“My point exactly,” Jared slices in. “We just started trying to get pregnant, and I for one, plan to enjoy all the trying, Mrs. Morales-Foster.”
His comment coaxes an involuntary smile from me. How many times has he talked me out of discouragement? Raised my spirits with his dark humor and made me laugh when I thought it wasn’t possible.
“Still rankles, does it?” I tease. “The hyphen?”
His answering chuckle assures me it does not.
“No, because hyphen or no hyphen, your pussy is still mine.”
“Jared.” I swallow a giggle, glancing around the restaurant as if he’s on speaker phone and everyone can hear. “You’re incorrigible.”
“When you talk smart, my dick gets hard.”
“Obviously this conversation is deteriorating.” I shake my head, a grin taking my lips hostage. “And I have a meeting.”
“Give Zo my best,” Jared says easily. The tension that used to suffuse our conversations about my ex-boyfriend and still-client isn’t there.
“And Graciella,” I add. “She’s coming, too.”
“Even better. Are they still going to the orphanage for Christmas?”
“Yeah, leaving for Argentina tomorrow.”
Zo’s tall figure fills the doorway, and he searches the dining room. A smile lights his face when he spots me.
“They’re here,” I tell Jared, even though right now I only see Zo.
“Okay, I’ll see you at home for dinner. I love you.”
“So much,” I reply, having to swallow that stupid lump in my throat again. “Thank you, Jared, for the perspective, the support, the—”
“You can thank me after dinner. I gladly accept sexual favors.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Foster.”
“Later, Mrs. Morales-Foster.”
As soon as we hang up, I stand and step into the warm hug Zo has waiting for me.
“Hola, Bannini,” he says, dropping a kiss into my hair. “Estas preciosa.”
“Gracias.” I pull back and grin up at him, affection for my old friend warming my smile as I continue in Spanish. “You don’t look too bad yourself. You’re the picture of health.”
He nods, but his smile slips a bit.
“You are, right?” I demand and study his handsome face more closely. “You’re okay? What does your doctor say?”
“I’m as good as I can possibly be. They want to try a new drug. Experimental. They say because of my excellent conditioning, I’m a perfect candidate for it, but I’m not sure I want to tempt fate by changing a thing.”
I sit and gesture for him to take one of the other seats at the table.
“What are the risks?” I ask, a frown tugging my brows together. “Is there any empirical evidence? Has it worked for anyone else? Why would you—”
“Banner,” he cuts in softly, a faint warning there.
A wry grin tips my mouth. It’s none of my concern anymore. He’s right, and keeping my nose out of his business, other than his actual business, is what keeps things comfortable for both of our significant others. Hell, for us, too.
“Sorry.” I fiddle with the linen napkin on the table. “Old habits die hard.”
“You know I’ll never forget all you did for me.” Zo covers my hand with his briefly before pulling back. “I wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for you.”
“You’re exaggerating.” I dip my head to hide the emotion that nearly overwhelms me when I think about all the times he came within a handbreadth of dying.
“No, I’m not,” Zo replies. “And we both know. Only we really know, Banner.”
I lift my head to find a matching emotion reflected in his eyes. We’ve been through a lot together. Hell together, actually, but now we’re both happier than we’ve ever been.
“Where’s Graciela?” I ask, reaching for my water to take a sip. “I thought she was coming with you.”
“Yes, she, uh . . .” Zo twists his lips, something close to discomfort flitting across his expression. “She needed the restroom. There’s something I need to tell you, Bannini, before we dive into my speaking schedule for next year.”
I grab the iPad from its slot in my leather bag.
“What’s up?” I place the iPad on the table, sit back and cross my legs, waiting for him to continue.
“Gracie and I, we’re engaged.”
I cover my immediate smile with one hand, joy popping off inside me like champagne corks. I may even squeal.
“Dios, Zo, that’s fantastic.” I lean forward to capture and hold his gaze with mine, letting him see how sincerely delighted I am for him. “You deserve every happiness.”
