by Gina Azzi
Plucking my phone from the small table, I flip off the lights and exit the studio, walking to the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of chilled Riesling as I tap out a reply.
Me: Hi! Yes, all good thanks. My brother and cousin came to bombard me with pleas to move closer to the family unit.
Small dots appear at the bottom of my screen immediately, and I relish the lick of excitement swiping low in my belly.
Denver: England?
Me: Scotland.
Denver: You moving?
Me: Undecided. I've got three months to sort out my life.
Several minutes pass before he replies.
Denver: Good luck.
Good luck? What’s that supposed to mean? I sigh, draining my wine. Rereading our brief exchange, I’m desperate to keep the conversation going. But what do I say?
Me: Thanks. How’s all by you?
Denver: All good. Heading to work now. Talk to you soon.
He will? Talk to me soon? I smile as I re-read the words, knowing that I would look like a complete idiot to anyone witnessing the roller coaster of emotions I’m dealing with from texting with Denver.
Me: Okay. Have a good day.
Heading into the living room, I collapse on the couch and flip on the TV, hopeful for a distraction when I know there isn't any when it comes to Denver Kane.
September
7
Sierra
After my getaway to Ashby County, Georgia, my life resumes in New York, although not quite like before. Instead of spending my nights at art galleries or clubs, I spend every second of my time painting. And thinking about Denver.
We’ve spoken a handful of times, via text messages, in the week following our night together. Our conversations are brief and friendly, just bordering on flirty. As they pick up in frequency, we start exchanging memes and random photos. And last night, he called me. I almost passed out when his name flashed across my screen but the moment I answered, an easiness stretched between us. I found myself joking and laughing with Denver, well, I did most of the laughing, as if we talk all the time.
We spoke about our days and a movie we both want to see. It wasn’t anything spectacular and yet, my heart danced in my chest and I wore the goofiest grin for the next eighteen hours. The more Denver slips into my day-to-day, the more I avoid my brothers and cousins’ messages to pull me into the family business.
Getting lost in my work, I give myself up to my own feelings of excitement and giddiness. I paint vivid, striking portraits with bold colors and sharp angles. The techniques I’m applying are new and I attribute the shift in my painting to my budding relationship with Denver. Most of my paintings feature my grandmother, but two are of my father, dressed in the traditional clothing of our tribe, the Navajo, a headdress adorning his thick, black hair.
A long time ago, he was considered a prominent member of our community. But the outside world was too alluring for a free spirit like him, and he shunned traditional values, opting to marry my mother, a White woman, relocate away from his family's reservation in Arizona, and adopt a Western appreciation for materialistic goods. Slowly, his painting ceased and his presence at various poker tables filled the void. It wasn’t long before he gambled away my parent’s savings and my mother left him, taking Lachlan and I with her to the East Coast.
When Mom married James, a successful Scottish businessman with the largest marketing and PR company in the UK, our lives shifted once again, as we were suddenly thrust into seemingly endless wealth, bustling lives in both New York and London, and family stability.
Unlike Lachlan, I didn't completely succumb to this new lifestyle, opting to attend college in Arizona where I could reconnect with my dad, the free spirit, the painter. We never reconnected the way I hoped or imagined we would, but I did develop a relationship with my grandmother, which I'm incredibly grateful for. In that aspect alone, it was all worth it.
Except now, Tota haunts my paintings, making constant appearances in my dreams. She's trying to tell me something, forewarn me. A change is coming. I just have no clue what that change is or what any of it means.
It's not until two days later when I pop into a Duane Reade to buy Q-tips and deodorant that it hits me. I'm late. Like, really late. Stopping abruptly in front of the feminine hygiene products, I calculate nearly a week late!
My period has been regular, like clockwork, since I first got it at age twelve. I've never been late. Ever. I feel the blood drain from my face, working its way down my body, and pooling in my feet until my shoes feel like cement bricks, and I'm unable to move. Literally.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes in a sudden surge of emotion, and I hastily pick up three different brands of pregnancy tests and toss them into my basket, beelining for the register, Q-tips forgotten.
The moment I'm home, I rip into the first box and glance at the directions. My fingers are shaking, and my stomach roils in panic. Is that nausea or nerves? Oh, my God. I could be pregnant.
Grabbing my cell phone, my thumb hovers above the call button for Daisy, but what the heck am I going to say to her? I think your brother knocked me up? No, I shake my head, dismissing the idea. I'm a big girl. I can do this.
Disappearing into the bathroom, I pee on the stick and then wait.
The longest two minutes of my freaking life.
And when two pink lines greet me, I almost vomit.
8
Denver
Sierra’s name lights up my screen and I smile, biting it back before it has the chance to spread across my face like some whipped teenager. But God, even the chance to talk to her affects me. I never thought we’d keep anything going since she left Georgia but the past two weeks have been cool, easy, and natural between us.
Ring. Ring. My phone screeches again.
"Hello?"
"Hey." Her voice sounds different, husky, as though she’s been crying.
"Sierra?" I clench the phone tighter, concerned.
Pause. A stifled sigh. "Yeah. So, listen, I know you're like, living your best life in Georgia, but I'm pregnant."
