Leon's Way

by Sunniva Dee

  He’s holding up an enormous, red dress. It’s a tent I wouldn’t wear in my worst nightmare. Faintly, I consider how his body isn’t changing. People tend to use plural for what we’re experiencing, as in we’re having a baby, but honestly, he’s pulling it off much better than me. Leon could be, like, not having a baby.

  I roll my eyes, snorting at myself—and at his dress choice. “Sexy, sweetie,” I purr.

  Leon’s light, light blues flow to my face, interpreting my mood. Then, he walks over to me, cups the back of my head, and pulls me into him.

  “No, you’re sexy. Doesn’t matter what you wear.” His chest rumbles with amusement. “Yeah, I won’t go there.”

  “To how you prefer me without clothes?”

  “Ah, my girl’s a mind reader.”

  The month since I moved into Leon’s apartment has been nothing short of amazing. To wake up every single morning with him. Shower with him. Dress. Have breakfast. The smallest, everyday detail is better with this man.

  In the dressing room, I fight for balance as I sneak a foot into a pair of skinny-looking black slacks. The only thing, the top part is balloon-shaped, with ample options to widen more. They look like a total joke, and yet once I wiggle them up, they’re perfect. Unfortunately, these pants were made for me.

  I start laughing, and Leon’s voice filters in from outside. “Good fit?”

  I open the door for him. I can’t stop cracking up. He slants his gaze over my form, my strange, strange form, not finding it the least bit funny. The still planes of his marble face ripple in a small frown. “Couldn’t have been better. Right?”

  “Exactly!” I snort out.

  He arches a brow at the tears of hilarity forming in my eyes. “You’re an odd one.”

  “I mean, how did this happen?” I try to explain myself, even raising hands, waving them over my body like a wand.

  The slightest smirk lifts Leon’s lip on a side. It’s cute, cocky, and my heart does a little bounce at the sight. “I think you got knocked up,” he tells me.

  “You… stud,” I retort in a dead-on copy of Cam’s voice.

  Leon is in one of his moods again. It happens more frequently lately, and I can do nothing to revert them. He retracts from me, spends his mornings in the Bag Room, pounding, pounding on those bags. Playing music, horrible music so loud I might as well be downstairs in the club.

  He protects me from himself, he says, with the deadbolt he has installed on the inside of the door. But I know I can help him—he used to get better after making love to me in one of his violent attacks.

  “You don’t. Enjoy. It.” He enunciates word for word to me. “I hate to become myself afterward and know what I did to you. How long would you last with me if I took everything out on you?”

  How long will I last anyway?

  I am seven and a half months pregnant, and both Leon and I are keenly aware of the few weeks left of our arrangement. If the baby were born prematurely, he could survive in the hospital at this stage.

  “You’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Kat tells me. She’s over for breakfast on this Sunday morning, but she hasn’t seen Leon yet. He sprung up from a nightmare and hasn’t been out of the Bag Room since 5 a.m. “Is he not good to you?”

  “No, he’s amazing with me, Kat, but not with himself. Nothing has changed in the month I’ve lived with him. He’s not fighting his demons. He’s just…” I swallow for composure. “Fighting in there. It’s like he’s trying to force everything back, lock it down so he can keep up appearances.”

  Kat’s eyes close over moisture she can’t hide. “I wish he’d come to see our father. Leon only has one demon to exorcise.”

  “I keep telling him, believe me,” I say. I don’t want to think of what will happen in six short weeks. I fear two things: giving birth—and…

  Leaving Leon.

  “I do too. He avoids me,” Kat adds with a small laugh. “I’m bugging him so hard about this he shies from me when I come to Smother.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  A series of rapid-fire pounds rock the wall of the Bag Room as the music switches between tunes. I shake my head. Lean my forehead into a hand. “How can he keep going for five fucking hours? Is he trying to destroy himself?”

  “Did he tell you Dad’s in the hospital again?” Kat asks.

  “No. Did that happen last night? Leon was quiet when we went to bed.”

  And more demanding.

  My hand goes to the bruises around my hipbone where his grasp dug in.