“Gracias,” Zo answers, his proud grin widening. “She has no idea what she’s getting into, so I’ll marry her before she figures out she’s getting a lemon.”
“Lemon, my ass. You’re in better shape than most of those guys playing in the league. Still.”
“Yeah, well, there’s something else I need to tell you.” That shadow passes over his face again. “Banner, Gracie is—”
“Sorry about that,” Graciela’s voice interrupts as she reaches the table. “I hear lots of bathroom breaks are to be expected for women in my condition.”
I glance up, and my smile freezes.
Pregnant.
That’s the word Zo didn’t get to say. The thing he was uncomfortable telling me. He knows how badly I want a baby; knows we’ve been trying with no success so far.
I flick a glance from the little bump poking through Graciela’s loose-fitting dress to her pretty face.
“Yes, I hear that, too,” I reply on auto-pilot. “Congratulations on both counts.”
“Gracias,” she says, her expression turning dreamy when she places a delicate hand on her belly.
Her engagement ring catches the sun streaming through the wall of windows, and a shard of light pokes my eye. Makes me squint. It cuts like glass across my face, and for a moment, pain slices through me. It has nothing to do with the ring, and everything to do with the baby growing inside Zo’s fiancée.
“How far along are you?” I ask, relying on muscle memory for my smile as she takes her seat.
“Five months.” Graciela meets my smile and turns one to Zo, but Zo is looking at me.
“I was going to tell you, Banner,” he says quickly.
He knows. I hate that I can’t hide from either of the men who have meant so much to me, Zo as a friend and Jared as the love of my life. In this moment, with LA’s blinding winter sun exposing every emotion in me, on my face, there is nowhere to hide.
“Oh, no,” I rush to assure him . . . and her. “Why? Most couples get past the first trimester before telling people.”
But I’m not “people” and it is well into the second trimester, and even if Graciela doesn’t know, Zo and I both know why he didn’t tell me.
“We haven’t spoken as much lately either,” Zo continues, a defensive note creeping into his voice.
It’s true. Since he retired, he has withdrawn from the public eye as he shored up his health in preparation for next year’s aggressive schedule.
“I know,” I say, a more natural smile melting away the fake one. “And I’m glad I haven’t had to bother you. It sounds like your medical team is on top of making sure you’re ready for next year.”
Zo searches my face, looking for clues to how I’m really feeling.
Leave it alone, Zo.
After the initial shock of hearing about Graciela’s pregnancy, I’m settling into what should have been my first response. Happiness for him.
“It’s amazing,” I tell Graciela, but for Zo’s benefit. I pick up the menu and find the salad I have enough points for. “Mama will be delighted. She was so concerned about this when you were in treatment. I’m glad you prepared for this.”
“And we didn’t even have to use the sperm he set aside,” Graciela says with a chuckle. “We weren’t even trying. Can you believe that?”
“I can’t believe it,” I murmur through numb li
ps. “That’s amazing.”
I’m not sure how many times I can say “amazing” before it starts sounding insincere. And I do mean it. I am happy for them. I’m just not happy for me. Zo, who’s sperm the doctors said would probably never produce children, wasn’t even trying and has a baby on the way. I’m doing everything short of a virgin sacrifice, and nothing.
I’m able to set aside my selfish peevishness and get through lunch. Over a delicious meal, we discuss their plans for Christmas at the orphanage and, more extensively, the book Zo has been writing and the travel schedule I’ve started organizing for next year.
“So after the holidays,” I say, pushing aside the remnants of my salad. “We go to New York and meet with publishers. I have ten lined up ready to hear our pitch, but we’re really the ones considering them. Everyone will want your story, Zo.”
“If I can stay healthy long enough to tell it.” Zo says it lightly, but I know him well enough to hear the real fear in his voice. I was there when the doctor diagnosed him with amyloidosis. It was a death sentence, one he’ll be outrunning the rest of his life. It’s easy for me to say he’ll be fine; that he should take risks and experiment, but he’s the one who has flatlined and been brought back. He’s the one who lived through chemo and the debilitation of stem cell replacement. Him sitting at this table is a miracle.
