UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  He smiles, but his breathing shifts: slower, deeper, and for a moment, I think he’s fallen back asleep. But he opens his eyes, his look searching. “Earlier, you said…”

  Did he hear me before he woke? Or does he mean in the car? I hold my breath and let him finish.

  “You said you loved me.” He takes a few breaths. “Did you mean it? Or was it just…”

  I take a deep breath. “I’ve realized, these weeks with you, that maybe I’ve never been in love. That maybe…I’ve never even been happy.”

  His right cheek lifts, dimples; amber specks sparkle with hope. “Until now?”

  My heart’s beating, fluttering in my chest. “Yes,” I say on a breath. “I love you, Santiago.”

  He smiles, relieved, happy. “Te amo, linda. I think I loved you since before I met you,” he says, his voice a whisper.

  I laugh. Such a Santiago thing to say. It’s so incredible to hear it; my entire body feels lighter. “Isn’t that a song?”

  “It’s true.” He squeezes my hand, then closes his eyes and breathes for a while. He’s fading fast. “If you want me to go back to law for the security, I’ll do it. For you. For all of us. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

  I just want him to be the man he is, the one I fell in love with: Santiago.

  Still, I realize, after hearing what happened three years ago, how much of a sacrifice he would make for me—for this baby, who he doesn’t even know is his. My stomach feels like paper being crumpled into a tight ball.

  “Let’s not rush into anything,” I say with a light chuckle. “Let’s get you home, safe and sound, and I’ll talk to Stephen. Okay?”

  Santiago grins, his eyes still shut, seeming closer and closer to drifting back off as I gently smooth his forehead, much the same way he did mine only days ago during the amnio. Sighing, I watch the light flutter of his lashes. Then I remove the necklace, kissing the medal before slipping it into the pouch of his chair, focusing on how grateful I am. That Santiago will be okay, that he loves me, that my baby will not just be taken care of, but cared for.

  Thank you, St. Anthony.

  Chapter Thirty

  The next morning, I wake up in Santiago’s arms. He’s lying on his good side, my body pulled close to him, his arm draped over me, a hand on my belly, my head tucked under his. I love this, the feeling of his chest rising and falling softly against my back, the grounding touch of his hand. Even in this tiny hospital bed, Genie asleep in a chair a few feet away, knowing he’s safe, that this is only the beginning, is comforting, invigorating.

  “You awake?” I murmur. I’m not sure what time it is, but I know it has to be early.

  “Yeah,” he says, whispering into my hair, his breath pleasantly warm.

  I carefully extract myself so I can turn around, facing him. He looks so much better than he did even a few hours ago when I crawled into bed with him after his last blood draw, his eyes brighter, his skin healthier.

  He grazes his fingertips along the edge of my face, pushing aside some strands of hair—I can only imagine how crazy I must look right now—but he’s smiling, soft and happy, giving me the look—my look—making my whole body tingle.

  So this is what contentment is.

  I reach up, wrap fingers loosely around his wrist, pulling his hand away. His eyes widen, but relax as I place his palm on my belly. “He’s yours,” I whisper, holding his hand there, giving him time to let the words sink in.

  His eyes are fixed on our hands, but they track up to me, reminding me of how he looked the day of the amnio, the first time he saw our baby on the ultrasound, heard his heartbeat. “My son? Our son?” His eyes shimmer with emotion.

  I nod, beam, feel fresh tears, but they’re sprung from pure joy.

  His grin broadens, and he pulls me close for a makeshift hug. He kisses the top of my head, just holding me, as if savoring this moment. Then he pushes me away gently, looks me firmly in the eyes. “You need to go home. Talk to Stephen.”

  I know he’s right, but I don’t want to leave him. “What about you?”

  His cheek tilts in a half smile. “I have Genie. Once you’ve sorted things with him, you come back to me.” He strokes my hair. “Both of you.” His fingers rest on my belly. “I love you, linda. Thank you for granting my wish.”

