by Kim Bailey
So do I.
I clap, hoot, and holler like an idiot, bringing his attention our way.
When his eyes land on mine he breaks into a huge grin. With one last kick, he sends the skateboard into the air. He spins both it and his body in a wild arch before hopping onto the top of the ramp and catching the board in his hand.
Some of the kids crowd him, asking for tips, begging him to show them how it’s done. He just smiles down and tells them, “Practice. Every single day. And don’t give up.” He bumps fists with the teenager before jogging over to where Chante and I stand.
“You’re a show off,” Chante declares. “I thought you’d given that up.”
A cloud passes overhead, casting a shadow over his beautiful face, and for a moment, I see a look that’s less than vibrant. It’s a look that’s pained, almost haunted. “Yeah, well it’s not as easy as it used to be, but I still enjoy it from time to time.”
“You’re amazing,” I gush, still in awe of his mastery over a strip of wood on wheels.
“Thanks, but that was nothing, really.” The fleeting look of sadness drops away, replaced with his usual beam of exuberance. “I was just goofing around for the kids.”
“That was nothing?” I ask skeptically. “It looked pretty impressive to me.”
“It’s not too hard. I could teach you a couple of easy tricks.”
“I wouldn’t even be able to stand on that thing without landing on my ass,” I laugh.
“I wouldn’t let you fall.” His eyes dance over my face. “Trust me, I’d hold on to you, very tightly.”
His words are innocent, but his tone is devious, and my entire body reacts to the suggestion. For a minute—as my pulse pounds in my ears, in my chest, and between my legs—I consider it. I imagine his hands on me, gripping my hips, holding me firmly, pulling me closer. I can practically feel his breath on my neck.
“I don’t think so,” I stammer. My physical reaction is too wild. I’m too thirsty for his attention. Too eager to feel his touch. He’s just too tempting—a mistake waiting to fucking happen. “I wouldn’t want to make any of the kids jealous.”
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Chante interrupts. “Zadie, you should stay, let Caleb teach you a few things. The kids can have turns later.”
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
“I’ve got a date.” Her gaze travels out over the park as she avoids looking at us.
“A date?” How could she have a date when we were supposed to be spending the day together? I can’t even remember the last time Chante had a date—she’s so dedicated to her job—but a date in the middle of the afternoon?
Fuck. This was a set up. My best friend is the goddamn devil.
“Come on, Zadie, it could be fun,” Caleb urges.
“I can’t. I have to go.” I turn abruptly, escaping toward home.
It feels like my emotions are going to spiral out of control. I feel paranoid, depressed, and turned on all at the same time. But it’s simmering anger that threatens to overflow and consume me.
And that really pisses me off.
Maybe pregnancy’s like grief—it feels like there are definite stages. First it was denial, and then regret. I thought I’d already reached acceptance, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe one of the necessary stages is huge angry bitch.
Chante quickly catches up to me, her stride purposeful and determined.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she accuses, stepping in front of me, forcing me to stop.
“Me? I should be asking you that question. How dare you set me up like that. Do you enjoy making me miserable? It’s bad enough he’s moved here without you bothering to warn me... But this? What were you thinking?”
I think I might like being a raging bitch.
“You need to chill the fuck out.” Her demanding doctor tone is in full force. “All I was trying to do was get you to loosen up and have some fun. It’s skateboarding! I wasn’t asking you to get married.” She huffs a frustrated breath and my ultra-bitch ego deflates. “I understand you’re going through a pretty big upheaval. Honestly, it’s the only reason I’ve let you talk this shit to begin with. But your life isn’t ending, and we both know Caleb isn’t the reason you’re acting this way.”
She’s right, at least partially. Most of my reaction is about us, the secrets she’s holding, and my fear of losing my best friend. The other part is fear of losing myself—fear that having a baby is going to mess up all my newly formed and hard-won plans.
“Why do you have to be right all the time?” I cry.
