by lesley,allyn
Chapter Seventeen
“What should I do?”
My question breaks through the twenty minute silence that came after I spilled my guts to Ma. Her mouth went from pinched to slack-jawed the longer I spoke. It was like Ma’s mouth couldn’t decide if it wanted to yell or wince.
“Would you like something to drink?” She gets up before I can answer, venturing toward my kitchen while I stay seated on the couch in my living room. I hear her fiddling with pots then water begins to run.
I must have drifted off to sleep, a rarity lately, but a strong, minty scent awakens me.
“Dyllan.” Ma’s hands, discreetly lined with love and wisdom, slide a cup of tea in my direction.
The aromatic steam makes its way up my nose. “Thanks.” There’s not much more to talk about, so Ma and I sip on our mint tea. It’s her remedy for any situation where she needs to put on her thinking hat. This is the same tea we drank, as a family, as we sat around our dining room and tried to figure out a way to send EC to Seton Hall University and JC to Columbia University.
“Ma.”
“Not now.” She tips her favorite mug toward her lips. It’s a replica of the same one she has at her house and at my brothers’ houses. Setting down the cup, she asks, “Do you think this young lady...” I grimace at her description. She must see it because, she rushes through her sentence. “Do you think this person will change her mind?”
That bitch? Hardly. “No, Ma, and I don’t want her to. She’s...”
A ho.
Not mother material.
All things I can’t say to her.
“She’s what, son?”
Several other names, none of them good, flit through my mind before I settle on the least likely to get my ears boxed. “She was just an itch, Ma.” I pray she hears my emphasis.
“An itch?” She frowns then the metaphorical light bulb goes off, and her cheeks blaze. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I’m mentally drained. It’s been a few days since my disastrous talk with Caren. “I just want this woman out of my face.” And away from my checkbook. That’s the God’s honest truth.
“But, Dyllan, don’t you want kids?” Her tone is wistful and filled with longing I don’t understand. Much like JC was at the restaurant.
I can’t understand why anyone would want me to have kids. I’m not Chuck or JC who took to fatherhood like they were created for the role. Hell, even EC would make a better father than me. A long time ago I figured that I’m simply not father material. I’d fuck up a kid’s life. Instead of college tuition, I’d probably be paying off intense therapy bills.
Quickly, I spit out my suspicion to get her mind back into the land of reality and away from a fantastical future she would like to happen. “I swear that bitch is on something. She’s not dealing with a full deck of cards.” Ma shoots me a withering look for my language. But it’s the truth. “All she wants is money, Ma. She’s not into this made up kid of hers.” I’m probably her meal ticket for a long score to get whatever she’s smoking, shoving up her nose, or shooting into her veins. “All I know is that bitch can take a flying leap off the Henry Hudson Bridge if she thinks she’s getting even a penny from me.”
This time, Ma doesn’t correct me. “I think we should contact our lawyer.” Her hand slips into her bag.
“Not yet. I want her to make her next move.”
She’ll be back. I don’t have much experience with being blackmailed, but I know money hungry manipulation when I see it. So, yeah, Caren’ll be back, and I’ll be ready for her with a deal she can’t refuse. I lean my head back on my cushions, feeling a little bit more peaceful now that I’ve told Ma what’s going on. Maybe now sleep won’t be so hard to come by. I hear the tip-tap of Ma’s nails moving over her cell phone’s keys.
“What are you up to?”
She stuffs the phone into her bag before gathering our ceramic cups. They clank as she puts one inside the other. “Who, me?”
That sly, semi-shy look isn’t fooling me. There’s a twinkle in her blue eyes, and it’s easy for me to see what drew Chuck to her so many years ago.
“Yeah, you,” I tell her, this time following behind her.
“Son, I’m just a mother who’d like all her children to be happy. JC is with Em, and now, EC has Jill—”
Leaning on the kitchen island, I cut her off with a question of mine that’s part nosey and part a diversion. “And you’re okay with that?”