  I study his eyes, those beautiful amber speckles glinting in the faint light, which sucked me in from the first moment on the plane. “I guess I realized your wish was mine too.” I touch his cheek, cradling it there; his stubble—at least two days’ worth now—is thicker, rougher beneath my palm, but I love the way it feels against my skin. This still seems so surreal. “I love you too,” I say, grinning, realizing how much I like saying that to him. Soon I can say it to him every day for the rest of our lives. “I love you.”

  * * * *

  Despite Santiago’s assurances, I stay until he’s discharged, so by the time I pull into our garage it’s late afternoon. So I’m not expecting Stephen to be home, although what does surprise me, when I step in the door, are boxes. Everywhere. Stacked up neatly. Either Stephen busied himself last night packing, or the company’s super anxious to get us out of the house.

  Either way, it’s un-fucking-believable. I’m gone less than twenty-four hours, and already Stephen’s packed away our life. I whip out my phone and dial Stephen. When he doesn’t answer, I call again. And I keep calling until he finally picks up, annoyed.

  “What the fuck, Di?” he says when his voice finally comes through. He doesn’t normally swear, not like me, so when he does it means he’s extra pissed. Good.

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m back. Since you were obviously so concerned about me.” And my baby, I think, but I don’t say anything.

  He sighs, aggravated. “I’m not the one who walked out last night in the middle of a conversation. There are more mature ways of reacting to a situation than just taking off. Or calling me fifteen times during the workday until I answer.”

  I suck in a breath and calm myself. “I’m calling to tell you to get home at a decent time tonight, because we need to talk.”

  I hear another annoyed sigh. “I was planning on leaving at six anyway.”

  He hangs up without another word.

  I’m about to slide my phone back in my bag when I decide I could use some music, shifting to my punk collection and setting it to play on shuffle through the Bluetooth stereo. “Blue Day” by American Hi-Fi starts up, and I bob my head to the music, shifting my phone to my pocket as I cross the room to the stack of boxes.

  Santiago said he would be whatever I need, and all I ask of Stephen is to come home early so we can have a conversation about a life-changing move, and I’m the bad guy.

  The song fades out with a twang of guitar and All Time Low’s “To Live and Let Go” starts up, loud and angry. Smirking, I shift the boxes down a stack so I can see the labels more clearly.

  Photos is written in large, slanting writing. Clearly Stephen’s. So I guess this is what he did last night instead of calling to check on me. Ugh. Some of the tape is loose on one side. My initial instinct is to smooth it down, but then it peels off, making a satisfying ripping sound. I laugh. Peel it back farther, until the box is open. Inside are frames wrapped in bubble wrap, photo albums. Stilted reminders of the last ten years of my life with Stephen. I pull them out, flip through a few pages, realizing I wasn’t happy in a single one of these photos. Yes, I might be smiling, but that’s all it is, a mask for the camera, an expected response.

  I sigh, and the book slips from my hands, photos sliding out of the pages and fluttering around the room. I pull another photo album out, toss it, laugh. It feels strangely liberating. Especially when I realize how pissed Stephen will be when he sees not only his precious boxes unpacked, but the living room a mess.

  Stephen hates messes.

  Bobbing my head to the music, grinning wide and screaming along about wasting your life on someone, I pull out the albums—photos I took myself or orchestrated and n
eatly slipped and organized into books because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do—tossing pictures everywhere. Once the box is half-empty, I pick it up and dump the rest of the contents on the floor, toss it over my shoulder before turning to the next.

  I spend the next hours unpacking, rocking to my music, discarding the contents of the boxes around me so that the floor soon looks like the aftermath of a natural disaster. I’m ankle-deep in DVDs, photos, books, and more, and when I glance up at the time, I see it’s seven and (big surprise) Stephen isn’t home yet. So I spend the next hour or so upstairs, packing my favorite clothes and shoes, before returning to my small stack of boxes near the garage door.