“Because I’m older and wiser,” she soothes.
“Two years hardly counts.”
“But those are doctor years. You know that’s like the equivalent of two decades.”
Oh God, this argument again. I can’t help but giggle as I reply, “All right, you want to be twenty years my senior? No problem. I’ll stick with my tiny twenty-nine-year-old brain, thank you very much.”
“Ha. Ha,” she mocks. “I said it was the equivalent—that doesn’t actually add years to my life. Besides, I still have the body of a twenty-year-old. I’m the best of both worlds, sugar-tits.”
Her laughter lets me know, despite my giant tantrum, things are still okay. At least, for now. But I can’t bring myself to laugh along with her. It’s just not funny. Right now, it feels like nothing will ever be funny again.
Groaning in despair, I wail, “Chante! Why did you have to bring up your fabulous body? I’m going to get fat! My body’s short and compact to begin with, and my ass is already stretching my favorite jeans.”
Giving me a look generally reserved for toddlers, she corrects, “You’re growing another human being, not getting fat. Besides, you’re young, the weight will come right back off. And your ass?” She smirks. “Your ass is perfectly slap-able, trust me. But if you don’t want to take my word for it, we can always go back and ask Caleb what he thinks. I bet he wouldn’t mind giving you a spank or two.”
“Don’t even joke,” I warn her as she breaks into an evil grin.
“Why not? You know you want him.”
“Please, like that makes any difference now. What I want doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” she tells me calmly. “You still have choices. You always have choices. Don’t set aside your own happiness. Not yet.”
“Chante, I’ve already decided. I’m keeping the baby.”
“Okay. Well that’s great, babe. Doesn’t mean you need to become a nun.” Wrapping her arm around my shoulders, she clears her throat. “Here’s the thing. You’re a weirdo, you like Caleb. Well, newsflash, he likes you too. Don’t shut that down.”
“I already did,” I confess. “He asked me to go out with him. On a date. I said no.”
“You said no?” I nod my head in confusion. “Okay, I can fix this. I’ll just explain to him that what you really meant was yes.”
“What? No! Don’t you dare!”
“Why not?”
“Because, I can’t go out with him! I can’t do another relationship. It would be a mistake,” I confess my fears.
“Who said anything about a serious relationship? I’m talking about bumping uglies. Zadie, have some filthy, dirty sex with my cousin, will you?”
“Please stop,” I groan. “I swear, you’re like a teenage boy trapped in a grown woman’s body.”
“Look,” she says with no hint of humor, dropping her arm back to her side. “You won’t have the guts to do it yourself, and I don’t want to hear you crying when you realize I’m right.”
Why do I bother arguing with her? I know the more I try to dispute it, the more she’ll be convinced she’s right.
“Fine, Chante,” I concede. “Do whatever you want. I mean, my life’s already a disaster, might as well bring Caleb into it. I’m sure he won’t mind having his cousin set him up with a pre-made family. What young guy doesn’t dream of taking on eighteen years of someone else’s responsibility?”
My hars
h tone and cruel intention doesn’t even make her flinch. “There’s a lot about him you don’t know,” she says, cryptically. “If you knew, you’d realize how totally wrong you are.”
Without giving me time to respond she adds, “You are right about one thing, though. I don’t think I should fix any more of your problems. I love you, Zadie, but you need to pull your head out of your ass.” My shocked expression doesn’t stop her from laying it all out. “You’re not the first woman in the world to have an unplanned pregnancy. Not everyone would consider it a disaster. Some might even think of it as a blessing.”
She walks away, leaving me alone with my pregnancy grief. But not before I catch the sharp line across her brow and a wobble of her chin.
Was she going to cry?
Either I really am a horrible, raging bitch, or I don’t know my best friend the way I thought I did. She sure has a good handle on me, though.
