by P. Dangelico
I leave him standing at the door while I retrieve said items and slip on my flip-flops. As soon as I return, he grabs my wrist and hustles me out of my apartment.
“What are you doing?” I ask the man dragging me down the hallway.
“Not givin’ you time to argue, Shorty. Let’s go.” Soon after he’s hustling me into one of those mega baby stores.
“I’ve never had to beg a woman to shop,” he says as he pushes a massive cart down a double-wide aisle. “What’s your deal? I thought chicks love to spend money.”
“Not this chick,” I inform him while I examine the obscenely large cart. “It’s as big as a forklift. Nobody needs that much stuff.”
“Go big, or go home.”
“I’ll go home, thank you very much.”
He stops then and stares at something on the shelf. “Darlin’, what about this? Do we need…” He squints at the picture on the box. From where I stand, I can see he’s holding a breast pump. “What is this?” he says, looking at me with an expression of pure terror.
“It’s a breast pump. It pumps milk from my breasts so it can be refrigerated and the baby fed while I’m at work––or with you.”
“Right. When the baby is with me,” he repeats, a soft dreamy look on his face.
“And please don’t call me darling. I’m not your darling, or your sweetheart. I’m the mother of your child.”
His focus swiftly returns to me. There’s mischief on his face, a look I’ve come to know well by now.
“You want me to call you mother?” His lips quiver as he fights to hold back what is surely another of his wicked grins. “Kinky, but I like it.”
While we’re on opposite sides of the aisle, a young woman walks between us––a pregnant one. Her eyes glide up and down Dane’s body. She smiles suggestively. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it. But I did.
The second she passes our eyes meet across the way, his expression perfectly blank. Head shaking, I walk down the next aisle.
“I could call you Mother of Dragons. That won’t be too far from the truth.” He throws a heavy arm around my neck. I try to pull away but he won’t let me. “No doubt any kid of mine is going to be a hell raiser.” The last part he mutters. Not low enough for me to miss it however.
“That better be one of your jokes.”
“Afraid not.”
“I bet your mother has some stories to tell,” I casually throw out, my attention suddenly taken with the variety of car seats available. When I don’t get a snappy comeback, the silence compels me to glance up. All traces of humor gone, his face oddly still. This is a man that is never ever still so this is cause for concern. And then I remember––
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He lets me go to investigate something on the next shelf. “I stopped giving a shit a long time ago.” His eyes remain on the display case of baby carriers, avoiding mine. “Do we need this?”
It’s crystal clear that he’s not even remotely past it, however, I don’t contradict him. I’ll let him keep his illusion. It’s not my place to pick at scabs. It’s also not the first time he’s used the we pronoun.
There’s something so wrong and yet so cute about it. My best attempts at ignoring it have fallen short, and believe me I’ve tried.
My cell rings and Dr. Elmendorf’s name flashes on the screen. The steady beat of my heart turns into a heavy thump. I’m so shaken I forget to answer, standing there paralyzed by anticipation while the phone continues to ring.
“Shouldn’t you get that?”
His voice snaps me out of it. I look up and find Dane watching me curiously, an enviable calmness to him while I’m the complete opposite. My expression must say it all because he gently takes the phone from me and answers.
“Yes, this is her number…uh huh, she’s right here.” Smiling, he hands it to me.
“Hello,” I croak while I stare up at him unblinking.
“Miss Donovan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Elmendorf’s nurse, Suzanne. She wanted to let you know that we have the results of your pregnancy test.”
“Yes,” I repeat robotically while my eyes stay on the man smiling down at me.
“You’re pregnant, Miss Donovan. The embryo transfer was a success. Dr. Elmendorf will call you first thing on Monday to discuss it with you but she wanted you to know before the weekend.”
“Thank you,” I say in a strangled voice, after which I end the call. A slow, irrepressible smile stretches across my face, not unsimilar to the one Dane is wearing.
“I’m pregnant.”
He hauls me in for a big hug, arms holding me gently to him. Between my face wedged among his massive chest muscles, my air supply being cut off, and his body heat, it’s akin to being buried alive under an electric blanket.
I alternate between giggling like a preteen and breathing. Despite that, however, it feels good. So good I want to curl up in a ball with him wrapped around me.
The giggling dies down and I look up to find him looking down at me. His smile slowly melts, and his gaze becomes a soft touch on my face, full of wonder and joy. The realization hits us at the same time––this is the beginning of the rest of our lives.
He clears his throat and holds me away. “You mean we’re pregnant.”
There’s that pesky we again.
“We’re pregnant,” I repeat, correcting myself with a smile I can’t deny. And then he hugs me again.
“Dane Jr.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Should I be offended?”
“No.”
Sitting across from me at the distressed oak dining table, the father of my child frowns while he dumps more rice onto his moo shu pork.
After we paid for the hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff that we don’t need, Dane insisted we go to his place and order takeout, and when Dane insists, I’ve learned there’s very little I can do to dissuade him.