Huh? What the hell? My throat dries and my heart beats furiously in my chest. Pregnant? Me, a father? I open my mouth, but no sound escapes and Sierra's loud breathing through the line clogs my eardrums.
"It's yours," she says on a huff, but I hear the emotion, the swell of tears in her voice, and I mentally curse myself.
"I, uh, of course I know it's mine," I manage to mutter, working a thick swallow. "I'm just, Jesus, I'm processing."
"Oh." Her voice is quiet, but I can hear the uncertainty and confusion she's not sharing, and my heart squeezes into my throat, making it difficult to swallow, never mind speak.
Jesus. I'm going to have a baby. I shake my head at the thought as an image of my own father pops into my head. I can't raise a kid. Look at how my dad messed me up, fucked with Carter's head, and messed with Jax and Daisy's futures. I'm not cut out to play hero to some little boy. Or girl. Oh God. What if it's a girl?
"Denver?"
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm, uh, I'm here." I slide onto one of the island barstools and clench the water bottle I discarded hours ago. "Are you sure?"
Sierra snorts, the sound delicate coming from her. The easygoing, relaxed friendship we’ve forged over the past two weeks is gone. In its place is a stifled, tense awkwardness. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm late, like a week late. And I took three different pregnancy tests. My doctor confirmed it this morning."
Oh. "Oh."
"Look, I'm not asking you for anything or expecting anything from you. I just thought you should know. So, I guess I'll just—"
"Wait a minute." Her words slam into me, searing through me and blazing a trail of anger in their wake. She's not asking me for anything? She doesn't expect anything from me? Screw that. The second her words collided with the image of my father, clarity ripped through me. I don't want to be like him. I won't be like him. Not a shot in hell. Which means she should ask me for anything she needs and expect me to be just
as present in this process as she is. That's exactly what I'm going to tell her. Except when I open my mouth, I don't know how to explain all of those thoughts. I don't know the right way to say anything bouncing around in my head. "Don't do that. Don't brush me off like I don't care about you. About...the baby." I sigh, rubbing the space between my forehead and trying to make some sense of my own thoughts. "When's your next appointment?"
Sierra's even breathing fills the line for several seconds. "I have an ultrasound on October 12.”
"Okay. I'll be there."
"What?" She laughs, but it's nervous and forced. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to. Send me the details, okay?"
"Um, yeah. Okay."
"Shit. Sierra, I'm late for work. I'll call you later. We should, I don't know, talk about things."
She breathes out a laugh that sounds more like her. "Yeah. All right. I'll talk to you later."
I nod before realizing she can't see me. Then I hang up the phone and exhale, a whoosh of air that lasts several seconds.
I'm going to be a father. A parent.
I’m having a baby…with Sierra.
Closing my eyes, I drop my head, the scenes flooding my mind even though I don’t want them to. Sierra and I laughing and watching over our baby. Taking a family trip to the beach and teaching the little guy how to boogie board. And fish. Ordering ice cream and tasting all the flavors. Sierra rocking our baby at nighttime, singing a lullaby.
It’s a yearning so strong, it stabs me. A hope I have no right wishing for. A dream that will never come true. I may be becoming a father but there’s no way in hell a woman like Sierra would want to create a family with me. The nuclear kind. She’d be selling herself short and I’d be selfish as hell if I allowed that to happen.
Tossing the phone down on the butcher block island, I blow out a deep breath and rake my fingers through my hair. Jesus. I’m having a baby. A coldness settles in my shoulders, sweeping throughout my body as panic grips me. I can't raise a kid. I mean, look at me. An ex-convict with no future and no real prospects. How am I going to afford to give a kid the type of lifestyle Sierra is used to? Just last year, my sister spent Thanksgiving with her family in St. Barth's. An island! The closest thing I've ever experienced to being on an island was solitary confinement. What a joke.
But wow. A baby. With Sierra. I swallow thickly, already knowing I can't—won't—walk away from my own blood. Not the way my dad did. I never want to be anything like him. Can I be a decent father? I don't have to be the dad of the year or anything crazy, but can I be enough for my own kid to not think I screwed him or her up?
Sierra is going to be an amazing mother. She's all giving and nurturing and caring. She's tough though, won't let our kid get out of line too much. She'll be a natural while I'll be stumbling along every single step of the way.
Still, I'll be there. I have to be.
How will that work? A guy at Benny’s co-parents with his baby’s mama. Is that what Sierra and I will do? Or could we try for something more? Is it even possible? Or would I ruin her the way I seem to ruin everything good my life touches?
Will the baby have my last name? My panic spikes at the thought. Probably. I mean, yes, he will, unless Sierra doesn't want him to. Can I do that to my kid? Let him carry around all of my sins, the weight of the Kane name hanging heavily on his neck? His friends will know me as the dad who went to jail.
My stomach sinks at the thought, settling somewhere around my toes, and I suddenly feel sick. Like I could puke this lukewarm water up right now. Anger simmers in my veins, and my hands tighten into fists. A wave of hate for my own father surges forward, overwhelming in its intensity.
For the first time in a long time, I think about clearing my name.
