UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  “Three,” he says with a slight laugh. “Yeah. My parents are like elephants; they never forget. Unless, of course, it’s convenient for them not to remember, in which case it didn’t happen.” He tries to laugh, but I can tell it’s forced; the conversation with his mother obviously upset him more than he’s willing to admit. He leans his head back.

  I grab his hand and bring it to my lips, kissing his fingers, smiling, trying to relax him.

  He returns the smile; it’s not his full grin, but his eyes soften as he looks at me. He notices the light shift to green and takes his hand back.

  “What’s the difference between a pit bull and a Cuban mother?”

  I shrug, then realize he may not have seen the gesture. “Um, I don’t know?”

  He laughs. It’s harsh, but he’s less tense now. “Eventually, the dog lets go.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A few minutes later, we pull into a shady parking lot somewhere near Rice Village. Both handicapped slots are taken, so Santiago finds the closest space and carefully, easily, backs into it. It’s an outside spot, which leaves his door free from being boxed in by another car.

  Santiago seems to have relaxed, trying hard to put the conversation with his mother out of his mind. “So this place is kind of like a modern take on an English pub, but the food is really, really good. They have this Tolkienesque theme going on, so it’s kind of kitschy. But I promise, despite being inspired by a pub, they have plenty of healthy options. It’s not all greasy bar food.” He winks. “I make exceptions for New Orleans, of course.”

  He opens his door and reaches back for his crutches, carefully pulling them out without hitting me. I watch him turn his body, easing his legs out. He grips the side of the car with his left hand and his crutches in his other, waiting for his legs to lock before slipping a crutch on each arm. He turns to face me.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, looking at me, his face genuinely worried. He’s so adorable.

  “What?”

  “If there’s somewhere else you’d rather go… I should have asked. I guess I got distracted. I’m sorry.”

  It takes a moment. I don’t care, but Stephen never would have bothered to ask me, let alone care that I might have something in mind. It’s touching that Santiago is so upset for seemingly walking all over me.

  “This is fine. Really. But thank you for asking.” I smile, push the door open, and hop out, then shut it behind me. He’s halfway to the front entrance, so I rush up to meet him.

  The sun isn’t too strong today, but the humidity is fierce, and after only a few minutes, I’m sweating, the moisture clinging to my skin. I really wish I could have a cold beer. Santiago senses my hesitation and stops. We’re standing in the white-striped space between the two handicapped spots, although I notice the ramp is actually on the other side of the building from here, two steps standing in front of us instead. Off to the side, near the back of the building, I can just see a large patio, filled with people and shaded by large fabric umbrellas of various shapes and sizes, not a single one matching the other.

  “Di, if you’d prefer I take you back so you can go home, I understand.”

  His face is sincere, though there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, amber specks hidden among the brown. I inhale deeply, try to smile. I lay a hand on his wrist. I can feel the tension of his muscles, gripping the handle. I shake my head.

  “No. I’m sorry. Let’s go eat.”

  He smiles, though it’s reserved, not his usual relaxed grin. He stares over at the ramp, then the two stairs. Remembering New Orleans, I know neither option is easy for him. The two stairs are wide and low, with a sturdy banister on one side that looks like it was added later for either ADA compliance or to satisfy a lawyer somewhere. Santiago meets my eyes, scrutinizing me, nibbling his lip absently. Finally, he balances, pulls his left crutch off. A moment of hesitation and he offers it to me.

  It isn’t the first time I’ve held his crutches; I did toss them at him in anger earlier. But I remember how he kept them when he climbed into the streetcar in New Orleans; it’s possible he did so for the added stability once he boarded. But somehow, this feels like we’ve crossed some invisible threshold. He’s entrusting them to me, I realize, as he hands me the second crutch. Although I feel a tingle clutching the metal, it’s more than just my “thing”; it’s knowing the gift Santiago has given me. He’s supporting himself, turned to face the banister, both hands gripping it, and I know he would have managed without me—must have hundreds of times. But he chose to let me hold them, trusting me with essentially an extension of his body. Gripping them in my hands suddenly feels more intimate than anything we’ve done together previously, and my heart swells.