  Kat follows my gesture with her eyes but doesn’t comment. “Complications from the liver disease. He needs a new liver to survive.”

  “Wow. Is that easy to find? A liver donor?” A giggle escapes me against myself. Who’d give up their freaking liver?

  “Nope. It only happens if the right corpse pops up, and the wait list is a mile long. Since he’s an alcoholic, it’s even harder to get. They do live transplants too, of pieces of people’s livers, but someone would have to step forward. Like relatives.” Kat presses her lips together to contain her own bout of misplaced mirth. We’re both messed up right now, it seems. I cave and start laughing first, and she joins me wholeheartedly.

  We don’t notice Leon until his intense stare causes me to turn. In baggy black karate pants and a bare torso, he stands in the doorway, dripping, absolutely dripping with sweat. If it weren’t for the circumstances, the sight of him would have taken my breath away.

  Leon’s eyes seem even lighter than usual, maybe in contrast to the jet-black bangs guiding sweat into his lashes. When he shifts, droplets glisten and trickle down a body that’s taut with muscle still vibrating from hours of abuse.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  Kat and I exchange glances, considering how much to share. She makes her mind up first. “The liver thing and the sperm donor needing a volunteer for a new piece.” Me, I’m not sure why I laughed, probably at the situation as a whole. This appears to be what gets both of them going, though. Their twisted humor over their monster dad really puts things in perspective.

  Before us, Leon’s expression relaxes. A glimmer of amusement starts in his eyes and spreads into full-fledged hilarity within seconds. He’s bending over, laughing harder than I’ve ever seen him laugh before.

  Kat is in the middle of her own crackup. They can’t look at each other without launching into a new fit.

  “You’re volunteering, right?” Kat croaks out, and Leon howls with laughter.

  “Of course,” he manages, drying tears at the absurdity of the concept.

  “Such an outstanding citizen—whatever he needs. Let’s all give a slice each,” Kat continues. “I’ll call Mom too!”

  Okay, this is getting morbid. I’ve stopped smiling, but their issues, what they’ve gone through with that man, are bigger than anything I can fathom from within my normal childhood. If this is what they need, to laugh over crazy, unfixable issues, then by all means.

  I walk to the fridge and pull out sandwich fixings. Kat and I finished breakfast, but Leon needs nutrition. I grab cold chicken breast and mix a quick salad. Smear a generous chunk of it on a fresh baguette and add some lettuce and red bell pepper—a touch Ingela taught me the other day.

  When I hand my offering to Leon, he hooks an arm around what’s left of my waist and draws me close. He’s relaxed again—in a good mood, maybe from the bizarre moment he just shared with his sister.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs against my temple.

  “You’re wet.” I fail at sounding grossed out. Leon takes a huge bite of the sandwich, swallowing before he replies.

  “Funny coming from you. I have no complaints when you’re—” He almost finishes, but I manage to cut him off with a kiss while Katsu fakes a mortified groan. He tastes of curry. I might have been a tad generous with my spices.

  “Delish.” He nods, and I can literally see the next bite he takes make its way down his throat. The man is starving. “Almost as y
ummy as you.”

  “Jesus, Shishi—I’m right here,” Kat mutters.

  “Good morning, Sis,” he greets her politely.

  The five hours in the Bag Room worked. My hand strays to his oblique muscle, up the pleats of his ribs, and rests beneath his arm. Leon has silenced his thoughts. Subdued his demons. He has emerged again as the boyfriend I could cherish forever. The hope I feel right now is ridiculous, because this changes nothing. My love is a ticking time bomb I can’t be around when it blows up.

  We’ve had three peaceful days since Kat’s breakfast visit. Leon spends hours in the Bag Room, but he knows I’m worried about him and doesn’t overdo it. Outside his sanctuary, Leon is himself. With expression guarded and head held high, he maneuvers his club and his employees with a sure hand as usual.

  But our nights are not peaceful. In the dark, every ounce of him strains vibrant and taut as he makes love to me. Wound too tight, he claims me with painfully bound passion and his breath tense at my ear.