Turns out he lives in a beautifully restored brownstone in Greenwhich Village. I expected a super modern apartment in the Time Warner building overlooking Columbus Circle, or a trendy loft in the Meatpacking District. Not this. Nothing like this.
For the first ten minutes I walked around mouth agape. Distressed walnut floors and supersized dark-blue couches, exposed red brick. He has a garden, an honest-to-goodness garden in the back. The large fireplace mantel covered with silver-framed family pictures was a personal favorite.
Of him on horseback when he was in his teens, looking more like a movie star than most movie stars. On the football field. With his sister and his father.
The walls of his office are covered with paraphernalia from all his achievements––and there are plenty. It would take days for me to study them all.
And yet nothing in his house is too precious. Nothing sharp and dangerous. His home is comfortable and warm, inviting. His home is homey. A lot homier than mine. Picturing my child growing up here makes suspicious heat crowd my chest and my throat swell.
The dim light highlights his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on them. He really is beautiful. I’m not blind, I get why women lose their shit over him.
And I’m having a child with this man. The thought keeps circulating in my head.
It’s been almost three months since we embarked on this journey together and I have yet to hear him mention anyone he’s dating. A large part of me wishes he would. It would put a swift end to all the cozy feelings growing between us, that’s for sure. The rest of me doesn’t want to know.
A sneaking suspicion tells me that finding out that he is dating someone will hurt and that would be a tragedy. Because going through life pining for the father of my child would make me my mother. And everything I’ve done up until now to prevent that from happening would be all for naught.
“What about Penelope for a girl?” I suggest. We’ve been playing the name game for the last twenty minutes, grinning at each other like two loons.
“It’s a boy. I can feel it.”
I disagree. However, I won’t rain on his parade tonight. “What about Jacob? Jacob William Donovan-Wylder.”
His greenish eyes flash with excitement. He blinks. “William?”
“For your father. That’s his name, right?”
“Yeah, I just didn’t…”
“Your father means everything to you.”
Dane remains quiet, no smile in sight. “And Jacob?”
“For Ira’s son. He died young. Ira’s like a father to me. I thought…”
“I like Jacob,” he says, before I can finish.
He licks his bottom lip and my eyes automatically drop to them. He has beautiful lips. Full in the middle and yet not so full that they look pouty. His mouth kicks up on one side and I know I just got caught staring.
“And if it’s a girl?” I tease, trying to play it off. Fat chance. Dane’s no dummy.
“Jacob William Donovan-Wylder,” he casually repeats, after which he goes back to inhaling his food.
“Dane––”
“Yeah?” He looks up with a touch of alarm. “What is it, babe?”
Babe? I let it slide because I’m high on life right now and don’t want to throw a cold, wet blanket on the mood.
“You know the first few months are risky. I can have a miscarriage. You can’t tell anyone for at least three months. Until we know for sure.” Eyes bright, he nods a little too quickly for it to be convincing. “I mean it, Dane.”
Shoveling more moo shu into his mouth, I hear, “Mmm, three months. Got it.”
I point my chopsticks at him and give him my best Mercedes Donovan death glare. “And don’t call me babe.”
“Okay, Shorty.”
Dane
“I’m having a baby,” I announce into the phone. Then, placing it against my chest, I catch the shop lady’s attention. “Five dozen roses. The good kind. What do you suggest?”
“A baby?!” my pops echoes back, his voice loud and bursting with doubt.
“Stella’s pregnant.”
“Excuse me for prying, but who the heck is Stella?”
When my pops stops dropping Gs, it’s a clear sign he’s getting mad.
“Hold on a minute, Dad.”
Phone against my chest again, the florist lady pulls out a pretty purple rose, handing it to me.
“How about the Moody Blue?” she says.
Moody Blue…huh. Unique. Like Stella. “A purple rose?”
“It’s considered lavender,” shop lady informs me.
“Gimme the prettiest ones you got, and deliver them here.” I hand her Stella’s address. “Make it eight dozen.”
The florist nods, blushing when I gift her with a smile. I’ve been so goddamn happy since we got the call I’ve been dolling ’em out right and left, smiles that is.
We’re having a baby and there isn’t a single part of me that harbors any doubts about it. A voice in the back of my mind keeps tellin’ me it’s because I’m doing it with someone I trust. Someone I know won’t let me down, won’t walk out when things get tough.
Someone who’s been giving me some serious boners lately. Jesus H, what an inconvenience. I had to run outta there the other day otherwise she would’ve noticed. And the last thing I need is for her to get upset at me because I get hard for her. We’re having a baby together. My dick needs to stay outta this.
Placing the cell back at my ear, I hand the woman a credit card. “Dad––you there?”
“What in Sam Hill is going on, Dane. Who is this Stella?”
“My lady.” Lie number one. No way is dear old Dad gonna understand our contractual agreement. “We’ve been dating for the last three months.” Lie number two. Dang, this feels terrible. It’s not in my nature to lie. First, too much work trying to keep track of them. Second, there’s nothing I won’t tell a person to their face, therefore, no need.
