by Aria Ford
“Wait—he followed you? He made sure you were safe? This is a fairy tale. Men don’t do that crap.”
“He did,” I say. “He could have stayed and had his dinner like he planned, and I’m sure he would have paid a small fortune for it. But he—”
“Went to make sure the waitress was okay. That’s…unexpected. Did you sleep with him? Was it amazing?”
“I’m not discussing this,” I say, my face flaming.
“That’s a yes. So, amazing?”
“No, it was nothing like that. I didn’t,” I say. I’m lying, but I have my reasons.
Reason one is I don’t want her to know I had a one-night stand. It sounds nasty to me, and cheapens what it was. I want it to be a secret. The other reason, which is even worse than my refusal to own what I did is the fact that I want to keep it to myself because it’s special. I don’t want Amy giggling over it. I don’t want to pretend it meant nothing. I want to keep the memory of it for just myself.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I lie, “I’m too much of a good girl, I guess. It was really nice of him to check on me, though. I told him thank you.”
“Why’d you have to tell me that? I could have had some good dreams,” she laughed and went to bed.
I change clothes. I do the laundry, run the vacuum, check my bank balance. I go through all the motions of a normal Sunday. I fold his shirt and put it under my pillow. It doesn’t smell like him because it was clean when he gave it to me. I wish it did. It’s the thing I get to keep. I know I should have it dry cleaned and send it back to him at his office. But I don’t want to let it go.
The next day at work, I get a call. I check the voicemail on my break. It’s a message from Marilyn. I dial her number, slump back against the wall as I wait to be fired.
“Ah, Caleigh, good to hear from you. I trust you have no ill effects from the incident on Saturday?” she says.
She’s afraid I’m going to sue her, so she’s acting nice. That’s what I realize as she talks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry for running out—”
“No, no, think nothing of it. I understand the situation. The catering manager that night informed me as soon as it happened. I sincerely apologize for what happened to you. This is not a common occurrence at EA. We would never permit an employee to be abused, and we are prepared to press charges on your behalf. EA will cover all legal fees, I assure you, and this matter will be settled in a manner that punishes Mr. Simpson for his actions.”
“No. Please. I don’t want to press charges. I never want to talk about this again. I didn’t go to the police or the hospital or anything. I want to forget it ever happened,” I say, my heart pounding, sweat breaking out all along my skin.
“Are you certain? Would you like one of our attorneys to call you and explain the process?”
“No. I really wouldn’t. I’ll sign anything you want that says it wasn’t your fault, because it wasn’t. I’m not going to sue you. I just want to put this behind me. It was horrible and I hate that it ruined a great opportunity for me, but I understand that you can’t keep an employee who runs out in the middle of a job. I’m sorry about all of it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Caleigh. This is something bad that was done to you, not by you. I have already taken steps to ensure that Randy Simpson and his wretched brother Nathan are blacklisted by every decent caterer in the city. When I’m finished they won’t be able to get a buffet at the Marriott, much less dinner for an event.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say because I don’t see how having trouble hiring a caterer is really punishment for trying to rape someone, but I don’t want to be rude. Marilyn was nice to hire me, and she’s doing her best to be decent about this.
“I intend to keep you as an employee if you’re willing. You’ll be paid for the full night on Saturday. There’s also a rather shocking amount of money left as a tip for you that you can pick up at the office. I can promise you that neither of the Simpsons will be in attendance at any event I assign you—not only because I refuse to serve them or to cater any event to which they are invited.”
“That would be amazing, thank you,” I say. “I don’t want the tip, though. Give it to the others who worked that night.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on it, Caleigh. Put it in a savings account if you like, or buy yourself a nice pair of shoes. It’s your money.”
Marilyn hangs up. I can’t believe I still have a job with her. I’ll go by after work and pick up my paycheck and whatever blood money Randy Simpson left for me. It makes me sick to think about it, but I’ll stick it in a savings account like Marilyn said. It can be for emergencies.
