Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

  That was when she’d foolishly, impulsively gotten that tattoo. Woman. To brand herself. Remind herself. To affirm that even without the benefit, the privilege of motherhood that that was what she still was. But to see Curtis pack all his belongings and move out of their apartment, to sit across the table from him in a divorce settlement conference, to see Natalie’s swollen belly grow ever larger? Robyn could not have felt less like a woman than in those awful, dark days. The idea that she was in fact able to bear a child would not have been plausible to her. In those days, and in the weeks and months that followed, she felt barren, and her life did as well.

  “Okay, so this wasn’t planned,” Tracy said, adopting an almost businesslike tone. “I’ve been there. Just tell him and . . .” she shrugged, “. . . take it from there.”

  “He might think I did it on purpose. I kind of . . . implied to him that the whole birth-control thing wasn’t an issue, and . . .”

  “Yeah, but who would voluntarily become someone’s baby momma number three when . . .” Tracy stopped midsentence, and looked mortified. “Sorry. I mean . . .”

  Robyn shook her head and held up a hand. “No, it’s fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tracy said again. “It’s just that you’re not that kind of woman, Robyn. Everyone knows that. Chris of all people has to know that. Why on earth would you want to complicate your life in that way on purpose? That’s all I meant.”

  For the money. That’s why. And that’s what Chris might think, and other people might say. That she had voluntarily become Baby Momma Number Three for the cash.

  “Yeah. But I can’t imagine terminating this pregnancy. Especially not after thinking I might never be able to have a baby.”

  “And so you shouldn’t think about terminating. If that’s not what you want, don’t let anyone convince you to do it. Look, can I share something with you?” Tracy sighed. “Brendan was ambivalent about me being pregnant. At best, he wanted to ‘do the right thing’ by me. And there were definitely times when it felt like he was barely restraining himself from running for the hills. But now?” Tracy glanced across the room in her husband’s direction once again. “Now I couldn’t ask for a better husband, or father for my child. He would walk through fire for her. And now I know he would do that for me as well.”

  “But Chris isn’t Brendan,” Robyn said, shaking her head. Tracy couldn’t understand. There was one very important distinction between their situations. “Chris isn’t in love with me. And Brendan was always in love with you, Tracy. You were the only one who didn’t see it.”

  ___________________

  Robyn had been avoiding him all night.

  First she’d been in some intense hour-long confab with Tracy—but that was no surprise since Tracy was all about drama—and now she was sitting with Bill Stafford who Chris met for the first time tonight, and was surprised to see was young, rather than the grey-beard he was expecting. Chris had watched her all night from across the room while killing time with Riley, waiting for her to come to him, stand next to him or some damn thing. It wasn’t as though he often took women out as dates.

  Generally, he sent a car for them, and met them at the event. Maintaining that modicum of distance usually did the trick so that they would realize he was escorting them an event, but not assuming any more responsibility for them beyond that. Even if the event was followed by sex, and even if that sex happened at his house, they were taken home by his driver. Distance helped avoid later misunderstandings. But with Robyn, he often had the opposite impulse, wanting to keep her close to him, or at least know where she was. Even at work, knowing she was five floors down held a certain reassurance. When she called him, usually interrupting something important, he was always startled to realize that she had been there all along, just offstage, in the periphery of his mind.

  Her calls, her dropping in to see whether he’d eaten, her meddling with his diet behind his back; all her attentiveness had begun to feel like an entitlement. But tonight she was not with him at all. Chris could sense her preoccupation, all the more disturbing because in two days, he would be on a plane to Paris, where he would remain for weeks. And he didn’t know how he should feel about it. But what he did feel was unprepared. Two days was too soon. Too soon for him to make . . . arrangements; too soon for him to even wrap his mind around what it was he wanted to arrange. A few days ago, he was thinking that maybe it was time to end this, but tonight, he’d gotten a taste of what that might be like—Robyn’s attention elsewhere, no longer his for the asking. He didn’t like it.

