UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  Santiago’s brows dip. “The only one since law school, yeah,” he says in a tired voice. “Plenty of women are happy to take the cripple for a spin but aren’t so eager to bring me home to meet Daddy.” He sounds uncharacteristically sad, and I imagine Veronica must have really hurt him. I also wonder if there’s something more to his earlier admission about his father.

  I decide not to push. I just want to make him feel better. “Well, I think my dad would’ve liked you.”

  That makes him chuckle. “Really.”

  “Yeah. He was notorious for making ridiculously corny jokes.”

  “My jokes are great, I’ll have you know.” I’m happy to hear the smile in his voice, and I love how he reaches for me, pulling me close.

  “One of my dad’s favorites was, ‘A man walks into a bar. Ouch!’”

  “That’s terrible,” Santiago says, but he’s laughing. “My version is way better. A baby seal walks into a club.”

  I roll my eyes. Explore every inch of skin within easy reach. I love this. Just lying in bed together, not even saying much, our bodies touching. “Do you know how incredibly sexy you are?” I say, my breath coming a little quicker. I shift, drawing up onto my hands and knees so I can kiss every favorite spot as I go. “Your eyes. Your lips. Your chest. Your arms. Your belly. Your thighs. Your calves. Your feet.” I look up from between his legs, grinning.

  He’s staring back at me, smiling, though a little bewildered. “I’m nothing special.”

  “See, I beg to differ,” I say as I drag my hands lightly over his skin, starting with the bridge of his feet, sliding up his legs to the inside of his thighs, tickling his balls.

  He sighs. Uses one hand to help spread his legs a little wider to give me more access.

  “Ah, my most favorite part,” I say, leaning closer to his crotch, blowing softly and making his breath catch. He smells strongly of musk and sweat and man, half-hard before I’ve even touched his cock.

  “And you say I’m the dork,” he says lazily.

  I hum and take him into my mouth, sucking gently on the head, urging him to grow to his full length.

  He grunts. “Di. I can’t tonight.”

  That gives me pause, and I pull off with a subtle pop.

  “Wheeling us both back to the parking lot really took it out of me.” Another admission that surprises me, makes guilt flare up in my stomach. He carried me that whole way from the cab to his room that night in New Orleans, and I had no idea how much effort that must have been. Seemingly sensing the direction of my thoughts, he says, “I won’t be able to do that forever, but I can now, for short distances. I like you in my lap.”

  “Then let me do this for you.” Again, I suck his cock, getting into a rhythm, keeping my lips tight around him but my cheeks loose so that he slides easily in and out as I move my head.

  Santiago groans, and despite his exhaustion, his hips make a weak, reflexive effort to thrust into my mouth, desperate for more, to go deeper.

  I grip the base of his shaft and oblige him, bracing myself and taking his full length, swallowing against the head, ignoring the way my eyes water, because the sounds he’s making—little grunts and whimpers and moans—drive me to keep going. I pull almost all the way off, stopping to focus on the head of his cock, alternating tight suction with swirls of my tongue around the crown and into his slit.

  He’s breathing hard, his fingers bunched in the sheets, muttering. “Fuck, oh fuck. Yeah. Yeah.”

  I want to—need to—do this for him, to comfort him and distract him as he has for me so many times before. To make him forget Veronica and his father and all his worries. To feel sexy and wanted. For there to be nothing for him but this moment, however fleeting.

  I suck harder, intensifying my movements with my head and tongue, and his cries become more frantic, his stomach beginning to tense. Without slowing or breaking rhythm, I work a finger behind his balls, to that little patch of skin there, and press up. He lets out a howl of surprised pleasure, and the salty taste of precum hits my tongue. He’s close.

  I pick up the pace, determined, though my jaw is sore. The other night, saying no to Stephen, was the first time I ever really felt in control during sex. Right now is the second time I’ve experienced that feeling, but instead of negative, it’s all positive. I want to make Santiago explode with an orgasm that will steal his breath and shut down his mind and ensure that no matter what happens between us, with this baby I’m carrying, he’ll never be able to forget tonight.

