by Xyla Turner
The desperate cries of a woman who lost a child would be something I would always respond to. Which was the only reason why I would ask my no-longer-baby-mother to have a child with me.
Fuck, I hadn’t even thought about children recently. They had always been in the plan, but I guess I’d forgotten. I had been having way too much fun to stop and assess what the fuck was happening with my life. Fucking around here and there, but nothing or no one of substance.
It was time.
Sheryl’s announcement of her pregnancy allowed me to dream a bit. It reminded me of what I wanted. A house with a white picket fence, preparatory school, playing ball, watching sports, and going to the events. Girl or boy, but I saw a boy. For sure. He would be well rounded, far away from gangs, know several languages, and maybe know how to play an instrument if he wanted.
Her announcement brought all of those things back, and I wanted them. Actually, there was a deep need to have them. This opportunity with her was perfect—and then she told me it would not happen.
But her cries.
Another mother losing their child. My mom was never the same after Mateo was killed. Our father passing away when I was four was tough, but he had a heart attack. The senseless killing of her teenage son in the streets—well, that was it for her. She immediately moved me to upstate New York, took me out of my school and transferred me mid-year and everything. The woman worked hard to put me in a preparatory school, where my whole world opened up. I was able to graduate and go to Cambridge University and eventually started my business as an entrepreneur in educational software. Mom, on the other hand, who had bouts of depression and suffered with chronic pain, refused to leave New York, which is one of the reasons why I had a jet in the first place. Besides my business dealings, I had to go back and forth to the States in order to ensure she was good. Mom was starting to forget things, and I feared it would be early Alzheimer’s or dementia. Part of me knew she wanted to escape reality, but I tried my best to make her life as easy as I could. She deserved that.
Every bloody thing I could do to make her comfortable, I did, from paying off her home, buying her a car, to getting a food service, a housekeeper, and someone to take care of her lawn needs. She was opposed to all of them, and especially the housekeeper. Who, I learned, basically sits and listens to Mom as they both clean up. Then Mom said that I couldn’t fire her because Elsbeth was her friend.
Bloody brilliant.
Logically, having a baby with a one-night stand was a bad idea. In any way, shape or form, it would be frowned upon. However, my gut was telling me that it was not. Sheryl wasn’t just anyone. She was the best friend of the wife of my best mate. The woman was accomplished and not someone trying to trap me. Fuck, she didn’t need to get pregnant by me. I’m sure she wasn’t trying to get knocked up at all. This powerhouse of a woman had more to lose than me, but since I was looking forward to the union, I wanted to lay out my three-, six-, and nine-month plan for us. Then the two-, five-, and seven-year plan.
That seemed to go out the window after her confession of the miscarriage. Then as I boarded my jet back to London, the plan began to formalize. By the time we landed, I was back to my plans, and with her consent, we would be on schedule. This was a long shot, but providing some sort of comfort to a mother who’d lost her child was something I was intimately familiar with.
Once I finished my drink and grabbed some sleep, I woke with a new vigor. Baby Planning Project II was born, and now Sheryl and I had to hash out some details.
A few days later, I called on her cellphone number. This made me chuckle, because in order to get the number many months ago, it came with a threat from Maxine that if I hurt her friend, she would hurt me. I had no doubts, but it wasn’t me hurting Sheryl that worried me. It was probably the opposite. I could get someone else to have my baby, but why?
“Hey, Unknown Caller,” she answered.
“Save my number, then,” I quipped back.
She was no longer the vulnerable woman I’d had in my arms that last time we met. No, she was back to the barbs and the façade she put on to cover that side of her.
“We’ll see,” she answered right back.
Yup, the wall was up.
“You seem to be in a mood. Maybe this is a bad time.” I put the phone on speaker as I opened my refrigerator to grab a beer. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Jacquez, you are wasting my time,” she snapped. “You text me a few days ago, say nothing else, then call later with this bullshit.”
When I was about to answer, she cut me off and continued, “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Did you mean what you texted? That’s the only reason we need to talk. If you meant it.”
“I did.” I stared at the phone, waiting for her response.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” I replied. “We’ve been acquainted. You’re not trying to trap me and have your own means. I want a child, and I believe you do. Began to bloody wrap my head around it, so I say let’s make it happen again, but on purpose.”
“Okay.” She said this more softly. “What were you thinking about?”
“I have a plan,” I told her. “This is why I called, to go over it with you.”
“Okay, sir,” Sheryl’s voice perked up. “I’m all ears.”
Knowing full well that I was dealing with a master negotiator, I began to lay it out.
“The first thing is that we need to schedule a time to go to the doctor. Make sure everything is working properly. If you’re on birth control, you’ll need to stop, then we need to set a schedule of when to fuck. Specifically, when you are ovulating is best. We can set our calendars around this time, and I’ll schedule my trips to visit Philadelphia or if you’re doing business in London.