His baby is a miracle.
“I need to use the bathroom one more time before we go,” Graciela says, her dark eyes meeting Zo’s in a private contentment only they can share. “The story of my life lately. I’ll be right back.”
I snatch the bill off the table before Zo can grab it.
“I’m expensing it,” I say, stuffing my card in the leather sleeve and handing it to the server. “So back off my bill.”
He shakes his head and smiles, but concern quickly replaces the humor in his eyes.
“I was going to tell you, Bannini,” he says softly.
“Please.” I hold up a hand to stop whatever he’s about to say. “Don’t feel bad at all. It’s your news to share as you see fit. When you see fit. It’s fine.”
“No one was more shocked than me. When Gracie turned up pregnant, I couldn’t believe it at first.”
“If anyone deserves a miracle, it’s you, Zo.”
“It’ll happen for you, too.”
I can’t bear the sympathy in his eyes one more second. As soon as the server returns with my card, I sign and stand.
“I need to get back to the office,” I say abruptly.
He stands, too, immediately dwarfing me. I punch one well-muscled bicep.
“Welcome to the gun show,” I tease. “You sure you’re done with ball? Looks like you could still hold your own out there.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” He loops an arm around my neck and pulls me close. “He still treating you right, Bannini?”
He’s only half-joking. He’s as concerned about my happiness as I am for his.
“Jared treats me like a queen.” I pull back enough to smile up at him. “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“He’s one lucky son of a bitch, is what he is.” A smile crinkles Zo’s eyes at the corners. “But he knows that.”
“Yes, he knows that.”
I disentangle myself and grab the bag I almost left in my haste to get the heck out.
“Tell Graciela I had to dash.” I turn to go.
“Love you, Banner,” Zo says softly.
I stop and look over my shoulder, catching the deep affection he holds for me in the glance we share. How many people are lucky enough to have friendships like this? Enduring friendships tried by fire that have survived the worst circumstances? Friends who have forgiven and forgotten transgressions so they don’t lose one another.
“Love you, too, Zo.”
I make my way out of the restaurant, guiltily hoping I don’t run into Graciela and her adorable baby bump again. When I do actually get pregnant, I don’t think it’ll be cute. Some women just have that delicate adorableness and subtle glow during pregnancy. I fully anticipate sweating like a stuck pig and blowing up to the size of Cleveland, judging by the pregnancies of my mother, aunts and every childbearing woman in my family to date.
Of necessity, I’ve learned to compartmentalize. This business, this pace, doesn’t slow down for anyone. Definitely not for a woman leading one of the fastest-growing sports agencies around. There’s no time for the disappointment settling in layers of sediment at the bottom of my belly. No time for the anxiety that would paralyze me if I stop moving. No time for the senseless envy blurring my vision as I think about that little mound under Graciela’s dress. There’s no room for jealousy. I have no right to it, so I set each and every blistering emotion aside and get back to work.
I soldier through meetings and conference calls, but in the back of my mind, I’m longing for this one spot, for this one moment as soon as the day is over. I think about that spot on the ride home. When I walk through the door, I pause in the foyer to absorb the quiet. After talking all day, pitching and persuading and negotiating, the silence is a relief. I need a little space to sort through all I’ve felt; how vulnerable and emotional I’ve been.
I strip away my suit and heels, carelessly discarding them on the closet floor. I’ve been caged by the silk sleeves sheathing my arms and the belt cinching my waist; corseted by the underwear disciplining my body into smoother lines and slimmer curves. The bra, the body shaper – gone, and it feels like my whole being releases a deep breath it’s been holding since I dressed this morning. I pad over to Jared’s side of the closet and rummage in his drawers until I find an old Kerrington College t-shirt. I wander up the hall to a room I haven’t allowed myself to think about much lately, but thought about all the way home.