  I suck down to the base, licking my tongue up his shaft until I pop off with a swipe at his slit. His eyes are tightly closed as I slide a hand over the head of his cock, squeezing and stroking him, urging him to come, lapping at his slit with every pump. Suddenly, he shouts, a surprised sound. His body jerks, and his warmth spurts out, flowing onto my chin and hand.

  “Oh, fuck, Di,” Santiago says, breathing hard. He struggles to open his eyes to meet mine, but it’s a losing battle. A huge, sated smile slips onto his face, and he visibly relaxes.

  I snag some tissues and clean us both. “That’s a thanks. For everything.”

  Santiago chuckles tiredly as he shifts onto his side, using his hands to adjust his legs and then opening his arms for me to join him. “What other bands do you like? I’ll get us more tickets if it means blowjobs like that.”

  I switch off the lamp and snuggle down into his arms, spooning with him. This feels so right, the way I fit against him, contentedness like I’ve never felt washing over me, tinged only with the knowledge that this can’t last.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The second Monday after the amnio, I’m starting to get anxious about the results. In a couple days, ten business days will have passed, and even though I’ve made sure I always have my phone charged and within reach, so far I haven’t gotten the call. I keep reaching for my medal, pinching at my shirt, and then I remember I gave it to Santiago. It makes me smile thinking of him wearing it, even if we haven’t had much opportunity to see each other. So instead I palm the voodoo-doll keychain he gave me, remembering him.

  One of the things Santiago and I did the week Stephen was away was cook together. Santiago taught me a very basic spaghetti recipe that I can whip up easily when I want to impress someone. We both knew he meant Stephen, and all things considered, it was pretty sweet of him. So I’m finishing up dinner when Stephen waltzes in the door, the biggest smile on his face I’ve seen on him—ever—even bigger than when he got the lecture series.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  He sniffs. “Smells good. But are you sure it’s not too much garlic?” He skips over and grabs a clean spoon from the drawer, dips it in the sauce, and tastes. “Hmm. Good.”

  He surprises me with a kiss on the cheek, then stands back, waiting. It takes me a moment to notice him, and when I do, I look at him with one eyebrow raised, confused. “Um. How was your day?”

  I didn’t think it was possible, but his grin broadens. “Great! Management selected me to head up their new international division!”

  “Wait…what?” I shut off the stove and carry the pasta to the sink.

  “So you should probably give notice tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” I nearly burn myself with the hot water as I pour it into the colander.

  “We’re leaving in two weeks. They want me to start immediately. But don’t worry—the company’ll take care of everything: moving us, selling the house, et cetera, so it’ll be fine.” He grabs silverware from the drawer and starts setting our places on the island.

  “But what about my job?” I say, turning around, gripping the sink to brace myself.

  He shrugs. “You hate working there. Besides, you can work freelance from anywhere. Not that you need to work at all, because this position pays really, really well. Especially once you factor in the company paying taxes and expenses. Di, I’m talking double my current take home.”

  I frown, my mouth falling open. I may complain about my job, but it’s mine
. And now I feel like Stephen’s taken away that one last piece of myself I thought he had no control over. My arm cradles my stomach.

  “I can’t believe you accepted this position without talking to me first.”

  He shrugs again, reaching up into one of the cabinets for glasses. “We did talk about it. I mentioned numerous times I was being considered for this.” He turns, a cup in each hand. “Di, this isn’t the type of position they offer you and you turn down. Of course I accepted.”

  “You’re fucking un-fucking-believable, you know that?”

  Stephen’s genuinely confused; he lets his arms fall.

  “I’m fucking pregnant, you oblivious asshole.” I don’t normally swear—I mean, I do, but not like this. I only bring out the compound curses when I’m really, really pissed off, which doesn’t happen often.

  Of course, Stephen doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “Oh. Well that explains a lot.” He continues to set the table, placing the glasses. “The company has a great health care program, and our child can say he was born overseas! What an opportunity!”

