herbs and spices fill my nostrils. On cue, my mouth waters. “Hello and welcome to South Bay Kitchen,” the hostess greets me. “How many?”
Rising to my tippy toes, I glance over her shoulder into the dining area. “I’m actually meeting someone. We should have had reservations under the name Kevin.”
She offers me a sympathetic smile before bending her head to scan her reservation book. “Yes, and it looks like he’s already seated.” She steps out from behind the podium. “If you’ll follow me.”
Zigzagging through the maze of tables, she leads me to a small two-top toward the back near the bar. “Here you go.”
Kevin stands upon our arrival and…holy ba-jeezus, this man looks nothing like his picture online. I was expecting a good-looking man with tanned skin, blond hair, and startling blue eyes, who stands over six-foot-two.
What I’m met with is a balding man old enough to be
my father with leathery skin. The only thing that matches is his eye color. Oh, my god—have I been catfished? Is that what is happening right now?
“Uh. Hello. I’m Natalie.”
He flicks the tip of his tongue over his front teeth. “Phil.” He shakes my hand and I cringe at the clamminess of his skin. “And, toots, the pleasure’s all mine.”
It’s all I can do to suppress my gag. “You’re not Kevin?”
He chortles. “Kevin couldn’t make it tonight, so I came in his place. It’s almost the same thing—the kid’s a real chip off the old block.”
I gasp and my stomach turns. “So…you’re his…dad?”
“In the flesh.” He grins, flashing me his dentures.
Oh, hell no. Thank God I never had time to sit. Without another word, I turn and walk right back out the way I came. What a sleaze. And who in God’s name sends their dad as a stand-in on a first date?
Gross!
I drive around for a good half hour to pass the time. I know if I come this early, Nate will pester me with questions about Kevin-Phil. And, I’m in no mood to deal with that.
6
Alden
Goals. I’ve always been a fan of goals. Especially achieving them. Ever since I was a kid, there’s always been something so fucking satisfying about crossing shit off my list.
In fifth grade, I wanted a dog. So, I put together a presentation on a tri-fold poster board and presented it to my parents after dinner one night. The left side highlighted all of the pros of pet ownership, while the right listed the cons. And if you think I held back or skimped on listing the downsides, think again. I wanted my parents to know I meant business.
The middle outlined all of the things I would be willing to do to achieve my goal of pet ownership—like getting up early to walk him, using my chore allowance for pet food instead of the arcade or dollar store, cleaning up after any accidents…shit like that.
