by P. Dangelico
“We can’t do this anymore, Calvin. You can’t text, or call. I can’t see you. It’s too hard, I’m too weak, and I love you too damn much.”
A sideways glance reveals his stony countenance directed straight ahead. He’s working hard to measure his breathing. His Adam’s apple rises and falls, as if he’s fighting to keep something locked down. Still, he remains silent. I open the door and get out. I don’t say goodbye, and I don’t look back. Because that, most of all, is too damn hard.
The next day, I open the front door to find Mercedes looking like the harbinger of doom.
“Mercedes? How are you? Is something wrong?” Not the slightest lift of the corners of her mouth, nor an explanation. I’m starting to worry. “Is Cal okay?” I hold the door open in a gesture to welcome her in.
“You need to come home,” she announces in that thick Spanish accent of hers.
Lost, I look around for clues. “Uhhh, I am home.”
“Where you belong,” she clarifies.
I usher her in and she follows me without objection. “Mercedes––it’s complicated.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache threatening.
“You are a woman, he is a man. It is not that complicated.”
Oh, jeez.
Angelina walks into the foyer and I introduce the two women. That was my first mistake. Two hours and three cups of coffee later, the two women are still commiserating about their faithless daughters and their inexplicable love lives. It turns out that Mercedes daughter, Stella is a very successful trader and has absolutely no wish to ever get married. Angelina trumps her easily with stories of my criminally minded deceased spouse. Listening to these two go on and on, I’m pretty sure I’ve hit rock bottom. By the time I’m ushering Mercedes back out, she’s resigned to the fact that I’m not budging.
“Men say these things. They don’t know what they want until you make them want it,” she adds, in a last ditch effort.
I’m shaking my head before I even speak. “No. No, I won’t do that to him. I won’t be another person that forces something on him. He’s too good a person. He’ll give me what I want at his expense.”
Now that I hear it said out loud, it dawns on me that we’re exactly alike. Holy crap, how did I miss this?
“How is he?”
“Not good. He’s not eating well. He barely speaks. He’s depressed, Camilla. How do you feel?”
“Depressed. Not eating well. Barely speaking.”
She grips my chin and kisses me on the cheek, leaving me standing on the front steps of my parents’ house with a heavy heart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Radio silence lasts all of two days. Part of me is thrilled to hear the sound of the Monday Night Football theme I’ve assigned to him. The rest of me hates it. The man is a world champion, for heaven’s sake. Where I’m a champion of…nothing, other than myself. Given time, it’s safe to assume who would eventually win this battle of wills. That’s why when he texted that he was on his way over to my parents’ house because he needed to “talk”, I did the only thing I could, I packed my bags and took Amber up on her offer to stay at her place until I could find another job. That was ten days ago. Ten days of text and messages I don’t dare look at because I know I’ll cave.
“My boobs hurt.” I say this in a very small voice. Cue ten years later, I finally get a response.
“That’s nice,” my consiglieri absently murmurs. On her nights off from the club, Amber is always on the couch watching her favorite shows.
“Amber…Ambs?” Crickets. “Paging Amber Isabelle Jones. Yo there, Miss Jones.”
Her blonde head turns towards me. “It’s Scandal! I can’t have this convo during Scandal.”
“I said––” and I say this very slowly and meaningfully. “That my boobies hurt. They also happen to be as large as an inflatable raft––two inflatable rafts to be precise.”
“Stop bragging,” she bites out, shooting me a look of feigned contempt. “You’re due for your period.”
“I was due two weeks ago.”
That’s when she peels her eyes off of the television and slowly, ever so slowly––like in the The Exorcist when Linda Blair’s head does a 360––well Amber’s head does a ninety degree turn to face me.
“Store. We need to go to the store immediately.”
For two weeks, I’ve been talking myself out of believing it. The excuses have run the gamut from stress, to uterine cancer, to early menopause. And yet the P word never once came up. Lies, all lies I told myself because the truth could very well be more frightening than early menopause, though clearly not more so than uterine cancer. The look on Amber’s face is like a slap upside the head.
We scrabble off her couch, jam on our flip-flops, and run out the door. With my hair a rats nest from the humidity and hers on top of her head in a messy bun, we look like complete and total train wrecks as we run to the corner store.
“Which one should I buy,” I ask, confused at all the varieties of at-home preggers tests stacked on the shelf. “Words, or symbols?” I hold them up for her inspection.
“All of them,” she answers, nodding. “We need all of them.”
To call it awkward when the elderly gentleman at the register rings up fifteen home pregnancy tests would be a gross understatement. “We just want to be sure,” I blurt out loudly, for him and anyone else that may be interested. Once we get back to Amber’s apartment, the shit really hits the fan––and winds up all over me.
“Did you check the expiration date on that one?” We’re both crowded into her tiny bathroom, ten positive tests lined up on her sink.
“I’m pretty sure they’re not all expired,” the wise ass also known as my best friend says.