“It was an accident but we’re both real happy about it.” Not really a lie, the last part being entirely true.
The silence worries me. My pops is never silent. Which means he knows something’s afoot.
“Are you messing with me?”
Huh? “Why would I mess with you? ’Course I’m not messing with you.”
More silence.
“Then my prayers have been answered.” His voice cracks. My father’s voice cracks…like he’s crying. Fuck me. An elephant is suddenly sitting on my chest.
The only other time I’ve heard or seen my father cry was when I won my first Super Bowl. And only then it was a couple of tears.
I walk away from the counter and look out the store window, running a hand through my hair. “Dad…you okay?”
He sniffs and my chest practically caves in on itself. “Never better. Never better, son.”
“Can I call you later? I’m buyin’ flowers,” I murmur.
“Do what you gotta do. And make sure you get her the good ones.”
A smile creeps across my face. “Will do. I’ll call you later.”
I end the call and turn to find the sales person staring up at me with a soft smile.
“Would you like to send a note?”
A note. Of course, a note.
Stella
“Are you trying to corner the purple rose market?” Standing in my doorway, Delia lifts her black designer sunglasses and sets them atop her head.
The floral delivery guy walks past her and into my apartment.
“Can you put those in the living room, please,” I tell him, seeing as there’s nowhere else to put them.
My apartment is filled to the brim with roses. The most spectacular roses I’ve ever seen. My stupid, foolish heart skipped a beat the minute I opened the door and realized what was happening.
Delia pushes past the deliveryman who’s presently walking out my front door. She does a double take, craning her neck to get a better look, when she realizes how cute the guy is.
“Mmmhello,” I hear her mutter.
“Isn’t he a little young for you?” I whisper, cute deliveryman falling somewhere in the early twenties range.
“As long as he’s legal, I don’t discriminate.”
I lead her into the living room while cute deliveryman goes to retrieve yet another vase from his truck. Delia looks around with a snarky smile.
“He’s like Prince of the NFL. I have a hankering to listen to Purple Rain.”
“Lavender. Moody Blues to be exact,” I inform her with a smile. Smirking, she gives me the universal hand gesture for a penis massage. “And I think they’re stunning.”
“What did the note say?”
Plucking it off one of the vases, I hand it to her. As she reads, her lips twitch and her eyebrows rise.
“Thank you for being so cool…” She glances up and chuckles. “Well––nobody’s mistaking him for Lord Byron.” It’s impossible to wipe the smile off my face. Delia shakes her head in disappointment. “You got that sappy look on your face and don’t tell me it’s the hormones.”
“I do not have a sappy look on my face. We’re friends. It was sweet of him to send the flowers. All is copacetic. The integrity of my contract has not been compromised in any way.” Delia studies me closely. This is never a good thing. “What?”
“You guys are all over the gossip sites.”
All amusement immediately drops off my face. “What?!”
She retrieves her cell phone and types. “Caught in a sexy embrace at buybuy BABY. Wild man Dane Wylder is officially off the market.” After reading out loud, she holds up her iPhone for my benefit.
On the screen is a picture of Dane wrapped around me. We’re smiling at each other. The kind of smiles exchanged by people in an intimate relationship…people that care about each other.
“You didn’t compromise the integrity of your contract, you blew a hole through it large enough to fit a Mack truck.”
Shit.
This was a snafu I could never have foreseen. What do I know about being a celebrity? Zilc
h. He’s a retired football player to me. The fans and the women and the trophies, or whatever it is you get when you win the Super Bowl, those are all part of a world I don’t inhabit. To me he’s just a nice guy with an easy smile and a penchant for making me smile. And the father of my child. Let’s not forget that small detail.
I’ve been spinning in circles all day, trying to determine how to handle this.
To begin with I don’t want him thinking that I’m in any way sabotaging his personal life; far be it from me to tell him what to do with his spare time. However, what concerns me even more is that if he is seeing someone, this could create trouble for him. And as a friend, it mortifies me to think I could very well be the cause.
By late evening I give up and text him.
Me: We’re all over the gossip sites.
I hit send and hold my breath.
Dane: What are they saying?
Me: That we’re together.
Cringing. I’m cringing as I decide how much to tell him.
Me: …
Me: That you’re “off the market.”
Dane: Okay.
His reply is immediate, as if he didn’t even have to mull it over. Interesting.
Me: What do you mean okay? Doesn’t it bother you?
Dane: Doesn’t bother me.
Dane: …
Dane: Does it bother you?
Me? Why the heck would it bother me?
Me: Uh no.
Dane: No big deal then.
Me: No big deal?
I’m perplexed…what does this mean? I don’t know what this means. I don’t have the decoder ring for this man language. He honestly sounds nonplussed.
Dane: Shorty, I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. If you’re good then I’m good.
Wow. It amazes me, his ability to take the most complex situations, rife with the possibility of disaster, and reduce them to nothing of great importance.
Maybe Delia was right. Maybe he’s exactly what I need.
Me: I love the flowers. They’re beautiful.