  “Quit standing here like a pussy and go get your woman.”

  Chris looked at Brendan. “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

  Brendan laughed. “Oh damn. I was just messin’ with you, but sounds like I hit a nerve there, Scaife. She got you strung out, man?”

  “Somethin’ you came over here to say?” Chris asked, feigning exasperation.

  “Yeah,” Brendan offered him a hand. “Me and the wife about to break out. We left Layla with Tracy’s mother. Which . . . well let’s just say that’s only marginally better than handing her to a stranger on the street.”

  “A’ight, man. Thanks for making it out. I hope you wrote a check.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Philanthropist. Robyn must’ve grown you a heart in her backyard or somethin’ ‘cause all this caring about little kids in Harlem stuff . . .”

  “Do I need to tell you to shut up again?”

  “No one talks to my husband like that,” Tracy said, sidling up to Brendan and wrapping an arm about his waist. “No one. Except for me.”

  Brendan laughed. “You tell him, sweetheart.”

  Chris watched them leave, Brendan’s hand stealing down to cup Tracy’s ass and Tracy swatting it away and laughing, leaning into him. Like all newlyweds, they both were still throwing around the ‘my husband’, ‘my wife’ stuff, trying the words on for size. They weren’t like Shawn and Riley yet, but damned if they didn’t just . . . fit. Chris wasn’t a betting man, but he had his money on them going the distance. Shawn and Riley? That was a given—whatever it was they had seemed divinely ordained—but Brendan and Tracy had a thin wire of tension between them that tautened and lessened on cycles, the ebb and flow, push and pull, somehow balancing out their personalities. Tracy was just challenging enough to keep Brendan interested and shaken out of his natural state of equilibrium and complacency; and Brendan was just accessible and emotive enough to keep Tracy reassured and feeling safe. If he had to bet, he would say they’d be okay.

  Turning to find Robyn once again Chris saw that she was still talking to Stafford. But glancing up and seeing him staring, she excused herself. Chris looked pointedly at his watch. It was only eleven twenty-three. They could stay another couple hours, but he was tired of sharing her.

  “Ready?” Robyn asked as she approached. Her voice was cool, polite, and unlike her.

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  “You want to say something to Bill?” she asked.

  “He already got my money, and tonight, more than enough of my time.” And yours, too.

  Robyn looked poised to say something else but instead sighed and nodded. If he didn’t know better, he would say she didn’t want to be alone with him. That had never happened before that he could recall. Something was up, but what?

  The realization that he was trying to figure her out annoyed him. This was not something he did—women were a puzzle, but one he was not particularly interested in solving. Their role in his life had clear boundaries, and seldom had he been tempted to allow any woman to breach them.

  “How about Shawn and Riley?”

  “What about them?”

  “I mean, are we going to say goodbye at least?” Robyn asked as he took her elbow, guiding her toward the exit.

  “They’ll look up, we’ll be gone; they’ll figure it out,” Chris said.

  Suddenly, he needed to be alone with her. ‘Be alone with’ was a euphemism. What he needed, what he wanted was to fuck he
r. Not make love to her, but fuck her. If he wanted to, he could probably park in an alley and they would do it in the car. If he wanted to, she would let him, because Robyn never played coy, pretended she needed to be persuaded or showed inhibitions or resistance of any kind. Sexual release with her relieved a vague pressure that was always there deep inside his chest that was not in and of itself about sex. But Chris was damned if he knew what it was. It was like an inchoate ache. In Paris, the ache had unfurled itself into a full-fledged sensation of crappy when she spent all her time with Etienne Ballard at that last dinner; and it was only once they did it out on the balcony, Robyn giving herself over to him physically that Chris felt relaxed once again.