The selfishness, the pity, the negative cycle of doubt and despair—all of it ends now. I don’t need those reckless feelings anyway. They sure aren’t going to solve any of my problems for me. And apparently, neither is anyone else.
How many more mistakes is it going to take to get this right?
Caleb
BEING FRIENDS SUCKS.
Especially when your friend can’t stand being around you. The way Zadie ran off the other day, just at the suggestion of being alone with me? It was a huge kick to my already fragile ego.
Yes, fragile. I can admit it.
I’m not one of those tough, pretend I don’t care kind of guys. I have feelings. Probably too damn many, truthfully. And I’m afraid I don’t know how to hide them, how to protect myself. Putting myself out there, just to be turned down by her again? Even if it’s for something as simple as a friend date, it proves I’m not capable of making rational decisions. Not with this girl.
So, I’m back to avoidance.
The smell of popcorn wafts through my open bedroom door. Chante’s declared it movie night. Zadie showed up a while ago, and I’ve been pretending to be busy in my room ever since.
The sound of their voices carries with the smell of the butter. They’re loud. At times, it’s hard to tell if they’re having fun, or if they’re killing each other.
There’s obviously something going on between them. I couldn’t hear the argument they had at the park, but the way Chante’s hands were flying, I’d say it was a big one.
“Caleb!” Chante calls urgently.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, running from my room, only to find the two of them throwing popcorn at each other in the kitchen.
“Zadie’s trying to make me watch Sinister. She says it’s a must-watch movie. I don’t believe her.”
My racing heart calms—there’s no real panic, it’s just Chante being overly-dramatic. I’m coming to realize my cousin has a bit of a split personality. Crazy, over-the-top one minute, and eerily serious the next.
“I’ve never seen it either,” I tell her.
“What?” Zadie exclaims. Gone are the dark circles from under her eyes, the troubled pinch from her mouth, and the tension from her spine. With her hair piled on top of her head, messy strands hanging around her face, she looks fresh and innocent. Her shocked, wide eyes lend to the effect. “Neither of you know what you’re missing. It’s one of the scariest movies ever made—it’s completely awesome!”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I ask, humored. “If it’s one of the scariest movies ever, I need to see it.”
Chante throws her hands in the air, whirling around, looking between me and Zadie. “Fuck d'ostie! I don’t like horror movies! I don’t know why you always try to make me watch them,” she says, pointing at Zadie. “You know I’m just going to make you turn it off halfway through and watch something else.”
“You’re such a wimp,” Zadie accuses, playfully. “Your cousin agrees with me—don’t you Caleb?” Her playful tone and natural, unworried smile, help me relax back into the idea of being friends. At least she’s not ignoring me, or running away.
“Come on, Chante,” I goad. “You work in an ER, how can you be afraid of a movie?”
“Fine,” she gives in. “Just don’t complain if I make you both sleep in my room with me tonight. With the lights on.”
I follow them to the living room. Chantal plops into her favorite over-sized armchair, forcing Zadie to share the couch with me. We’re at opposite ends, with an entire cushion of space between us. But something about the way she casually curls her feet up and points her toes toward me, makes it feel intimate.
“We should have made more popcorn,” Chante complains, hugging the huge bowl that’s practically overflowing.
“It’s alright,” Zadie says, grabbing the remote. “I don’t think I want any right now, anyway.”
A look passes between them, strengthening my suspicions about something going on. My concerns are quickly forgotten when the opening credits start to roll. Chante squeals, “Ethan Hawke is in this movie? Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have put up such a fight.”
Zadie’s sweet laugh is free and unbothered—I love the sound of that laugh. “You’re not going to like him for much longer!” she declares, her giggles quickly dying as the movie starts.
Chante doesn’t make it very far—only twenty minutes in and she’s proclaiming Sinister ‘too scary for life’. She doesn’t demand we turn it off the way she warned. Instead, she makes an excuse about going to the washroom, and doesn’t come back.