Right now this guest bedroom only holds a few of Jared’s things from his old apartment; refugee furniture, displaced and finding no natural spot in this house, several boxes of books, and his Play Station, which I’ve basically outlawed. Grown men screaming on headsets and pretending to blow things up, that’s not advancing humanity in any way. He’s complied, but insists I keep him entertained sexually if he can’t play his games.
Fair trade.
This room is otherwise empty. Barren. Like me.
But when the realtor first showed this house, I was drawn to the window seat in here; how the soon-setting sun shone through glass and brightened the entire room. I envisioned myself sitting here feeding my baby and singing one of the arrullos my mama sang to my sister Camilla and me.
The last of the day’s light beckons me to the bench where my kindle lies abandoned on the cushion, dead and dusty. A few weeks ago I slipped in here to catch up on some reading, but Jared strode in growling something about less reading, more fucking. The rest is a blur.
The lyrics of “A La Nanita” tickle my memory, and a soft hum vibrates in my throat. A carol and lullaby to the baby Jesus, we’d sing it especially at Christmas, but I heard it crooned to babies in every season throughout my life.
A la nanita nana
nanita ella, nanita ella
Mi niñ(a) tiene sueño
bendito sea, bendito sea
Fuentecita que corre
Clara y sonora
Ruiseñor que en la selva
Cantando y llora
Calla mientras la cuna
Se balancea
A la nanita nana
Nanita ella
My favorite line is My little girl is sleepy, blessed is she, blessed is she.
Am I blessed? I know the answer is a resounding yes. I have more than most. I’m fed and clothed and safe with, not just a roof over my head, but an expensive roof that no one in my family ever believed we’d have. I’m married to the only man I’ve ever really loved, and he loves me back to near obsession.
And yet I sit here, stewing in self-pity and envy, feeling cursed. I’m struck again with the irony of Graciela and Zo, pregnant against every odd without even trying, and me consumed b
y the thought of having a baby and . . . nothing. Is this punishment for my sins? For cheating on Zo? Aunt Valentina would say yes. She’d hand me one of her rosaries and send me to confession, but even though I’ve been raised a good Catholic girl, that doesn’t feel right. “A La Nanita” was originally penned as a lullaby for Jesus. Surely there is grace? Forgiveness? I know it was wrong, what I did, but will I be punished? Is this punishment? Or is this just life? Indiscriminate destiny blindly serving up good and bad.
Even as the thoughts flit through my mind like acrid smoke, I know they’re not true. I’m not being punished. Truth is I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. PCOS makes it harder for me to get pregnant. Fact is that we haven’t even been trying that long. Truth and fact war with a desire I’ve held for as long as I can remember. I’ve always wanted to be a mother; to instill in my little girls the confidence it took me too long to find. To raise sweet little boys into powerful, respectful men. I have to believe those weren’t doomed dreams, but there is hope. Right now, I just can’t find it. I can’t feel it.
“Ban!”
Jared yells my name from the foyer entry. I open my mouth to answer, but tears clog my throat. I’ve been a ball of emotions all day, tearing up over nothing. I need to get my shit together if I don’t want a lecture from Jared.
And I don’t want a lecture from Jared.
“Banner,” Jared calls again, his voice accompanied by approaching steps. He’s checking our bedroom, but of course I’m not there.
“In here,” I manage, mopping the tears wetting my cheeks. My husband’s eyes are as sharp as his mind. I’ve been on the defending side of both more than once, and would rather not explain a sting he’ll only want to soothe. Sometimes you don’t want to be soothed. Sometimes you want to ache. You want to feel the pain because it’s attached to something so vital, so important, it’s worth the hurt because it will make the ultimate joy that much richer. I just wonder if joy is in store for me.
“Did I screw up?” Jared asks from the doorway, dark blond eyebrows pinched over weary blue eyes. “Was I supposed to grab dinner? I thought you said—”
“I did say.” I sink deeper into the cushions, deeper into the shadows filling the room now that the sun has gone down. “I planned to cook, but came up here and got, um . . . I lost track of time, I guess.”
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