  Oh my fucking God. I grab my bag off the chair, and my keys, wrapping my fingers around the voodoo charm. “I can’t have this conversation right now.” I’m on the brink of tears, but I’m so angry I’m able to hold them off. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “Don’t wait up,” I call out, not that Stephen would anyway.

  I slam the door extra loudly on the way out, disappointed Stephen doesn’t attempt to chase after me or call me and coax me back as I turn out of our subdivision and head toward I-45 South.

  * * * *

  At this point, I’ve visited Santiago enough the guard at the gate knows me and lets me in without Santiago having to buzz me up first. I hurriedly park in a visitor’s space and make my way up to his apartment.

  It takes a while for him to come to the door; I have to ring and knock several times. I hope he’s not asleep, even though it’s still pretty early, but I’m barely holding it together, and I need him to embrace me and tell me it’ll be all right, even if it won’t be.

  When the door finally swings open, I gasp silently. Santiago’s in his chair, wearing only boxers and the St. Anthony necklace, looking exhausted and disheveled, like he hasn’t showered or shaved today. His face lightens when he sees me, a sympathetic warmth igniting his eyes when he sees how upset I am, my eyes red. He rolls backward, beckoning me in.

  I shut the door behind me, locking it this time so we don’t have any more surprises. Immediately realize how stupid that is. Genie probably has a key. I look around. The apartment is dark, the only light the sconce from the hall leading to his bedroom and the moonlight and lamplight filtering in through the large living room windows.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, trying to smile. “Took the day off ’cause I needed to catch up on my sleep. But I don’t mind doing that with you.” He’s still smiling, but even his voice sounds…tired isn’t quite the word for it. Weary? Despite his assurances, I’m pretty sure he was asleep and I woke him up. I feel terrible. “Can I get you something?”

  “No. Let’s just lie down together so we can talk.”

  “Sure,” he says in a sigh, and he wheels his way toward his bedroom.

  I follow, noticing how he pushes a little asymmetrically, more on his right than his left, but I try not to think too much of it; he’s probably just tired. Once in his bedroom, I slip off my shoes and bag and lay them on the dresser so they’re out of the way, then climb into bed without taking off my clothes. I just want to lie with him.

  It takes more effort for him to transfer from his chair than normal, and his face betrays more than exhaustion—a deeply furrowed brow, breath held—pain, maybe? My stomach flutters in worry, and I momentarily forget why I’m here. It’s dark in the bedroom, the only illumination that which sneaks in from the hall. As he lies down, enough light from the hallway spills onto his legs, enabling me to see them clearly for the first time since I arrived. His left is deeply bruised, dark black-and-blue with hints of yellow and green around the perimeter.

  “What happened?” I reflexively reach out to touch it, and he bats my hand away, shifting onto his good, right side, and quickly pulling up the sheets to cover it.

  “Nothing,” he says simply, adjusting his head on his pillow and pulling his right knee up.

  “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

  He snorts. “You came to me because you’re upset; we’re not here to talk about me.”

  I frown, touch his arm very lightly, thinking he’ll flinch from this too, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry. I worry about you.” I trace my fingers gently along his skin until they find the medal, dangling toward the bed. It warms my heart that he’s still wearing it.

  His anger peels back, fading slightly though not completely, and he sighs again. “I fell. Okay?”

  I’m not sure what my face looks like, or how well he can even see me in the darkness, but I’m confused. From what I’ve seen, being around Santiago these past few months, he knows his limits and doesn’t take chances with his balance.

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice soft.

  “I fell. It happens. What more is there to talk about?”

  I don’t like seeing him angry, and especially not shutting me out. I thought he said he felt like he didn’t have to hide with me? So why is he acting like this? Maybe the days apart since the amnio have given him time to reflect. Maybe the connection we thought we had wasn’t as strong as it seemed. Maybe…

  The tears, stored up from my argument with Stephen, surface, and soon I’m crying.

  He sighs and opens his arms, which I crawl into. He holds me, smoothing my back. It takes me time before I can speak. Finally, I say, my voice blubbery, “Stephen just told me he accepted a transfer. Overseas. We leave in two weeks.”