“Now is not the time for sarcasm!” My emotions go back and forth violently from ecstatic to scared shitless like someone’s playing an aggressive game of ping pong with my heart. I can’t settle on one. “What do I do?” Amber stares back blankly. For once, she’s speechless. “Now is not the time for you to be quiet!”
“I’m thinking you need to tell your baby daddy.”
Ughhhhh, just the sound of that makes me want to hurl. I walk out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, falling face down on the bed. She’s right behind me, pressing her case. “I don’t see what the drama’s about. It’s not the first time a professional athlete’s knocked up his girlfriend…and you’re a couple of months shy of dirty thirty one. Not like you two are under age pups.”
“You don’t understand,” I moan. How do I explain to her that Cal had a vasectomy specifically to avoid something like this from happening? Good grief, the man has atomic sperm. How the heck does one get knocked up by a man who’s had a vasectomy?!! I make a mental note to Google this miracle ASAP. I can’t decide if I’m the luckiest lady on the planet, or arguably the unluckiest. Matt and I went the last couple of years without protection and nothing happened…I suddenly realize that the thought of Matt doesn’t hurt anymore. His memory has settled in a place inside of me that I can look at without feeling pain or guilt or anger. All I feel is warmth and love.
My elation at this discovery lasts for all of a nanosecond. As soon as my mind shoots back to Cal, fear fills my gut. I have no idea how I’m going to tell him, and it’s pretty obvious that this news won’t be celebrated as it should.
It’s early evening and I’m busy scanning job sites on Amber’s computer when Justin walks out of her bedroom, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and bids me farewell. This is a mystery I have yet to solve. Justin has been coming over at least a few times a week in the last month. They never go out. He just comes over, they disappear into her bedroom, and then––nothing. Total silence. Not a peep, except for hushed whispers. I mean, what the hell are they doing in there? Playing Scrabble? ‘Cause if there is any sexy time, it’s certainly not vigorous. I haven’t broached the subject yet with my little blonde friend, though the time is fast approaching.
There’s a heavy pounding at the door an
d Amber comes flying out of her room fully dressed. “He’s here.”
That didn’t take long. He must’ve realized I wasn’t at my parents’ place anymore. If he doesn’t stop pounding on the steel front door, I’m pretty sure one of Amber’s nosy neighbors will call the cops. I can see the breaking news now…
Super Bowl MVP is arrested for stalking baby momma. Gets karate chopped in the balls by spunky best friend.
“Want me to get rid of him for you?” she says with a creepy, gleeful look in her eyes. Nnnnnnoooo. I definitely cannot unleash Amber on him––yet.
“I have to deal with this. It’s time. The stubborn ass won’t stop until I do.”
“You need to tell him before he finds out some other way.”
Just the thought has me hyperventilating. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m here for you.”
I jerk open the front door to find him standing there with his hand hanging in the air. He’s so frigging handsome––it’s just so unfair. How did I ever think he was pretty? Or cold? That’s love for you.
“Did I just see Harper leaving?” he asks with a puzzled frown.
“Yes.” I turn and walk into the living room. Then I cross my arms under my now giant breasts. I’ve already moved up a bra size. The pregnancy has had an immediate and visible effect on my body. Mostly my boobs. Though I feel puffy all over. Even in a loose t-shirt and cut off jean shorts, I think I look different. Sitting on the couch, he looks around absently. He’s restless, infused with nervous energy. His eyes return to me filled with manifold sentiments: relief, affection, joy…love. There’s so much love. His gaze moves over me, hitting all the salient points on my face and body.
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
“You know why.”
“You look…great,” he says wistfully. His words burrow in and wrap around my heart. Can he tell? Maybe this will go better than expected…maybe. Missing him has become so much a part of me that now that he’s here, all I want to do is drink in the sight of him. With his hair cut short and scruff covering his firm jaw, the changes are noticeable. In less than a month, he seems to have lost the weight I gained. His eyes look dim. The dark circles painted under them are still there.
“You look like shit.” I’m sure it’s written all over my face how much it bothers me to see him like this. He gives me a nod and a sad smile, which makes my chest feel tight and my throat close up.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
I love him so much. More than I could ever have imagined after what I’ve suffered through. And it’s an honest love. I see him for who he really is, and love him even more for all his moles and warts, out in the open, not hiding under the veneer of his good looks or fame or any other crap that I may have once found fascinating but now couldn’t give a lick about.
“I feel like shit.”
“I’ve been watching the games. You’re playing well.” Lost in thought, he nods absently. “Looks like you guys may have a playoff team this year,” I manage through the thick chunk of emotion clogging my throat.
His warm eyes flicker to my stomach. A determined look enters them as he stands. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his black work out pants, and shrugs up his big shoulders. Then he takes them out and crosses them in front of the wide breadth of his chest. Finally, he drops them to his sides. All this in the span of seconds.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I can’t even eat.” Slowly walking toward me, he continues speaking softly. “I need you to come back.” I put up a hand to stop him. If I touch him, if I let him hold me, I will lose it. And right now, I can’t let that happen––too much is at stake. “I’ll beg if you want me to.”