At the EA office, I get my paycheck and an envelope of cash. I don’t count it. I stuff it in my purse and go home. Once I’m inside behind a locked door where I’m not afraid of getting mugged, I take the envelope out and dump the money on the table.
The envelope contains nearly a thousand dollars. I’ve never seen this much cash. I’m not even sure I can take this into a bank to open an account without someone thinking I stole it or sold drugs to get it. I don’t look like somebody who has eight hundred bucks lying around the house. I stuff it under the mattress. I feel nervous having it here. I take a quick shower. Afterward, I put on his shirt. The one I was keeping under my pillow. I needed to wrap it around me. I loved the way the sleeves covered my hands, the fabric soft and smooth, a perfect pale blue. I wouldn’t be in his arms again, but I could wear the shirt. I could remember all the good things.
I spend the next weeks working catering jobs on Saturday nights and Sundays at lunch. It’s working. I’ve added a couple of hundred bucks to the savings account. I’m even looking online at the classes available in fashion design and merchandising.
I feel good. I mean, I cry a lot, but that’s not the worst thing. I hadn’t really cried much since the burial. But I read a lot about grief and sometimes a triggering event can help you access all those emotions you’ve locked away, so I’m guessing that almost getting raped or even spending the night with Griffin unlocked my bereavement, and I’m grieving at last. Like every day. Something stupid will make me cry. A diaper commercial. Spilling my iced tea on my break. The dryer being broken at the Laundromat. I let it happen. I embrace it even. Because if I’m ever going to make peace with losing my family, I think this is just a process I have to go through.
Okay, so the thing that makes me want to cry the most is thinking about Griffin. Maybe I have a little crush on him that won’t go away. Maybe I sleep in his Armani shirt every night. Maybe I wrote it all down in a notebook so I wouldn’t forget a thing. And sometimes I read it, like a favorite movie I can’t quit watching or the dirtiest diary on the planet. It doesn’t just turn me on, though. It makes me yearn for him. Like a throat-squeezing, misty-eyed longing in my chest. I do need to get over the Griffin part of the crying, but that should end pretty soon, I think. How long can a girl cry over someone she only knew for less than twenty-four hours? Surely not more than the, let’s see, six weeks or so since I saw him. I bet I quit missing him any day now.
I’ve been thinking that for weeks. That I’d just forget to think about him all day. That I wouldn’t look for him in the restaurant whenever there’s a dark-haired customer. That I wouldn’t stop and hope so hard every time my phone gives me a text alert—maybe he’s tracked me down. Maybe he’s found me and wants to see me. He could track me down if he wanted to. I’m not stupid. I know he could have his secretary call Marilyn’s office and have my contact info in about six seconds. It’s obvious that he knows as well as I do that we’re not meant for each other. We had one amazing night together, but we don’t make sense. That he’d only break my heart. My dumbass heart that keeps scanning every crowd of people for his perfect face.
My alarm goes off on Friday morning. Instead of hopping up and making my bed like I usually do, I lay there. My head hurts. Not a little, but like that dull, horrible headache you get when your whole body hurts
and you can’t drag yourself up to get Tylenol. I had some kind of virus. One of the kitchen crew at the restaurant had a sick kid last week. I bet she brought the germs in. I groan, wishing for sleep, for Tylenol and a glass of water. I stagger up and get to the bathroom. I have two pills in my mouth when I start throwing up in the sink. It’s miserable. It’s like some monster just stuck its finger down my throat. I drop to my knees and lean my head on the cabinet. I have to get up and go to work. I pull myself up and then retch again. I manage to get back to the bed and text Dominic. I’m too sick to go to work. I flop back on the bed and try to sleep, but I’m too wretched.
When Amy gets home, I moan loud enough she can hear me and she comes in the room.
“What’s wrong? You’re supposed to be at work.”
“Sick,” I mumble, “Do we have any ginger ale? Please, please take money out of my purse and go buy some.”