  He uses mostly his upper body to lift himself up the first step, then slides his hands up. He pauses, then pulls himself up the second step. I can see sweat trailing down his forehead along the sides of his face. How can all those people sit outside in this weather?

  The last movement, from the second step to the platform, seems to be the hardest, and he has to push on the banister to execute the final step. He’s turned partially toward me, his right hand gripping the railing for support, his left extended. I take that as my cue to hand him his crutch, making sure it’s the correct one.

  He slips his arm into it, adjusts his weight, and puts out his hand for the second, which I hurry to oblige him with. He accepts it, slides his arm in, and walks to the door, pausing to wait for me.

  “Thanks,” he says. He looks so cute like this, slightly flushed from the effort and the heat, sweat clinging to his skin, a hint of stubble on his cheeks. “It can get a little crowded in there, so I might have you hold on to one crutch for me to make it easier to maneuver, okay?”

  My stomach flips. So I not only get to hold them once, but twice? Three, maybe even four times, if I count returning to the car after our meal? He’s about to open the door for us, but suddenly, I’m so excited, I shout out, “Wait!” way too loud.

  He stops, looks at me, eyebrow tilted.

  I rush up, put a hand on his hip, and pray I don’t throw us off balance as I step up on tiptoe and kiss him. He’s surprised but quickly leans into it, adjusting his weight so we don’t go toppling to the ground. When I sink back down to my heels, we’re both smiling.

  “What was that for?” he asks with a grin.

  I shrug. “For trusting me,” I whisper. I check to make sure no one’s in our immediate vicinity, lay a hand on his crotch, slowly massaging until I start to feel his heat, then pull away with a giggle.

  His eyes are glazed, his voice breathy when he finally speaks. “You’re something else, linda, you know that?”

  I grin, pulling the door open, winking. Enjoying the playful game, he beams at me, easing in the door, giving me a few seconds to admire him from behind before following him inside.

  * * * *

  Santiago predicted correctly; though the restaurant is large, it’s tightly packed with tables, nearly all of which are full, and it’s an acrobatic feat for the hostess and me to make our way to our table, a seemingly impossible feat with two crutches. Yet Santiago manages quite well, moving surprisingly fast around chairs and oblivious diners until finally sinking, with relief, into a chair at our table.

  The hostess is blushing, visibly embarrassed, as she hands us each a menu and promises our waitress will be with us soon. Santiago leans his crutch against the wall and sticks his hand out for the other, which I hand him with slight reluctance; I love the feel of the metal against my palm. He lays it with its partner, making sure they won’t fall, then smiles at me with a sigh.

  “This place wouldn’t be worth it if the food wasn’t so good,” he says with a grin. His right cheek dimpling, which I love.

  “You’re a real foodie, huh?”

  He shrugs. “Life’s too short; you might as well enjoy what you can.”

  God, I want him so much, I think. The table is too much space between us. I pull my chair as close to the table as
I can manage and lean forward, gripping the edges of the seat. I have short legs, but I wonder…

  He squirms, laughing, when he feels the tickle of my toe on the inside of his thigh. A part of me can’t believe I’m doing this—and I’m not even drunk—but there’s just something about Santiago. It’s not just his incredible sexiness; it’s as if I’ve been walking around for thirty years only being half myself, and he allows me to be the whole me, my entire self. No inhibitions, no holding back, no more fear.

  I almost fall out of my seat when the waitress suddenly appears, and Santiago has to clamp his hand over his mouth to mute his laughter. I can feel the heat in my cheeks and know I must be scarlet from clavicle to brow, and try to bury my face behind a menu.

  “Can I get y’all something to drink?”

  “Ice water,” he says, laughter still leaking into his voice.