  And another time, after he’d returned from L.A. after a week-long trip, he couldn’t keep his hands off her long enough to even get upstairs. She’d straddled him with his office door wide open, despite the very real possibility of Mrs. Lawson coming in and discovering them in that very compromising position. It felt like getting a fix of something vital; something he needed just to feel right again. At times like that—times like now—he didn’t want to make love, he needed to fuck her. And if that was what he wanted, she gave it.

  In sex, in just about everything, she gave, but had a subtle way of letting him know that her giving in was a product of her choice, not her capitulation. Just that morning, Chris had arranged to have Jon call her and get her motorcycle lessons started again. He’d already planned to give her the pink bike too since those damn lessons and learning how to ride were the only things she seemed to really care about. So he would let her have that even though the thought of that tailbone injury, and the memory of that ugly purple bruise still tied his stomach up in knots.

  As they left the restaurant, Chris’ hand slid from her elbow and down to grasp her fingers so that they were standing, holding hands when the valet pulled his car up. Robyn was the first to release the hold, getting into the car as soon as the valet held it open for her.

  Pulling away from the curb, with the impulse to gun the engine, Chris was thwarted by the narrow street and the cars parked on the opposite side causing a bottleneck, made worse by pedestrians ducking from beneath the ever-present construction scaffolding that seemed to both shade and impede every other block in New York City. He wanted to get out of there, and quickly, but there were some things even he couldn’t control, and traffic was one of them. So they sat in the middle of the block, waiting for the slow crawl of cars toward the main artery of Park Avenue South.

  “What did Stafford want?”

  In his conscious mind, he’d been thinking that instead of going to Jersey, they would go to his apartment on the West Side. He’d been calculating how much time it might take, and which route. And while he’d been doing that, his subconscious exposed itself.

  “Nothing,” Robyn said, her voice dreamy and distracted. “Just making conversation.”

  “Well he took a long time to make it.”

  Chris felt her turn in her seat to look at him. “Specifically? He was talking about having a larger benefit later in the fall. Asking me whether I might want to co-chair it with him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I would love to.”

  “Is that something you’re interested in, chairing charity events? Because I have the foundation, and employees can always . . .”

  “I wouldn’t be doing this as anyone’s employee though. I would be doing it because I care about the Save the Music program.”

  It was his turn to look at her. Chris knew she saw him do it, but she kept her gaze trained ahead. He saw a small sigh raise and release her shoulders. Finally they pulled out onto Park and headed north.

  “Is Carolyn expecting you back tonight?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t know what to expect from me these days,” Robyn said cryptically. Then she glanced at him. “No. Not really. I don’t think so. I’ll call her. Why?”

  “I thought we’d stay at my place on the West Side.”

  “Oh.” That, at least seemed to perk her up a little. “But I don’t have a change of clothes or anything.”

  “In the morning wear something of mine,” he suggested.

  Robyn laughed. Chris was relieved to hear it. It made him smile too. For a few minutes they were quiet until this time Robyn broke the silence.

  “Y’know,” she said, her tone light. “I think you’re a little in love with her.”

  “With who?”

  “Riley. I think you’re a little in love with Riley.”

  The way she said the words sounded purely observational, like someone pointing out a landmark: y’know, I think that’s the Chrysler Building. But Chris knew better. Women didn’t bring stuff like this up just because it popped into their heads. Something bigger was on her mind.

  “I’m not,” he said, with certainty. He’d heard this before from other people, mostly from Brendan. “Not even a little.”

  “Then what is it?” Robyn asked. This time there was a little something in her voice. Curiosity, but something else. Jealousy? “You’re obviously drawn to her.”

  Chris shrugged. “She’s a good friend.”

  “And something more,” Robyn pressed.

  Looking at her, Chris saw that she was looking at him as well, waiting.

  “The best way I can explain it is that what I like about her is the way she handles herself, and her relationship. And her man.”

  “That still sounds to me like you’re in love with her,” Robyn said. “Like you want that for yourself.”