“With what?” Ma puts our dishes in my dishwasher then opens my refrigerator. She tsks. “Dyllan, what are you eating?”
Take out, but I know better than to answer. “Ma, you do know she’s a—”
She spins to face me. “Stop. We all have a past. Jill’s had a rough go at life, and had no choice. She’s with EC, makes him smile like a kid, and loves him.” I’m about to ask her how she could possibly know about the extent of Jillian’s feelings when she tells me, “A mother knows these things, son.” She nods then looks directly at me. “That’s all I want.” Ma comes toward me, mimicking my lean on the island. “Two of my sons are happy, have someone who makes them feel like kings of the world.” Ma’s soft hands touch the back of my fist. “But you...”
Who do I have? That’s most likely her unasked question. My lips twist in on themselves, bouncing between a scowl and a grimace.
She grasps both my cheeks, pulling my face closer. “Are you happy?”
Am I happy? There’s no easy answer to that question. Soft swipes of her fingertips ghost over my eyelids, lulling me momentarily until her question repeats itself, begging for understanding.
“What’s with the third degree, Ma?” My tone is as soft as her touch. Portions of my world bring a smile to my face, like my job and my family. But happy isn’t a word I can use. It’s not even in my vocabulary right now. But, I could never tell her this. She’d become more of a worrywart about me than she already is. I ease her fear by sharing, “I’m okay, Ma.”
If she only knew that even after all these years, I’m still filled with deep misunderstandings that lead to an uncontrollable rage that leads to despair so deep that another person would need medication just to make it through the day.
Jess.
MeMaw.
And now, Chels.
But I think she knows. Ma’s always been intuitive about other people’s hurt... especially the ones they try to mask.
“Come with me to a party tonight. I need a date.”
It’s not a question. All I want to do is wallow in my loneliness and foolishly think about the woman who doesn’t want me. That seems like a much more pleasant way to end my already fucked-up week. Just as I’m about to tell her I don’t feel like getting dressed or being social, and that’s my right, she pulls her move. Ma crosses her arms and pitches her perfectly arched brow; she’ll never admit that she pulls the bitch-brow move, but she’s a pro at using it.
If I open my mouth and say anything but yes, I’ll lose. I can see her badgering me to death, even going so far as to pick out and then lay out my clothing for this ‘party’. Just the way she did when I was a teenager.
She nods and pats my cheek, sharing the time and place to meet her.
I should have decided to lose. For some reason, Ma thought it’d be a brilliant idea for me to come, uninvited—no less—to Chels’s belated birthday that’s also serving as a going away party.
I’m not amused.
Currently, I’m holding up a spot on the farthest wall, hoping to shrink into the artfully decorated wall behind me. I’ve seen everyone except the one person we’re—not me, of course—here to see, and everyone’s seen me. A few of Chels’s family members peek at me then whisper behind their hands to the person sitting next to them. They’re too obvious in their gossiping, and I’ve had enough of being inside the Robinson’s basement, with its closed-in atmosphere and too many watchful eyes. I head up a short flight of stairs and out the first door I reach. The cool breeze hits my face, and I’m glad I listened to my instincts
that were screaming for me to get the hell out of Dodge.
What am I doing here?
Outdoor garden lights make it easy for me to walk along the curved, multi-colored pathway that takes me to the backyard. It’s an extremely cozy extension of the home. Someone in the family has a wicked green thumb, based on the fragrant smells hitting my senses and the blooming flowers lining the pavement. I continue walking, stopping at a gazebo. Up above my head is the clear Mt. Vernon sky with a smattering of stars.
Music bursts from the seams of the house, and laughter follows raucous guests—both spilling outside, where I’m wondering my purpose here. The happy guests keep their shit-eating grins and beer guzzling selves away from me, and I’m thankful for small mercies.
“Hi.”
My heart stops, and then begins to thump wildly. She’s the only person I know who can reduce me to a pile of nothing with two letters.
I shouldn’t turn.