“Nothing has changed, Cal. You don’t want kids and the thing is––I get it. I understand why you don’t. I can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been to have all that responsibility fall on your shoulders. But kids are extremely important to me. The most important thing. It would come between us later, and I won’t do that to either of us. It wouldn’t be fair.”
He rubs his brow and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What if…I compromised? What if I said I’d have one with you?”
“We both know you would be agreeing under duress.” Blowing out a deep breath, he pins me with an exasperated look.
“I’m tryin’ here, damn it. Give me somethin’ to work with.” His twang is back, which means his emotions are getting the best of him. The fact that he didn’t deny what I just said stabs my gut while tears sting my eyes, the influx of hormones running in my blood making me weepy. I can’t help him make this decision. I know what I have to do––for both of us. It’s the only way to discover his true feelings.
“I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Intense and unblinking, his gaze snaps to mine.
“I said, I’m pregnant.” I do my best to hold the eye contact for as long as I can, which happens to be not very long at all.
“The fuck…” he murmurs. His eyes move over me again, looking for evidence. And then slowly, ever so slowly, they climb back up to mine…and turn into two chips of ice.
“Whose is it?”
His voice has descended to an inhuman growl. The vein at his temple is throbbing. Everything I have been dreading for weeks is coming to fruition before my eyes. I can no longer hold back the tears. They slip down my cheeks unimpeded. I try like hell to keep my voice steady as I speak.
“If you’re asking if I’m pregnant with our baby, then the answer is yes.”
“This can’t be happening to me again,” he mutters to himself. “It’s Harper’s, isn’t it?” His voice is harsh, clipped. His eyes look wild. I must still be in possession of my heart because the stake he just drove through it wouldn’t hurt this much if I wasn’t. Breathing harshly, his hands on his hips, he turns his back to me.
“It’s yours,” I say more calmly than I’m feeling, and quickly wipe the tears away. His head whips around in my direction.
“I’m supposed to believe that? I don’t know what’s worse, that you got knocked up and are trying to extort money from me, or that you think I’m stupid enough to believe you.”
It takes all the willpower I posses to moderate my voice, to try to remain rational. After a deep breath, I say, “I know you’re shocked right now, Cal. I was shocked too, trust me, I was shocked. But don’t say another word––you’ll regret it later.”
“I’m not the one that’s going to regret anything.” He’s seething with anger. “You are.”
A moment later, he stalks out of the room and out the front door. The loud bang that reverberates throughout the apartment makes me jerk. The pain I’m feeling sinks down to my bones. I can feel the blood drain from my face and pool at my feet. I’m rooted to the floor in the middle of the room for a full fifteen minutes, every muscle in my body trembling.
“Are you okay?” Amber’s voice is soft. I turn to find her standing in the open doorway. All I can do is shake my head, anything else and I will crumble. Quietly, she comes over and hugs me tightly. “We’ll get through this together. You’re not alone.”
Those words ring true and familiar. And after a beat, I recall why. Those were the exact same words she said to me the night Matt drove his car into a watery grave.
Two days later, I feel marginally human again. I spent the last forty eight hours simultaneously stuffing my face with any carb I could get my hands on and bawling my eyes out. That out of the way, I determine it’s time to let my parents in on the fun.
“What is it?” my mother screeches when she sees me walk into the kitchen with a look of utter desolation on my face.
“Where’s Dad?” I am composed with a capital C. Gotta keep it together even though every hormone in my body is staging a riot.
“At the store. What is it Camilla? You’re making me nervous.”
“I wanted to tell you two together…I guess it can’t wait.” Angelina presses a hand to her sternum. She
looks truly panicked now so I get it out quickly before she has a heart attack. “I’m pregnant.”
Her face is a carousel of emotions. Shock, curiosity, suspicion, joy, elation. Take your pick––there’s one of every flavor. She settles on hope.
“You’re sure?”
“Went to the OBGYN this morning and confirmed it.”
A slow, very slow smile starts to creep across my mother’s face until it nearly breaks in two. “A baby…we’re going to have a baby. God has answered my prayers.”
I’m not sharing her enthusiasm just yet.
“You’re not…mad?”
Her blue eyes slam into mine. “Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know…I’m not married. I don’t have a job. This isn’t exactly a good time to be having a baby.”
“Camilla, you’re my daughter. I love you more than the next breath of air I’ll take into my lungs. But you need to stop expecting the worst, for everyone to disappoint you. Are you happy about this baby?”
Those words hit their intended mark. I feel them not only in my head, but also in my heart. I did expect the worst from her…and from Cal, for that matter.
“Very happy.”
“Then that’s all that matters. I’ve lived enough life to know the rest will work itself out.”
“Before you get too happy, Ma, you should know that Calvin doesn’t want any part of it. He told me many times he never wanted children, so I can’t fault him. This was…kind of a miracle.”
“What’s a miracle?” My father queries as he walks into the kitchen with two shopping bags.
“Put those down, Tom. This is important.”
My father’s alert and inquisitive gaze finds me. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
It takes my father a minute. “This is great news,” he announces with a bright white smile.