  I keep myself concealed behind my menu, peeking over so only my eyes show. “Water too,” I say quickly, hoping she’ll hurry up and go away.

  Santiago’s still smiling. “Thanks, Di.”

  I lower the menu but grip it on each side with tight fingers. “For what?”

  “For everything. I have fun with you.”

  I frown, perplexed, remembering what Melanie pointed out during the convention, how she’d never seen me so alive, relaxed, having fun. Still, I can’t help saying, “If you think I’m fun, you need to get out more.”

  He laughs, dips his head, shaking it, before looking back up at me. With that look. That look I’m starting to think means… I can’t bear to think it. All I know is that no one, ever, has looked at me like that, and with Santiago, it’s routine. His smile shifts to a frown, though his eyes don’t change.

  “Your husband is an idiot.”

  I don’t like talking about Stephen—with anyone, especially Santiago. I try to change the subject. “So what’s good here? The turkey sandwich looks nice.”

  Santiago reaches over and presses his fingers in the spine of the menu, pushing it down, away from my face. “Promise me something,” he says.

  I feel like a glacier is forming in my stomach. “What?”

  “No matter what happens—with the amnio—don’t delete my number.”

  I look at him, confused, suddenly not so hungry, the juices in my stomach swirling around like an angry whirlpool. “Santiago—”

  “I just want you to know that I’ll be here when you decide you don’t need him anymore.” He says it with a nod, as if he’s certain it will happen, just not when. Almost as if he knows me better than I do.

  * * * *

  We’re almost done with the meal, picking at the last of the food on our plates, neither of us really wanting the date—yeah, I guess I should admit that’s what it is—to be over.

  I take a breath, look at him, and ask before I can stop myself. “If you could have one wish—no wishing for more wishes—what would you wish for?”

  He thinks, takes a sip of water, then answers simply, without a hint of reticence, “You. I’d wish to have you…and the baby.”

  I laugh, a loud gush of air pushed out of my lungs. “Really. What would you wish for?”

  His face shows the suggestion of a smile, but his eyes are sincere, soft, amber specks catching the light. “I’m serious.” He shifts in his seat, leans forward. “I’d wish for you: single and unattached, all for myself.” He pauses, then adds, “I’d love to have a family with you.” He blushes.

  My forehead crinkles, and I wipe the condensation off my glass, feeling the cool slickness on my fingers. “You wouldn’t wish to be cured?”

  His eyes tip upward, as if he’s thinking, although it doesn’t take him long to answer—seconds, maybe a minute at most. “No. Not if I only have one wish.”

  I push my plate to the side, lean on an elbow, my head resting on my hand. “But if you were cured, you could have anyone you want. You wouldn’t have to settle for me.” I regret the words almost as soon as they’re out of my mouth.

  He pushes away from the table slightly, hands gripping its surface on either side of him, knuckles white. When I force myself to look at him, I see he’s angry—as angry as he was with his sister and mother earlier—although the quality of it is different, a frown etched deeply into his face.

  “You think I’m ‘settling’ for you because I can’t get anyone else? I don’t know who that’s more insulting to: me, or you.” He sighs; his face softens. “I’ve felt a connection with you like I’ve never felt before. Like I can just be myself with you.” He pauses, as if debating whether or not he should continue. “And that’s a really big deal for me.”

  My heart stops. Wasn’t I just thinking basically the same thing only a few minutes ago? I realize he’s talking about letting me see his braces, holding his crutches, but it’s more than that. We’re comfortable together. We have been ever since our first few words on the plane. I’ve never felt this way around anyone before. It’s simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

  Finally, he sucks in a breath, his eyes go soft as if they were painted with a watercolor brush, and he adds, in a whisper, “I could love you.”

  I gasp, surprised to hear him actually say it, even though I already know it from his eyes, from that look. I struggle to argue. “We hardly know each other.”