I shouldn’t look at her.
Chels’s fruity scent teases the tiny hairs in my nose, and I do the one thing that’ll keep me going. All I do is stare. Her lips twitch, and I realize I’m being a borderline weirdo the longer I stand here like a mute after she’s so eloquently addressed me.
“Hey,” I respond, but sound nowhere as sexy as she does, or look for that matter. She remains silent, so I fill the dead air. “Interesting night, huh?”
Her eyes bore into me like they always do. “I wanted my last dance to be with you,” she tells me without a prelude.
I’m thrilled and scared, but my body aligns itself to her alluring curves, even as my mind yells for me to run away. I feel the soft and unblemished pads of her fingers on the back of my hands, tugging me closer. I’m not as forward, still considering where to place my hands on her body. Waist or hips? Both are appealing because this is Chels we’re talking about.
“Hold me, Dyllan,” she tells me, her voice all husky with its demand.
At her encouraging hips in my direction, my hands land at her small waist. I grip and pull her toward me, possessively, as if she belongs to me. I’m surprised she doesn’t protest or try to put some distance between her warm body and mine.
“Dyllan.”
My name floats to me on a whispery sigh, hardening my cock just as I press my body closer, bridging the gap between us and meshing us together as one. “Chels.” Her soft contours fit easily and perfectly with my chiseled ones. There’s no music, only the beats heard in our respective heads, yet we move in time with it and each other. I pull her even closer, trying to smother her into me, and just then, I hear a sniff. I feel her exhaled breath through my shirt. It’s hot, but sounds heavier than lead.
“You’ve put me in a really bad position, Dyllan.”
I know.
I don’t offer any excuses or state my defense. It seems she’s prepared this monologue for quite some time. Her head rests languidly and without care on my chest, right above that smashed heart tattoo of mine. My fingers thread themselves in her hair, intermittently massaging her scalp.
“My mom wants me to stay away from you.”
You probably should.
Her hand crawls under my shirt, skimming against my flesh, then drawls up to my ribcage. Skin to motherfucking skin. Her fingers slide back to my waist once her exploration is completed. My body temperature rises, as does my dick. I pull away slightly, so she doesn’t feel it. That’s not what this is about; she’s so much more than someone who can make me hard.
“You remind her of my father,” she voices then inhales deeply.
“Yeah?”
She burrows her head into me. “I met him. I’ve known his whereabouts since I turned eighteen but never had the guts to see him in person. The day I left your garage, I went in search of him.” She laughs, but it sounds pained, tight almost. “He wasn’t hard to find, playing his bass guitar in the same smoky lounge in Manhattan he met my mother. He recognized me immediately, coming to where I sat on a couch in the back. We had coffee... well, I did, and he drank something heavier.”
When she takes a break in her story, my lips graze her forehead, quickly darting my tongue across her dewy skin just for a taste.
“I-I... damn it, I don’t know why I even want to tell you any of this.”
“I’m listening, Chels. Tell me as much or as little as you want.” A warm breeze blows from the large tree behind us.
“According to him, my mother knew he was married, but they still decided to be together. He told her he wasn’t interested in anymore kids, but she still ended up pregnant. He wanted her to end it, since a baby would derail my mother’s singing career she had with his band.” Chels leans back in my arms. “The way he tells it, the band was close to meeting a few well-known people in the music industry who could put them all on the map.” She’s not focused on any one thing as she continues, “He made it sound like she tricked him, so of course I confronted her.”
“Of course.” I can just imagine how a discussion with the formidable Laura Robinson went down. My guess is there was lots of shouting but no backing down. I’ve come to learn the Robinson women have an inborn strength that makes steel feel floppy.
“She told me a different version. Like having no idea about his marriage, and finding out about his other family after she’d told him of her pregnancy. He kicked her out of the band, and she went back to her parent’s home in Hyde Park with no career or man, and an unborn child.” Chels’s face droops. “H-he wanted an abortion just so his wife wouldn’t know.”