She goes, comes back and brings me a glass. I try to sip it and bolt for the bathroom to throw up again.
“So much for that settling your stomach,” she says. “Just try to drink when you can. You don’t want to dehydrate.”
“I know, Dr. Amy,” I say.
Amy’s a CNA, which means she does the dirty work and doesn’t get paid very well. She rolls her eyes at me and leaves me in peace. Hours later, I wake up to an alert from my phone that I have a catering event at seven. I can’t. I’m too exhausted. I message the manager and go back to bed. It’s much later before I feel like taking a shower and trying to eat. As soon as I do, the ginger ale and cracker come right back up.
I spend the whole weekend sick. I’m so weak I can hardly even move from the bed. When Amy checks I don’t have a fever. She tries to get me to swallow a sports drink and talks about my electrolytes and I just curl up miserably. Monday morning, my alarm goes off. I feel so tired. I message Dominic and tell him I’m not better yet and I’m sorry. I really don’t want to lose my job. But I can’t do it. There’s no way I can get dressed and carry food and talk to people. I might make them sick, for one thing. For another, I feel like I’m going to vomit again.
Dominic issues me a stern warning about my hours being cut if I don’t show up tomorrow. I start to cry. I want to wear Griffin’s shirt for the comfort, but I don’t want to get vomit on it when I inevitably start throwing up again. So I lay it on the bed beside me and hold the cuff like I’m holding his hand. I don’t bother to worry about how pathetic that is.
Amy bursts in when she gets home. “You’re going to the doctor,” she says.
“No,” I say, “I’ll be okay. I just need to rest.”
“That’s all you’ve done for three days. If it were a virus, it would’ve run its course by now.”
“It’s the flu. The flu can last over a week,” I say.
“Yeah, but two problems there. One, the actual flu is respiratory, and you’ve been puking. Two, it’s not flu season. There have been zero cases of the flu in like two months. So it’s not the flu.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, “I’m getting better. Last night I ate three crackers and kept down some water.”
“You don’t look good. No fever. Sick as hell. You need to see a doctor.”
“No,” I moan, “I just got some money saved.”
“I know. You look at that bank app like three times a day to gloat.”
“It makes me feel good,” I say.
“You have to take care of yourself. It’s not like Dominic will let you keep that job if you don’t show up.”
“Everybody gets sick sometimes, Amy. It’s not like I won’t get better. I just need to rest. I do not need to blow all the money I saved on some stupid doctor bill. I’ll go to the ER, and they’ll bill me like a thousand bucks to give me IV fluids and tell me it’s a virus.”
“I’m serious, Caleigh,” she says. I know that voice. There’s no arguing with her now.
“The free clinic doesn’t do acute care,” I whine.
“No, but they do pregnancy tests. You slept with that guy last month, didn’t you?”
I nod. It hurts to nod.
“Did you at least use a condom? Tell me you did.” Amy says.
“No,” I moan, “we didn’t.”
“So you lied to me. You didn’t take care of your safety, and now you’ve either got an STI or you’re pregnant. Do you have abdominal pain? Does it hurt to pee?”
“No, I’m sick at my stomach, and I’m tired.”
“You’re peeing on a stick.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m sick,” I insist.
Even as I say it, I wonder. Could I be pregnant? By Griffin Doyle? I feel tears sting my eyes. It would be so inconvenient. I’d have to take time off, find a daycare, somehow pay all kinds of bills, and still find time to read to a baby and cuddle him and—and I want Griffin’s baby. I want my baby, when it comes to the point. I bite my lips.
Amy’s already left, presumably to get a pregnancy test. I know she’s right about the condoms. I know she’s right about all of it, but I wish she’d leave me alone to sleep.
When she comes back, she makes me take the test. The two lines come up almost instantly.