  He jolts awake from sleep as if his dreams are too sinister to bear. Our bed, which should be peaceful, becomes a jittery, nervous place where my heart gallops and I worry about him, about the baby, about my blood pressure.

  With each night, his jerks magnify. My love sits up on his elbows. Lies down again, controlled within seconds, and I know, know we can’t go on like this.

  On the fifth night, I consider moving into the guestroom. For an instant, I contemplate reclaiming my old apartment. It’s just a thought, though, because Leon doesn’t need another blow from me. Even so, I am scared—for him and for my pregnancy—and I can’t take the stress much longer.

  I think of Kat. Since Leon began his downward spiral, we’ve spent more time together. The stories she’s told me about their “sperm donor” are horrendous. Because I love Leon, because I harbor a crazy hope for our relationship, I ruminate over Kat’s method of dealing with their past. I’m starting to believe hers is the only way.

  Day after day, Kat subjects herself to the monster’s company. She hurts by doing so, but she says it’s like being afraid of heights. If you push yourself to confront your fears in a safe setting, the dread will eventually dissipate. “He’s just an old, sad, sober man,” she explained the other day. “And his only remaining wish is to apologize to Leon.”

  On the sixth night of Leon’s unrest, I pull in a deep breath for courage. Tensing, I ready myself for the rage I’ll ignite in him. This can’t be left unsaid, though. “Please go and visit your father,” I whisper. “If not for him, do it for us.”

  He taps the night lamp on. Slants haunted, pink eyes on me. “Don’t fucking say that, Arria. I’d do anything for you and the baby, except facing that son of a bitch again.”

  “But you’re not getting better, and it’s awful to watch you go downhill like this.”

  “Stop. I’m fine! Trust me. Once he bites the dust, everything’s going to be okay.”

  Worry prickles my spine up to my neck. I bite my lip because I’m about to insist in ways I never have before. “Sweetie, since you started… losing your cool—”

  Leon’s gaze snaps to me. He wants to interrupt but doesn’t.

  “—I’ve read up on what you’re going through. All the psychological research out there says that if an individual has the opportunity to get closure, real closure, before their tormentor dies, they stand a much better chance at peace afterward. In your case, if he for some reason survives, you’ll just move on with your life without him in it.”

  I’m amazed that he let me finish my little speech. My love breathes hard, but otherwise he controls his reaction, his irises flashing in an icy glitter. “I went with Kat the first time he was in the hospital, Arria. There—bam. Closure.”

  “So that helped, then? You’re all done?” I ask.

  “No, I’m not. I just fucking need him to die, okay?”

  “Have you studied Kat lately?” I prod.

  “Of course—”

  “I don’t think so, Leon, because if you had, you’d realize how she’s doing.”

  “What are you talking about? Believe me. I know her state right now; our father has her whipped. My little sister’s all over him, grieving and shit—how fucking twisted is that?”

  Leon’s turmoil simmers in his voice. “If I hadn’t arrived in time, he would have raped her when she was ten years old.”

  “I know,” I say, surprising him. “Kat told me.”

  He’s quiet for a second. “Wow,” he finally murmurs.

  Katsu is into psychology. She and I have had some interesting discussions over the last few weeks. “Basically, your sister’s reactions are normal responses to grief, and they’re easier to overcome than guilt and hate.” I expect him to snap at that, because really—I’m dissecting his pain, being the pseudo expert on human emotions.

  “Well,” he replies, surprising me. “I’ll never be guilt-tripping over my father.”

  “But it happens to people even if they know there’s no reason to feel guilty,” I insist.

  That’s the last straw. Leon hates, hates my words. He shoots off the bed and slams his fist into the door. The roar accompanying him resonates on my eardrums, the initial shock rocking me, making me shrink and cover my ears.

  “Fuck, Arria!” he shouts, spinning to glare at me. “Will you quit?”

  “Baby, all I want is—”

  “Is what? To destroy me?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but stalks to the Bag Room and revs up his hate rock, songs he’d never play downstairs or anywhere else.

  Since January, my heart and my brain have been at war. Now, they both scream at me louder than ever.

  Get the hell out of his life.

  Stay, fix him. You love him. You can’t be happy without this man.

