Trusting You

by Ketley Allison

  I release a breath, sails billowing closed. “You’re right. Of course. Coming at you like this, throwing a baby in your face.” I rub my face, tangle my fingers in my hair as I hold it at the back of my neck and look at the ceiling for answers. “I’m scared, Locke. That’s why I’m here, why I’m yelling at you. I’m so scared for that baby.”

  “Hey.” Locke reaches out, strokes my arm. Then, as if afraid I’d bite it off, quickly draws it back. “It’s a lot for both of us. But…you said Gainesville. Florida. So how long are you here?” He audibly gulps. “How long do I have? To decide?”

  “I’m here for another twenty-four hours.” I throw my hands out. “But I can be a tourist in New York City for a few days while you figure stuff out.”

  “Okay. Good.” He pulls out his phone from his shorts. “Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

  I do as he asks, but my stomach plummets over the idea that Lily’s life will be decided when this guy calls me. A man who probably says those exact words to a hundred women, less than a third of whom he follows through with. A booty call. A sext. A sorry-not-sorry excuse.

  “As soon as you can,” I say to Locke, and make sure he’s looking into my eyes, that I’m drilling in the consequences of his decision into Lily’s mirror blues.

  “Yep,” he replies.

  I’m ushered out the door, his large palm hovering near my back. He’s tall, tanned, with a full head of sand-brown hair that would appear mussed with sex even if he were a virgin. True masculine beauty, but he’s not enough for my Lil.

  I pray he can be enough.

  4

  Locke

  As soon as I shut the door behind Carter, I stare at the woodgrain, mouth going dry because I can’t close it.

  Fuck this. I go in search of a beer.

  Hell, I need a keg. Since my apartment can barely hold a couch and a table, I have to find cool relief elsewhere, so I call my good buddy Ben. We’d grown up together during college, played on the Gators—me as a running back, him as a wide receiver. Only other difference is, his stint with the NFL is still going.

  We meet at a bar a few blocks over. Ben’s already there, slurping soda water with lime in preparation for the upcoming season. We smack palms before I take a seat beside him.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks. “You sounded pretty shitty on the phone. And not hungover shitty.” He stabs his ice with a straw. Ben can never sit still. In class, at a bar, especially before games. It’s like a fireball lives inside him, and for Ben to maintain the heat, he has to expel the extra energy by using an appendage at any given time.

  An excellent talent to employ on the field. A not-so-great trait when in need of a serious conversation.

  “Didn’t you bring home whatsherface?” Ben pauses in his stabbing. “The cocktail waitress from the club?”

  “Candy. Tara. Yeah. That’s not what’s got me, though.”

  “No? Good, ‘cause she was smokin’, man. She show you too much of a good time?”

  The bartender comes over, and I order a draught while he assures Ben his nachos are coming. During that exchange, a screech wails out behind us. I turn to see two mothers coming inside with mini-luxury cars that are holding a lifetime’s worth of weight, plus a tiny infant in each, located somewhere within those blanket folds.

  That’s the thing about Williamsburg. Even bars host playgroups.

  The two moms are laughing as they bump strollers, one gesturing with her cell while the other is rifling through a purse the size of a volcano hanging over one of the stroller’s handle.

  One kid lets out a wail, and after looking over and assessing the situation, the other joins in. Music can’t pierce eardrums like that.

  “You okay, man? You’re looking a little pale.”

  I turn to Ben. No need to peer into the mirror behind the bar, because I can feel how green I look.

  “I have one of those,” I say.

  Ben’s in the middle of noshing on the nachos that were just plopped in front of him, but he stops mid crunch and says out one side of his mouth, “If you want one, just take one. Don’t ask permission like a sissy.”

  For a minute I think he’s talking about kidnapping one of those terror-dolls, but he pushes his plate, so it’s between us.

  “I have a baby,” I clarify.

  This time, Ben chokes on a pickled jalapeño. I clap him on the back, but it’s a half-assed effort. I’m still listening to the kids’ wails and one of the moms assuring, “He pooped! It’s fine. I’ll change him, then we can order.”