  I’m relieved when he smiles, even if it’s faint. “I know you well enough. Besides, how do we know anything? How do we know when to breathe?”

  My eyebrows furrow; I tilt my head. “My brain’s programmed that way.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe my heart was programmed for you, and I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to come along.” He’s leaning forward, one elbow on the table, his hand supporting his chin, one of his fingers resting along his cheek.

  I study his face, wondering if he’s mocking me, but I’m shocked to discover he’s completely sincere. And it hits me, my heart melting in my chest, that what he just said is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, ever. I have to take a moment to let it sink in, to recover, Santiago looking at me the entire time.

  I take a few sips of water; the cool liquid feels good on my tongue. I close my eyes. This has to be some kind of dream, I think. There’s no way anyone as amazing and sexy and clever and funny as Santiago can actually exist in the world. Let alone that he exists and is in love with me.

  Me.

  I swallow, clear my throat. “My wish would be to have a little fairy who sits on my shoulder who could tell me what love is.”

  He laughs. “You mean, define it for you? Like, the Webster’s fairy?”

  I frown, shaking my head. “No. Like, I could walk into a crowded restaurant on Valentine’s Day, and I could point to one couple after another and the little fairy could tell me if it’s love or not.”

  His face shifts yet again, and he looks at me the way you’d look at a cute baby bird who fell out of her nest. “I think you should leave Stephen. Get a divorce.”

  My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. He’s suggested as much before, but he’s never been so bold as to actually say the d word.

  “Even if you don’t end up with me—I hope you do—but even if you don’t, you shouldn’t stay with him if you’re not happy with him, if you’re not in love, if he doesn’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated. If he doesn’t give you what you need.” He’s as serious as I’ve ever seen him; I wonder if this is the type of expression he used when he was a lawyer, dealing with clients or the opposition. “That’s why divorce was invented.”

  I stare at him, my face blank, because I can’t quite decide on an emotion. “What if the baby is Stephen’s? Then what?”

  Santiago fixes his eyes on me, tracing the rim of his glass. “You should think about whether Stephen is the type of man you want to be the father of your baby, regardless of what DNA he or she has.”

  I feel like a sudden, unexpected weight has landed on my chest; I’m breathless, stunned, speechless.

  He sweeps his fingers up, pulling them thro
ugh his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. He’s your husband. I…I should get you back to your car so you can go home.”

  I swallow hard as I watch him slip on his crutches and push himself to his feet. He hands me his left crutch without a word, and I don’t feel a tingle when I take it. I just feel like total shit.

  Fuck.

  What I wouldn’t give for that fairy on my shoulder right now.

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Six Weeks Later

  Santiago and I didn’t leave things on the best terms the last time we were together. He gave me so much to think about, I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it. How he could so easily choose me and a baby he doesn’t even know is his over the chance to be cured. That he would rather I be alone and happy than with either Stephen or him and miserable. These past few weeks, I’ve been swamped at my job, unable to see him even though Stephen’s been working record hours. It’s given me time to contemplate. To simulate “aloneness.”

  I decide I don’t like it.

  Texts and the occasional sneaked phone call aren’t enough. I long to feel his arms around me, the whisper of his warm breath, inhale his scent, subtle, woody, masculine.

  Even so, with the amniocentesis only a week away, I’ve been thinking a lot about issues Santiago raised at our last meeting, about what kind of father Stephen would be. I’ve realized I’ve made a lot of assumptions about how he’d react to my pregnancy, especially after our fight the other day. But what is it they say when you assume?

  So when Stephen calls me on his way home from work—at the surprisingly early hour of five—saying he has good news and wants to take me out to celebrate, make it a kind of date night—I decide this is my chance. Even if I’m not ready to tell Stephen about my infidelity, I can at least take one step toward disclosure.

  Of course, I’m terrified of how he’ll react. What if he doesn’t want me to keep it? I suppose, if his reaction is bad, I can always turn to Santiago, and then my path will be easily laid out for me. Right.