“We’ll need to set up some parameters, doctor appointments, once you’re pregnant, think about leave and what that means for you and me. We will need to discuss housing, raising our son, and schooling, but that is in my two-, five-, and seven-year plan. Right now, I’m giving you the rough draft of the nine-month plan.”
Silence met me over the other line.
“Sheryl?” I called her name.
“I’m here,” she replied. “Just a bit taken aback.”
“Why? What part are you contesting?” I asked, expecting her to fight me about a few of my bullet points.
“No, no. I am not contesting anything. Just trying to digest it all. You’re serious,” she noted.
“Yes, I am,” I assured her. “Are you?”
She cleared her throat and said with a stronger voice, “I am, Jacquez. I want to do this. However, I do think we need to set parameters in addition to yours.”
“Continue,” I urged her.
“You and me. This arrangement. It’s to have a baby, not a relationship, right? I am not looking for that. I understand we will need to have sex for this to happen, but what if we don’t get pregnant right away? Do we keep trying? I did have a miscarriage. What if that happens again? What is the contingency plan? You mentioned something about buying a house. Why? Are you moving to Philadelphia? What does that mean? What are our parenting philosophies? Will you also attend parenting classes? What are our expectations of each other as we co-parent?”
She had definitely given this some thought, which was perfect, because this let me know she was invested.
“I will be a part of every aspect of our child before and after birth. If there are classes, I will work this around my schedule as best as I can. We visit the doctor together. From what I hear, you live in a condominium, so I’d like for our son to be raised in a home and not in the city. I know what school he will attend, as I attended a similar one in New York. In regard to you getting pregnant right away or not, I say we keep trying. If you have a miscarriage, we will investigate and adjust accordingly once we figure out why. I don’t want your body to have to keep dealing with that, so if we cannot have a child, then maybe we can think about a surrogate or adopting.”
“W
ow, uh…you’ve really thought this through.”
“Sheryl, I want to do this. I think you do as well.” I stopped talking so she could respond.
“I do,” she confirmed.
“Then let’s do it.”
“You didn’t answer the question about a relationship. Also, this house. Are you planning on living in the house?” she asked.
“You do not want a relationship, so we will act as co-parents. That is fine. I expect exclusivity. The house, yes, that would be an expectation. Do you object?” I asked.
“Wait, Jacquez. You’re talking about living together?” she asked with alarm in her voice. “That’s different than co-parenting. That is much more involved. We’d need to be roommates and learn to communicate and shit.”
“Sheryl, you do get that we’re talking about bringing a whole new life into the world. What the fuck does it mean for us to raise our child together under one roof? I don’t want him feeling torn between two parents. Visiting one on weekends and all that dumb shit.”
“Jacquez, wait a minute. I get that we’re talking about having a child, but living together is something different. What if you meet someone or I do – what do we say? That will hinder us from this idea of raising our child under one roof.”
That was a good point that had really never crossed my mind. In my head, I figured it would be all I needed. My son and his mother.
“Hello, are you there?” she asked.
“Yes. Fine. I’ll buy two houses. Next door to each other. We’ll raise him in one, and if either of us finds someone, then I’ll move next door so our co-parenting won’t be impacted.”
“Uh, Jacquez. That sounds a bit far-fetched, but how about we cross that bridge when we get there?” she asked. “I want to take some time to think this through and can we reconvene in three days to discuss details?”
“Yes. I’ll be in Philadelphia, so we can discuss this then. Shall I send over my contract that I drafted, so that you can go through it?” I asked.
“Contract?” she shrieked. “We have a contract?”
“Sheryl, you, I hear, are fierce at the work you do. I know for a fact that you wouldn’t enter into an agreement with anyone without a contract.”
Silence met me on the other end for a long few moments. Then she said, “You would be correct, but there is something about this that I do not want to be a contract, Jacquez. I understand if you need that, but I just can’t bring myself to do that. I give you my word, I am in this, but I am not signing a contract. This is not business. This is my life.”
Bloody fuck.
I took a swig of my beer and shook my head. She had a valid point which I’d failed to see. My mom popped into my head and the notion that she refused to move from New York, but changed her community. It wasn’t business, it was personal.
“Bloody shite,” I cursed. “You’re right. The contract will go in the rubbish. So in three days, I will come to you so we can continue to answer the questions that I know will come up. Also, I would like you to get dual citizenship in London so that our child will have it as well. The way things are happening in the States, we may need to not be there.”
Sheryl laughed and said, “You got a damn point. I’ll get my assistant on it.”
“Oh, we’ll need to have our assistants exchange our information and calendars.”
“Agreed.”
“Now, save my number,” I instructed.
“Sure,” she quipped. “Baby Daddy.”
This caused me to laugh out loud.
“See, you want to conceive our child with a red ass.” I nodded.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she joked with a jovial tone.
“Three days, Sheryl,” I reminded her.
“Three.”
“See you then,” I said before hanging up.
This was going to be interesting.