  “Did I just hear you right?” Ben asks once he gulps down half his soda. The lime accidentally went in, so he spits it back into the cup. At my silence, he asks, “When did you knock up a chick?”

  At last, a beer is slid over to me, and I take a long swig. “You know, I didn’t even think to ask how old the baby was. She might’ve told me, though. Everything’s going a bit gray around the edges.”

  Ben nearly chokes again. “How old? The baby’s already here? How do you even know it’s yours?”

  I swallow grimly, remembering Carter standing in the middle of my den, her eyes shining brighter than my spit-shined Heisman Trophy. I’m so afraid for that baby.

  “I’m pretty sure, in this situation, it’s mine.”

  “You need to talk to your sister, man.”

  The mere mention of Astor has me searching for my glass again. “No way. I’m not telling her yet.”

  “But she can help you. Use her lawyer powers, represent you, make sure this is legit and not some chick looking to score some cash.”

  Laughter barks out of me, and while surprising, it feels good. “What cash? I’m a washed-up pro athlete, not even staying in the game long enough for the ink to dry on my contract.”

  “Yeah, but your family. Your inheritance.”

  “Means nothing,” I say. “Doesn’t kick in till I’m thirty.”

  “This is so suspicious, though, dude. Yesterday we were knocking back drinks at a club before season starts, and now we’re sitting here in the middle of the day with”—one of the kids shrieks and Ben waits for it to finish—“with a hipster parent meet-up behind us and you telling me you have a secret baby.”

  “Yeah, it’s complicated, which is why I called you.”

  “What kind of help am I?”

  “Just…talk me through it.” I clasp my glass tighter. “Help me understand why a girl showed up at my doorstep saying there was a baby waiting for me in Florida.”

  “Wait, Florida? Slow down. I’m not awake enough for this shit.”

  So, I tell him. He contemplatively chews on his nachos, hanging on to every word. From the minute Carter said, you have a daughter, to the mom being dead.

  “Dead?” Ben cuts in. “How?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Oh.” Ben leans back, brushing his hands together. “How are you coping with that?”

  I ignore his question and say instead, “So, now there’s a kid who’ll be an orphan if not for me. And this girl…shit, Ben.” I pause for another swig, then swipe at my mouth. “You shoulda seen her. Hair all over the place. Eyes on fire. A mouth that honestly had me thinking, how can I not remember those lips? Angry, though. Really, really mad. If she could’ve stabbed me with her eyeballs, she would’ve.”

  “Woulda paid to see that.”

  “She beaned me with a can of coke.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ben says.

  “It was mostly full.”

  Ben cracks a smile. “Sounds like a regular Saturday morning for you, eh, bud? Sorry, bad joke.”

  I don’t have the energy to knock his teeth out.

  “So clearly you haven’t slept with—what’s her name?” Ben pauses. “Or maybe you have.”

  “Carter.” I shake my head. “And like I said, I’d remember this girl. It wasn’t only her words that were unforgettable.”

  “And those words, they’ll change your life.”

  I slump my shoulders over the bar. “What do I do, he
re?”

  Ben chooses his next sentences carefully. “This baby shares your blood, man. It doesn’t mean she has to share your family.”

  I lick my lips, gnaw on a loose, dry flake. Then I pull out my phone and swipe until I find the picture, the one I sent to myself when I had Carter’s phone. She didn’t know, will likely be pissed when she figures it out, but as soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. I slide the phone over to Ben.

  “Well, shit,” Ben says while rubbing at his mouth. He doesn’t take his attention off the picture of the little girl, happy for the camera like she’d just been in the middle of squealing and giggling. “That’ll get a testicle to drop.”

  “I know.” I’m looking at the picture, too. “She has my eyes.”

  Ben seems to shake himself out of it, because he palms my phone, covering the picture. “Stay smart, man. You need DNA first, before getting any paternal feelings.”

  “I got that. Carter said people would be contacting me. Government types. That there’s some sort of verification process before this baby gets to me.”