  “If I did want that for myself, Robyn, it wouldn’t be the same as wanting Riley for myself.”

  “I guess,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet.

  “Is that why you were all up under Stafford? Because I was talking to Riley?”

  Robyn sighed audibly. “I wasn’t all up under Bill. And no, my talking to him didn’t have anything to do with you talking to Riley.”

  “So what was going on with you all night?”

  Now he was the one who sounded jealous. But he had to know. His time before the trip to Paris was limited and if Robyn would be on to greener pastures when he got back, he needed to know now. He wasn’t going to have this sick feeling in the pit of his gut for six fucking weeks.

  “Okay, let’s get the question of Bill out of the way first,” Robyn said. She took a deep breath. “I went out with him once. And now he’s asked me to co-chair a benefit committee with him. That’s the extent of it.”

  Robyn went out with Bill Stafford?

  “Say something.”

  “What kind of reaction are you looking for?” he asked finally.

  “A genuine one, maybe?”

  No. She didn’t want his genuine response.

  “It was long before we ever . . .”

  “When exactly?”

  “A couple weeks after you made me go with him to lunch with him.”

  “Made you go to lunch with him,” Chris repeated. “Okay.”

  “What would you call it?” Robyn demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter what we call it. I just think it’s funny that you’re implying it’s because of me that you . . .”

  “I’m not trying to start a fight with you, Chris,” Robyn cut him off.

  “Then why does it feel that way?” he asked, his voice rising. He reached forward and impatiently switched off the music that up till that point had been in the background, helping cut through the underlying tension. But right now, he was ready to let that tension loose. “First you ask me about Riley, then you drop your own little bomb.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that the news that I’d been on a date could be considered a bomb. And it definitely wasn’t meant to start us down this path.”

  The apology sounded hollow. She was just trying to shut him up. But it was too late for that.

  “Then why don’t you tell me what path you wanted to start down? Or is this where I have play mind-reader and figure out what the hell
is going on?”

  “That’s fair,” Robyn said unexpectedly.

  Her reasonableness always did that. Pulled him up short, cut him off at the knees.

  “You shouldn’t have to sit there and try to figure out what’s wrong and try to read my mind. So I’m going to tell you . . .”

  She paused for such a long time that Chris took his eyes off the road for a moment, looking at her expectantly.

  “I’m . . .” Robyn took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

  23

  Wet leaves were plastered across the windshield of the car when she got in. Robyn had parked it in the driveway the previous evening because the remote control battery for the garage door opener was dead. She’d almost driven right into the door, mindlessly barreling up to it, expecting that it would open even though her eyes told her that it had not. But her eyes weren’t the problem, it was her mind. It was elsewhere. And had been for at least a week now. Ever since the night she’d told Chris the Big News.

  Now, getting into her car and contemplating the drive to the train station, the damp, gray morning only darkened her mood further. A little sunshine would have been welcome, but the very first traces of fall were beginning to assert themselves. More and more often, there would be gray mornings and hints of the chill winter to come. Robyn turned on the windshield wipers and waited while they shoved aside the golden-brown blanket that obscured her vision, then backed slowly down the driveway.

  The morning sickness was in full swing, too. Nothing too terrible. She didn’t feel like throwing up; it was more like a low hum of nausea, a sourness of mouth and breath that was easily cured once she had something tart on her tongue, like orange juice, or a lemon drop. She kept the latter in her purse now, specifically for those moments when out of nowhere, she was hit with a wave of that sick-to-the-stomach feeling. Twenty minutes to the train station then another hour into Manhattan and then the eight or more hours at work.

  Robyn sighed, wishing she’d gotten more sleep. Last night, like most nights lately, had been spent looking at the clock and making pointless calculations: if I go to sleep now, I can still get seven hours . . . and then, okay, six, I can get six. Until finally the numbers dwindled and she was staring five a.m. in the face and had to start thinking about what to wear.