“That’s fucked up.”
She nods. “He’s a piece of work to say the least,” she says with much more grace than I would’ve. “He feels tricked, and my mom feels abandoned. It’s a good thing my dad and Emma came into our lives when they did. I learned all of this the night I told my family about that text you shared.”
I can just imagine what Laura had to say then. I’m hoping Mikey held out judgment about me, but who knows? Chels looks at me strangely, as if she’s trying to figure out a puzzle. My soul responds to the pull this woman continues to have on me, and my body gravitates back toward the warmth that so easily pours off her. “I...” I don’t really know what to say, but I have to tell her something. “I—”
“Shut up, Dyllan. I-I’m not telling you this to... hell, I don’t know why I’m telling you anything.” She blows through her nose then looks up at me. “I just, I don’t know. I-I trust you. Despite what Mom says.” Her revelation shocks the shit out of me so much that I miss a few steps, ending our dance. “You’re an asshole. A damn manwhore—”
“Whoa—” My defensive mechanism trumps the bullshit she wants to spew about me. But she’s right.
There’s no anger when she tells me, “You are who you are, but...” She looks over my shoulder at something I’m not even sure is actually there. “You’re not a liar.” She says the last word with such conviction that even I believe it. “I just know you won’t lie to me to spare my feelings, and even though...” Her face finds mine.
Her eyes—the ones I can quickly lose myself in—are glassy. Is she crying? Shit.
“I’m hurt that someone is pregnant with your child, but you owed... owe me no obligation.” A tear drops from her eye, and I catch it, thumbing it away, because she should never cry over a prick asshole like myself.
Never.
“I-I...” I stammer out, caught between wanting to apologize for the pain I’ve caused her, and wanting to tell her I don’t think I’m going to be a father because Caren has the wrong guy. But everything I plan to say takes a back seat when she lays her head on me. It’s dawning on me slowly that I yearn to always have her imprint right here, right on my chest, covering my heart.
I want to feel the weight of her pressed on me as we lay in bed.
I want to be able to give her morning, noon, night, and even make-up kisses.
I want it all.
“I’m not saying we’re...” she trails. “Just, can we be...”
I find my voice that disa
ppears so easily along with my manhood when she’s around. My hand captures her chin, because I have to see her eyes. But, my attention is briefly pulled up toward swaying curtains and the feminine shape behind the sheer fabric. Laura doesn’t hide herself. Even from where I am, her displeasure is noticeable. Her stare is relentless. I feel the axis of my world tilting. Something is right there, on the tip of her tongue, and her spiteful mother won’t stop me from hearing my girl’s thought. “Can we be what, Chels?”
“Can we be friends?”
Chapter Eighteen
I could stare at her forever. Her magnetic eyes, her quick smiles, and her always listening ear—all of them endears her to me, even in the short time she’s been in my life. Her best attribute is she doesn’t feel the need to over-talk to me as most other women do.
And her smell. It’s one-of-a-kind. A perfect mixture of baby powder and lotion—all made by Johnson & Johnson, of course. Juli’s toothless gurgle follows a fart, and both make me laugh out loud, to which she giggles. She shifts in my arms, and I realize she’s done more than pass gas.
“Nasty,” I tell my girl, trying not to inhale even as her smile stretches wider. “You’re too cute to smell like that.” I swear she nods her head at me, agreeing with my assessment.
I don’t think any other three-month-old baby is as cute as my niece/god-daughter, but Juli—the name I gave her, which Emma hates because according her Juliet is too beautiful of a name to be shortened—is damned pretty, and also super smart.
I mean, what baby covers their nose after a fart that turns into a shit? I crane my head over the side of my couch, looking for her diaper bag, which seems to have disappeared, just like her parents since their arrival to my condo ten minutes ago. I know I saw Emma with it. Now where in the hell did it go? Pulling her small body closer to me, Juli and I continue looking for her colorful, big-ass bag that was bursting at the seams when we last saw JC dragging it inside.