Chapter Five
Sheryl South
To hear the arrogant man talk about co-parenting with me felt like a multiverse dream. He was willingly giving up his life as a bachelor to have a baby with me. Did he feel guilty? Responsible?
Fuck if I knew.
What I did know was that what he was proposing, I was game for in more ways than I’d originally thought. I had an active life, but for the sake of co-parenting, my priorities needed to shift anyway. Surprisingly, this was okay with me. Even co-habitating in a house together. I did not want to raise a kid by myself. Jacquez seemed to be hell-bent on the child being a boy, and if this was the case, there was no way I'd want to raise a boy by myself. A boy should have his father was my belief. The same way black kids needed to see themselves represented in the media. In all her craziness, my mother did not buy me Barbie Dolls. She refused to expose me to white, blond-haired Barbies. She did buy the Kenya doll. She was a brown girl, just like me with curly hair.
Growing up, the kids used to tease me all the time when I was in middle school all the way to high school. South Sheryl, because our teacher used to call us by our last name and then our first. I hated it so much, but the more I continued to shut them up with my success, the more addicted to it I became. I worked like a crazy woman to shut up all the haters. The people that said I wouldn’t make it, or I’d be pregnant by the time I turned 18. The ones that thought that since I was outgoing, that I was promiscuous. I didn’t lose my virginity until graduate school, but my Aunt Hattie, when she was around, helped to raise me to be fierce and know who I was. My mother’s condition made me grow up quicker than I would have liked. Between the two of them, they encouraged me in their own way to be proud of who I am. I found that it made men feel inferior. Well, lesser men, for sure.
Jacquez was not a lesser man, I quickly saw. I tried to dismiss him as such, but somewhere those tables turned. Even our first sexual encounter I took over like I always do. He let me, which I felt confirmed my ability to take charge of him. Maxine used to always say, “Girl, you’re going to need a strong man, because you’ll run over any other man.”
I realized a little bit before that wedding, but definitely there, that Jacquez was not to be played with. He did not let me take over that night or even in that conversation. My attempt to throw him off led him to shutting it all down.
Touché.
I could respect it. This was unchartered territory for me, and on some level, I needed his help with navigating it. Now, when we’re talking business, I don’t need help, but this—well, this is why I welcomed the co-parenting model. It was one thing to have a kid. It was another to raise a whole other human being, and God knows, I did not want to muck it up, as the Brits say. Why they substitute m for f was weird to me.
Jacquez’ words always have that slight accent, but his New York one is still thick. Combining the two makes his mouth filthy, but fucking sexy.
He’s definitely not like other guys I’ve fucked. I never really did relationships, to be honest. Had no time for them really. Which made me nervous about what Jacquez was proposing.
Living together?
Goodness.
That was a commitment.
I was willing though. Why? Well, I had not explored all the reasons as of yet, but I was more willing than I knew.
---
Maxine was still on her honeymoon, so I didn’t want to bother her with my craziness. Knowing her, she would probably be like, “What the actual fuck? Have you lost your damn mind?”
She was really the most sensible of the both of us. Well, except when Noah was chasing her ass down. I mean, the man came from London about a damn restaurant review. It all started with a one-star review, and he was on her ass. This turned into love, but girl, she was fighting it from the jump. Noah Wolfe was not playing with her. Hence why they are in Fiji on their honeymoon. They had a really interesting story.
I would not call her about this shit. She’d probably persuade me not to go through with his proposal, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
I hoped.
My anticipation, well, anx
iety was showing up at work. To the point that my assistant asked if I was doing okay. Jacquez was coming, so I was on edge, to say the least. I barked at my coffee delivery guy because it was not piping hot like I liked it. He tried to tell me something about having a lot of deliveries, but I guess when I held up my hand to shut him up with his excuses was when Tammy jumped in and thanked him. She then went around the corner to get me something that I liked.
I guess that wasn’t fair. I would need to apologize, but I do not play about coffee, and he knows that. Also, I might have snapped at my vice president. She did not have the work done that was assigned for a major project, and shit like that is a reflection on me and my company. I told her so. Just like that.
This was not my normal, which is why Tammy was asking if I was all right. Shit, I wasn’t. This man had me all in tangles and knots. My stomach was a bit queasy, and I was not sure if we were supposed to have sex when he came tomorrow or schedule it when I was ovulating. Shit, I needed to get that information for tomorrow, because he clearly told me to get this information to him so we could discuss.
I was a damn mess.
By the next day, I had everything I needed from my doctor and a new app that tracked my ovulation days. I stopped taking birth control, which was one reason why my doctor thought I might have miscarried. Half of me thought he was trying to calm me down, because I was in his office breaking down about how I might not ever have kids again.
He was much calmer and shared many instances where women have had many setbacks in regard to having miscarriages and then went on to have healthy babies afterwards. He shared that it was not a death sentence. Then he took that back and said, “It’s not the death penalty, Sheryl. You’ve had a major loss and I’m sorry, but there is life for you and your womb after this.”