“Do you think she’s alright?” I ask Zadie, stretching my arm along the back of the couch. If I leaned in, just a bit, my fingertips could graze the back of her neck. But I don’t give into that urge—it’s probably not considered an acceptable thing for a friend to do.
“Oh yeah, she does this every time. She’s never made it through an entire horror movie with me.”
“I guess Ethan Hawke wasn’t enough to convince her.”
“No, I guess not. He’s a great actor, isn’t he? I love him in this movie and Boyhood. Have you seen that one? It’s phenomenal,” she rambles, without waiting for my response. “He’s one of my favorites. But he’s not a Chris. Chante would stay for a Chris.”
“A Chris?”
“Yeah, you know—Evans, Pine, Pratt, or Hemsworth. Especially Hemsworth, he’s her favorite.”
“Oh, of course,” I tease. “Who’s not in love with that guy?”
“I’m not. He’s not my type.” Her eyes shift from the movie, shyly finding mine. “He’s just too... much.” Looking back to the television, she adds, “I do like his hair, though. Long hair on a man is super sexy.”
Damn.
The easy banter, the laughter, the comfort of hanging out. It all had me feeling like this friend thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all. We’ve been relaxed and easy. I was just starting to accept things as platonic. Then, one innocent slip of a comment, and I’m turned inside out. Her words are so provocative, it makes me wonder if they’re really innocent at all.
Is it a tiny hint she might be interested? A little tease that we could be more than friends?
One thing’s for sure, it’s an enormous enticement. It makes me think about sliding across this couch and putting my mouth on hers.
“I pictured you as more of a comedy fan.” I unsuccessfully attempt to drag my thoughts away from her words, her lips, and the way her legs have stretched closer to me.
“Sure, when I’m in the mood for one. But I like any kind of movie, as long as it’s good.” She trails off, her attention caught by the action on the screen.
My attention is focused on watching her. The glow of the television highlights her features. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but she looks flushed. Her cheeks are a light crimson, and there’s a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. The exaggerated play of shadow can’t be blamed for the rapid rise and fall of her ample chest. Or for the white knuckled clutch of her hands in her lap.
“You’re missing the good part,” she murmurs,
her eyes never leaving the screen.
“I’m not missing a thing.” Intent on studying her profile, I torture myself with thoughts of running my hand up her legs.
When she jumps in her seat, I’m jolted into paying attention to the movie again. She was right, it’s scary as hell—for a movie. Creepy children and the idea of everything being captured on a reel of film is kind of freaky. The ending is gruesome. When I turn to see Zadie’s reaction to it, I realize she’s not watching the movie. She’s watching me. Even when my eyes land on hers, she doesn’t look away.
“Well?” She turns to face me and her legs stretch out in front of her—her toes almost brushing my thigh. “What’d you think?”
“It was good.”
“Good? Just good?” She frowns. “You didn’t think it was scary?”
“Sure, but it’s just a movie. Artificial blood, visual effects, and a made-up story—none of it’s real. It’s hard to be afraid of something that’s so fake.”
“Some of it’s real!” she argues. “Death is real. You have to admit, that shit’s scary.”
“I’m not afraid to die.”
“What? Come on Caleb, everyone’s afraid of death, at least a little.”
“Nope, not even a little. Death is inevitable. I’m more afraid of life.” She looks doubtful, or maybe a little surprised. “Well, I’m not afraid of life itself—more like, missing out on it. I think it’s easy to forget what a gift it is, and all it takes is one wrong choice, one missed opportunity to mess it all up.”
“Trust me, I know,” she whispers.
“Besides,” I tell her, hoping to turn her thoughts away from her past and the bad choices she claims to have made. “I’ve already died once. It wasn’t that bad.”
Her mouth drops open, her eyes growing round. “Seriously? I knew you had an interesting story to tell.”
“Maybe another time. One scary story per night is my limit,” I joke. “The movie was good enough.”