Could it even be done? I’ve maintained that I’m innocent from the moment the cops threw me in the back of their car, the red and blue lights whirling. A part of me wanted to fall on the sword for my dad but not after I realized how he set me up to take his fall. He always talked about loyalty, trust, and family. When I realized he was willing to let me pay for his actions, I learned that those values mean very different things to us. But still, they’re values I want to live by.
They’ve just taken on a different meaning now.
Now that I'm not an MC hang around searching for my dad's approval, I know that the entire code only works if everyone follows it. And my dad never put me or my best interest before his own.
What kind of a dad does that?
My baby is probably the size of a blueberry or something, and I already know I won't let him sacrifice himself and his future for my own bad choices.
I need to clear my name.
Tossing the water bottle in recycling, I check the time on my phone and curse, knowing I’m going to be late. My head is all over the place and I can’t even think straight. Swiping my keys off the kitchen table, I hustle to the front door and slam the door closed. I take the steps to my SUV quickly and back out of the driveway, glancing at the clock. I can’t mess up my only source of income, especially when another mouth is going to be relying on it.
It's late when I call her. The ringing in my ear as I wait for her to pick up the phone kicks my adrenaline up a notch, and I’m desperate for her to pick up.
"Hey," she answers just as I'm considering disconnecting the call.
"Hey."
"How was work?"
I sigh, almost grinning to myself as she asks me the most normal, mundane question. A casual question friends would ask each other without thinking about it. Is that what we are? Friends? Jesus. Why am I so bad at this?
"Denver?'
"Yeah. Sorry. It was fine. Just work."
"Oh."
Pause.
Think Denver. Say something.
"So, are you feeling okay?" I ask finally, frowning as my words come out harsh instead of curious.
"For the most part." Sierra pauses, and I wish I could see her, wish I could read her expression to understand the thoughts she's not voicing. "A little nauseated. Exhausted."
I nod before remembering she can't see me. A quick Google search during my break informed me that all of these symptoms are normal in early pregnancy. But she already knows that, right?
"Honestly, I wish I could tell Daisy," she admits, her words a whisper.
Panic and shame flare through me. I scrub my hand over my face, my fingers scraping against the three-day old scruff I desperately need to shave. Of course, she wants to tell Daisy. She’s her best friend. If I had a best friend, maybe I'd tell him, too. But my brothers are my best friends, and I can't tell them this. Not yet. Not now.
How much more of a screw-up can I possibly be? Hanging around my old man, dealing with his bullshit, and facing jail time all meant leaving Jax, Carter, and Dais on their own, to fend for themselves. It meant Carter raising Daisy when it should have been me. It meant him making choices he never should have had to make to keep the rest of us unburdened. It meant Jax cutting from town and Daisy growing up in constant instability. Now, I knocked up her best friend from a one-night stand? Even if that’s not how I view Sierra, even though I’d want nothing more than for her to be my girl, for us to be having a baby that we plan to raise together, there’s no way my family will understand that. How could they? I know what people will think when they see Sierra, promising artist and jetsetter, with Denver, ex-convict and struggling mechanic.
How can I make my siblings understand that?
But keeping our baby a secret isn’t fair to Sierra. I know it the second she whispers the words about telling Daisy. She needs support; she must be reeling from the shock of this news. And here I am, the only person she’s confiding in.
That's laughable.
"Denver?"
I squeeze my eyes shut and mentally slap myself. Get your shit together, Den. "I'd never tell you what to do, Sierra. Of course, if you want to tell Daisy, you should."
Sierra sighs loudly. "I don't know how she'll take the
news. I honestly, I don't know what to do."
"I know. It's a lot to process," I admit, wishing I was more like Carter or Jax and could just put my thoughts and feelings into fucking words. But I've always been like this, incapable of expressing myself.
"I don't know if I should even keep the baby." Her voice is small and quiet, her words said on a breath of air.
But they stop my blood all the same.
Not keep the baby?
"You wanna have an abortion?" I wince at my bluntness, and my fingers clench the phone that much harder.
"No," she says immediately, and I hear the tears in her voice. "I just, I don't know what to do. I mean, adoption is something I could consider or—"
"No."
"No?"
"No. This baby, he or she, is mine and yours, and we're going to figure all this shit out. Jesus, do you have any idea how lucky a kid would be to have you as a mama?" I bite my lip hard until I draw blood to try to take the bitterness from my words. But is she crazy? She's all color and passion and life. Who could possibly be better at raising our baby?
"I'm scared, Den. I'm confused and overwhelmed and I'm…I'm all alone."
"I know. I can't imagine how you feel. But you're not alone. Sierra, I'm here. And I'll be in New York next week. Just…just give me a chance. Me and you, we're going to figure all of this out, okay?"
She's silent for several seconds, and I swear I can hear the thud of my heartbeat in my eardrums. When the hell did this become so important to me?
The moment I learned Sierra is having my baby.
"Okay."
I give a sharp nod. "Okay. I'm going to shuffle a few things around here, and then I'm coming to New York. Give me a few days?"
"Yeah."
"And if you need anything, absolutely anything, you'll call me."
"Okay."
"'Kay, babe. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning."
"'Night, Den."