  Ben lets out a long, hard breath. “This is so fucked up. Are you saying you want this? This baby girl to live with you?”

  “No,” I blurt, then add, “yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know, man. A few hours ago, I was told I was a dad. Not only that, but I’m also told that she’s coming to me. A baby I never knew existed is coming over here, and I’m supposed to know what to do with it. Her. Do I need one of those?” I point to the black BMWs parked in the center of the restaurant, laden with toys and bottles and diapers and things. “Am I gonna become one of those?”

  “Okay, stay calm.” Ben pats me on the shoulder and locks eyes with me the way we did when we were in a team huddle. “We will figure this shit out. We will. I don’t know much about the law, but I do know you can say no. You haven’t been in this kid’s life at all.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Don’t feel responsible for the fucked-up reasons this baby mama kept your fatherhood from you.”

  I nod again, lean back, and take another long draw of beer. “The baby’s better off without me.”

  Ben doesn’t give his opinion. Instead, he asks, “What’s her name, anyway? The kid?”

  “Lily,” I say automatically. My tongue is still curled on the y when I realize that’s the first time I’ve said it. With my voice. Her name flew out of my mouth, but then stuck like toffee. A staying sweetness I’m not expecting. “Lily James Tobias.”

  Ben gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Pretty.”

  I hunch over the bar with him, finishing my beer and respecting the fact that Ben won’t be invested until I am, that he’ll dismiss this kid the minute I give the go ahead. But as I take back my phone, Lily’s face flashes up at me, and I feel a clog in my throat, a tiny stone I can’t dislodge until I black out my screen and shove it into my pocket.

  5

  Carter

  I run out of Locke’s apartment, and I don’t know what to do.

  The hotel I’ve booked is in Times Square because never having visited New York before, it felt like the safest, most understandable area. I’d had no concept of where Locke lived. Turns out, he wasn’t even on the island of Manhattan.

  A long cab ride later, and I was plopped in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a fairly low-key place with few high rises and a lot of little dogs on leashes and independent cafes.

  Now that the confrontation with Locke is over, my lungs, which had been air balloons floating me through the fear, stress, and anxiety throughout this entire trip, have shriveled with a tangible pfffffffff as soon as Locke shut his door on my back.

  I choose the closest cafe because I need coffee. A red eye. A black eye with more espresso shots than coffee.

  I step in, enjoying the tin ceiling with cute patterns resembling royal crests and the small maroon lounges arranged among regular tables and chairs. A local artist adorns the wall, this one with a penchant for portraits of women in various cultures. I settle into the atmosphere, using the external, creative environment as a sieve against my inner turmoil and worry—a constant emotion that hasn’t waned despite the weeks separating me from Paige’s death.

  My fingers itch to call the foster family, but I order my coffee instead. A nervous habit is to tuck my hair behind my ears, and I do it constantly as I wait, the waves falling into my face because I keep lowering my head to stare at the floor.

  I don’t have the family’s number. I’m not privy to that kind of information.

  I haven’t seen Lily in weeks.

  After watching Lily grow from a poppyseed to a nine-month-old, I’m aware that two weeks is an eternity of missed time. She could be talking right now, said her first words. She could have learned to walk because she hadn’t done that yet when I had to say good-bye. She hadn’t cried when I left because she wasn’t aware I was leaving for good. I helped raise her with Paige, from the birthing room to the moment CPS showed up at our shared apartment and told me they had to take her.

  Always a people person, Lily loved being held, by anyone. She had a smile for everyone, even those who didn’t smile back. She smiled for me.

  Oh, God. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Lily, I miss you.

  My heart hurts. My eyes burn, and I put pressure on them, refusing to cry in a strange city in a comforting cafe, alone and drained.

  “Black eye for Carla!”

  I peer through my fingers. Seems independent cafes also get names wrong.

  “Thank you,” I say, and go about pouring in cream and some sugar. I flash back to Lily grabbing for sugar packets in restaurants, and both Paige and I laughing in exasperation as we push all potential choking hazards to the other side of the table.