  Tonight, my heart wins. It does that quick hammering I don’t like, but I need to be here, watch over him, the way I’ve craved since I started working at Smother. Leon forgets to bolt the door shut, so I slink inside. I want to be invisible. I won’t interrupt, just…

  I take a seat, legs crisscrossed on the floor so I can keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t endanger himself. My arms mold to my stomach, shielding the baby from the crazy music. He can’t hear it, I remind myself. The environment inside of me is already loud, with the sounds from my digestive system whooshing around him. Only faint throbs from the bass vibrate in through the walls of my uterus.

  Leon’s force is formidable. In carelessly thrown on karate pants, he slams stone fists into a bag over and over and over again. He works quietly, leaving the snarls and roars to the insane music that spews out rage, hate, hate.

  The baby curls tight in my stomach, sharing my adrenaline, my fear—every sensation running through me. We share so much, him and I, while he resides in me. Despite the despair in the room, I try to calm down, soothe my nerves to stop my anxiety from reaching in to my warm, living core.

  You shouldn’t be here, my brain hums to me. If you don’t care about yourself, at least care about your baby.

  Tiny dots stain my vision. I blink. When it doesn’t erase them, I shut my eyes altogether. Lift my hands to my ears and cover them. Awake and rebelling, my blood spurts thick in my veins. This is not the time to fall ill. I’ll stay frozen until I’m better, then I’ll pop by Mr. Rosenthal tomorrow for an emergency checkup.

  I sink in against the wall. Do breathing techniques I’ll be using when my time comes. The room doesn’t lack oxygen—I know this—I can fill my lungs with it all I need, and yet this room asphyxiates.

  Leon’s music stops abruptly, but my eyelids remain crumpled over my vision. I’m inhaling. Exhaling. Allowing my heart to dash for him.

  I jolt at his hands on my face. “Arria.” His voice is soft, like he’s back to himself again. “What are you doing here?”

  I’ll reply soon, but I enjoy the silence while I wait for my heart to slow down.

  “Oh, baby, baby, don’t get sick on me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and into me, so close. “Please—
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost it and left you alone.”

  I force myself to open my eyes. I’m not fainting. I am conscious.

  I can’t make out his features from within my darkness.

  Strong hands grab my arms, wanting to pull me up, but I’m too weak to help. I can’t risk falling, so I shake my head to him. “Tired,” I whisper. “I’ll get up soon.”

  “No, no, no,” he says so quietly. Still, he lets go of me, and his footsteps fade out the door and away from me.

  I concentrate on breathing. There’s a dull pain below the baby on one side.

  “Yes. She’s almost eight months pregnant, and she’s got preeclampsia,” Leon says from the hallway. He’s on the phone with the hospital again. It—

  Might be for the best.

  Suddenly, I have two people to visit at the hospital. They’re in different buildings, a garage and a parking lot apart. At the sperm donor’s, I stay a maximum of fifteen minutes, while at Arriane’s, I spend quality time. This is her second day here.

  She’s a tired girl between her illness and my brother’s baby. It’s grown a lot lately. The doctor’s keeping her for observation, and she’s thankful they didn’t have to induce labor when Leon brought her in the other night. I’m not sure what preceded the ER visit, but she came in late in the evening, and my guess is she wasn’t sleeping when she got sick. I hope they weren’t fighting.

  Leon is here as much as he can, leaving Christian in charge at Smother. Today, though, Arriane and I are alone.

  “Brought you this,” I say, handing her a pair of tiny, footed jammies. Two ducklings meet in a kiss at the top. Adorable.

  “Aww, you’re the best aunt ever.” Arriane smiles, rubbing the soft fabric against her cheek before draping the item across her bump. “How come you never get him anything blue, though?”

  “Have you had an ultrasound to find out what it is?” She hasn’t. This is me hinting at why I don’t buy blue stuff.

  “No, but it is a boy,” she explains patiently, the way both of them do whenever someone wonders. Leon and Arriane are one hundred percent sure of the baby’s gender. He believes in female intuition, so my theory is that Shishi’s sure because she is.