“That’s some seriously pregnant pee you got there,” she smirks, “those things are supposed to take three minutes.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
“Say I was right. Then get your pants on. We’re going to the free clinic. You need to get checked out. Figure out what you want to do.”
“I’m keeping him.”
“What?”
“I’m going to have a baby. I’m going to be a mom.”
I start crying. She goes in and gets jeans and a T-shirt for me, makes me put them on. I know she should be asleep now. I know she’s being a good friend. But I don’t want to face the PA down at the free clinic and explain that I had unprotected sex with a stranger and now I’m knocked up. It seems so trashy. I don’t feel trashy, though. I feel shocked and scared and lucky all at once.
Amy goes with me. I can’t tell if she’s being supportive or if she just wants to make sure I follow her advice. We’ve never been really close, but I’m happy to have her with me, whatever the reason. She sits by me in the waiting room. She waits outside while I have tests.
At the free clinic, they do a blood test. They swab me for STIs. They give me a prescription for prenatal vitamins and tell me which grocery store pharmacy fills them for free. I have to come back in three months for another HIV test, but everything was negative this time. I breathe a sigh of relief there. Then a nurse makes me sit and listen to lots of information about risky behaviors and the consequences of having unprotected sex. She gives me a free three-pack of condoms. I take my condoms, my prescription, and my flaming, embarrassed face out of the clinic.
I am completely exhausted, but I’m happy. It’s the stupidest sensation, this bubbling well of happiness inside me. I’m having a baby. A baby I want and love. After years of being alone, I’ll have a family again. Someone who belongs to me. I try to keep my mind on that, not on the sheer panic I feel about how I’ll handle the responsibility. I’m going to have to look in to what kind of maternity leave I get at work, the unpaid kind I assume. I make myself send Amy home to sleep. I go to a bodega down the block from our apartment and buy some stuff I think I can eat. Soup, some canned fruit, saltine crackers. I must sit down at the table before I can even heat up the soup. Now that I have a baby to take care of, I know I have to eat. I take my time and get the soup ready and make myself swallow tiny spoonful’s of it. I can do this.
Although happy about what was becoming in my stomach, I go to bed early and cry. It’s all I can do. My dreams of going back to school or even taking online classes are over for good. I have a child to support. A maternity leave and hospital bills to save up for. Childcare costs and clothes and toys and a crib. I may have to look for a new job if I can’t make the hours work. I think about it—about how my mom will never know she’s a grandmother, never hold my baby, never smooth the sweaty hai
r back off my face when I’m in labor. I want her now very strongly. The only thing I want more than my mom is Griffin.
I could call him. I could tell him. But I don’t want him to think I’m a gold digger. That I got pregnant on purpose to trap him or take his money. I don’t want him to know because he’ll hate me. He’d do the right thing. He’d help with the baby, make sure we didn’t have to worry about money, but that’s not what I want for my child—to be someone’s financial obligation. Griffin doesn’t want a relationship with me. I know it’s for the best. I’d rather struggle on my own than take the easy way out.
CHAPTER TEN
Griffin
The board of directors is pissed off at me. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
I just couldn’t stomach it. Doing business with the Simpson brothers. Not after what Randy did to Kate. I didn’t handle it well at the time. I should have put him in the hospital and told Nathan to fuck himself and then trashed the deal. I can do Thorns anywhere. It doesn’t have to be the Simpson’s shitty pirate club. There’s plenty of real estate in this city, real estate that’s not associated with a goddamned rapist. It made me sick to think of him profiting off the deal. Making a decision, I ended it.
Now the board is making me explain myself. I don’t like answering to anybody. Since I sold off some shares to investors a couple years ago when I needed capital for new projects, I have to answer them. I have to answer their questions. I practiced looking humble in the mirror while I shaved this morning. I’m not very good at it, especially since my first instinct is to tell them to fuck off. I make the decisions. I’m the one who started pop up clubs in college and parlayed that into a chain of wildly successful nightspots in four major US cities. They’re just money men who want an explanation.