  I take a seat, coffee steaming and too hot to sip for the moment, so I call my roommate instead.

  “Hey,” Sophie says as she picks up.

  A few weeks after Paige died, I realized I couldn’t afford a two-bedroom apartment alone and advertised for a new roommate. To prepare, I’d had to box up the remainder of Paige’s stuff. The first time I stepped into her room, I’d doubled over in the doorway, the smell of her hitting me before anything else. Lavender continued to scent the air, despite the last few weeks of her in that bed becoming sicker and sicker, moving around less and less.

  “So, I talked to him,” I say to Sophie now.

  “Wow.” I picture Sophie getting comfortable on our shared plaid couch Paige and I had pilfered from an elderly lady’s garage sale. “How’d it go?”

  “As expected, I think. He’s shocked, kind of appalled. Doesn’t want her.” My voice cracks at the end.

  “Don’t come to that conclusion just yet,” Sophie says, so calm and controlled. I’d advertised for a new roommate, but it turned out I didn’t have to because my co-worker, Sophie Addison, small in stature and blunt in nature, had a lease running up and was looking to move. We met for coffee, and we clicked, despite my noticeable, newly-minted, anti-social tendencies. She loudly accepted, and it was obvious she was perfect. So great, in fact, that I’d confessed everything to her within two days of her moving in.

  And she’d taken it all with the same carefree tone she was using now. I joke she should be a bomb diffuser instead of a data analyst. Not much gets to her.

  “I know that. I do,” I reply. “But part of me was hoping he’d jump right in, save Lily, and I’d get to see her one more time.”

  “Give him the space he needs. You just told a manwhore he’s a baby daddy. It’s a lot to process.”

  “Yeah.” I use my free hand to wipe under my eyes and sniff. “It’s why I’m calling. He asked me to stay on a few days.”

  “That’s great. It means he’s thinking it through.”

  “I guess that’s what it takes, huh? A few days of deciding whether or not you want your daughter.”

  “Don’t judge him. He didn’t wake up this morning—”

  “I’m trying so hard not to, Soph. But you nee
d to see this guy.”

  “You think I haven’t looked him up? Of course, I have. He’s up on my laptop right now.”

  “Okay, good.” I straighten in my seat, prop my elbows on the table. “So, you understand exactly what I mean.”

  “I understand where Lily got those gorgeous eyes. And gorgeous smile. And general gorgeousness.”

  I resist the urge to literally go grrr into the phone. “Being good-looking does not equal father material.”

  “Of course it doesn’t! I’m only going off what I see, and oh boy, he’s a hot piece of ass.”

  “A slob. He’s a slob,” I correct. My free hand is waving around, and I’m really getting into it now. “His entire apartment smelled like sex. It was eight in the morning, and he didn’t have a shirt on, no wait, didn’t even have a towel on—”

  “Hold on, you saw him naked?”

  “Not the point, Soph.” And it certainly wouldn’t help my case if I told her that yes, he’s gorgeous all over. “And a girl—this girl—stumbles out after him, dressed from last night. He’s not the type to offer breakfast. Just Ubers. And you know what? I don’t think he knew her name.”

  “Carter, we’ve established he’s got pretty boy problems.”

  It isn’t the time to remind Sophie that I’ve known about his pretty boy luck long before this moment. He was the guy I’d had the biggest crush on during senior year at UF. A crush so big and unrequited that when Paige confessed to sleeping with him on her death bed, I’d felt a yank of jealousy. Such a messed up, fucked up, thing to feel when your friend’s breathing is slowing down in front of you.

  I wonder now if Paige deliberately didn’t tell me Locke was the father back then because she knew. That she worried if she told me, I’d become a jealous cone of silence, and she’d be forced to face her pregnancy alone. At the thought, the yank of jealousy turns into a boulder of loss.

  All questions I can never, ever ask her.

  “Her name, Soph,” I say now. “He had no clue. And I’m looking at him like, this is the guy Lily gets for keeps. Maybe she’s better in foster care.”