  He pushes me away from him, and I wish I could see his eyes more clearly; in the darkness, all I can make out is their suggestion, a glimmer where they catch some of the light, and nothing more. “Where?”

  His question sinks in; Stephen never said. I’m just supposed to follow him blindly. Like I always have. “I don’t know.”

  “You said ‘we.’ So you’re leaving.” I can’t quite determine his tone—it’s still weary, but maybe with a hint of defeat in it?

  “I…I don’t know. I mean, he just sprang it on me. We fought, and I walked out and drove straight here.”

  He repositions so he’s on his back—I hear the subtlest of hisses as he shifts his bad side onto the mattress. I wait, unsure what to do, but he lays his arm out for me, so I curl up beside him, resting my head on his biceps, nuzzling against his side. He smells musky, with only the ghost of his cologne, which seems to confirm my suspicions that he didn’t shower this morning.

  “I’m sorry,” he says simply, holding me, although it seems like he’s consoling himself more than me.

  We lie in silence, and I realize how quiet his condo is. The only sounds are the faint click of the ceiling fan and the occasional hum when the AC turns on, but otherwise, it’s just our breathing, echoing off each other.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting: one of his telltale jokes to cheer me up? But I can tell he obviously hasn’t been feeling well today, and suddenly realize how selfish I’ve been. Even more so for pestering him about what happened when he obviously doesn’t want to tell me, whatever his reasons may be. It’s not fair of me to always be leaning on him for support when he needs it just as much—if not more, right now—than I do.

  Hugging him tightly, I hope my touch will bring him comfort even if I can’t find the words to break the silence. I rest my hand on his chest, over the medal, feeling his gentle heartbeat beneath my palm.

  After a moment, Santiago inhales deeply and speaks. “I was never a ‘normal’ kid. Clumsy. I’d get tired easily, couldn’t keep up with my friends. But…” He breathes heavily through his nose a few times, the hot air warming my skin. “I hid it as well as
I could as long as I could.” He swallows hard, places one hand on top of mine. I’m not sure if it’s a gesture of solidarity or if he’s already developed my habit of gripping St. Anthony for support. “When I was fourteen—a freshman—I…” I hear him swallow again, feel him shift. I can barely make out his hand going to his face in the darkness. “My legs gave out in gym class. I fell, and…I couldn’t get up.” He laughs hollowly, short and sarcastic. “God, my parents—my father—were so fucking pissed. I still remember.” He breathes deeply, and his breath seems to catch in his throat before he finally releases it. I try to imagine being in Santiago’s place. Being fourteen, probably in a new school, having something embarrassing and terrifying like that happen in front of everyone, and then, to top it off, your parents, who should be there to support and console you, only make it worse by blaming you for what happened. And at that age, he probably did think it was his fault somehow. I know I would.

  “It’s okay,” I say, pressing my cheek to his skin, trying to bring myself as close to him as I can.

  He grips me tightly, sharing the embrace. “Our pediatrician suspected I had muscular dystrophy and referred us to Children’s so I could get properly evaluated. Meanwhile my parents transferred me to another school, bribed the board so I could get out of gym class without anyone having to know anything was wrong with me. God, it was such a fucking farce.” His breathing’s increased, his anger over his memories triggering his body to respond as if it were happening now. I smooth my hand on his skin to try to calm him, kiss him lightly a few times.

  Even though I want him to continue, I force myself to say, “You don’t need to tell me any of this if you don’t want to.”

  His grip on me grows a little tighter, and he inhales deeply. “‘Un Durán no puede tener ninguna falta ni dibilidad,’ my father would tell me.” He pauses, then translates for my benefit. “A Durán man cannot have a single fault or flaw. He must be perfect. Or at least appear so.” I feel Santiago take a deep breath and hold it. I try to glance up to see his face, but it’s veiled in darkness. When he finally exhales, his breath shutters out like a car stuck in gear. “The fucking anthem of my life.” His breathing shifts again, and I feel him tense, so I try to hug him, reassure him with my touch.