  I load the boxes into the back of my car, my music switched from the speakers to my phone, feeling a sense of finality as I shut the trunk. All that’s left is my messenger bag with my tablet and a few other small items. My life with Stephen condensed into what fits in my trunk: some clothes, books, my computer and music, personal items.

  I head back inside for a final survey of the home I’ve lived in for almost a decade as The All-American Rejects’ “It Ends Tonight” begins, the music mostly muffled by the fabric of my pants. A few feet away, I vaguely register the rumble of the garage door. I don’t bother to shut off the song as Stephen enters, visibly confused by the stack of flattened boxes at the door and the roll of tape on the nearby table. “I admire your enthusiasm, but the company will pack everything. I just did a few things last night to be efficient.”

  I smile, turning and walking through the kitchen, toward the living room. I can almost hear his blood freezing and cracking behind me once his eyes fall on the disaster of the room, photos fluttering in the breeze of the overhead fan, DVD cases littering the floor, couches covered in empty cardboard boxes.

  “What the hell happened in here?” Stephen asks, dumbfounded. “Were we robbed?”

  I shrug casually. “I was looking for something and couldn’t find it.”

  He’s sputtering, but he manages to say, “Did you find it?”

  I turn around, facing him, so I soak in the way his veins stand out on his neck as he goes nearly apoplectic from the mess, from ruining his perfect little plans.

  “Yes, but it isn’t here.”

  His head nearly pops off his neck like a champagne cork, and he charges me, finger pointing, jabbing it into my shoulder. But I don’t flinch, even though he towers over me. “What the hell is wrong with you? If this is pregnancy hormones, fuck. Maybe we shouldn’t start a family. I mean, fucking hell! Look at this place!” He gestures wildly at the room.

  I pivot, glancing around as if I only just noticed the mess. Then I turn back to him and meet him straight in the eyes. “I don’t want to go overseas. I don’t want to leave Houston.”

  He backs off a little, some of his anger fading to bewilderment. “We talked about this already. This is a great opportunity. The money is excellent. And I already said yes. Besides, you’ll love it. All the guys I know who worked internationally say their wives complained at first, but once they were there, they didn’t want to come back.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. I don’t want him to touch me, but I hold my ground. “It’s understandable to be apprehensive about such a life-changing experience, but we’ll be together, and the company’ll take care of everything. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I step back, letting his hands fall from my shoulders, shaking my head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  His face is a mix of confusion and exasperation, his mouth hanging open, one of his hands in his hair.

  “I want to stay,” I repeat.

  “What? Are you crazy? Even if I wanted to stay now, it’s too late. They’d fire me. What’s wrong with you?”

  I fix my gaze on his, and neither of us says anything immediately. Finally, I speak. “The only thing wrong with me is that I stayed with you all these years.” I push past him toward the garage. “Good-bye, Stephen,” I say, feeling like a weight has been lifted.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab the top box, the one with my computer and novel in it, and stroll out to my car.

  The last thing I see as I drive away is Stephen, standing in the empty garage bay, looking bewildered, lost, and alone.

  Epilogue

  8 Months Later

  I never thought I’d find myself back in New Orleans so soon, but ECAC last year was such a hit (record attendance, apparently), they decided to hold it in the Big Easy again this year. I sit in the passenger seat of Santiago’s Porsche, blindfolded, trying to determine how far we’ve gone. In the back, our son César reclines in his car seat, fidgeting and gurgling.

  “Almost there,” Santiago assures me. We pull to a stop, and my hand starts to move toward my face, my fingers teasing at the cloth covering my eyes, but I feel his hand on mine, stilling me. “Not yet.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  He takes his hand back, and I feel us moving again, the bumpy rumble of what have to be Uptown streets beneath our wheels.

  “Can’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

  He laughs. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  I hear the crunch of the tires, the jerk of the car as Santiago parks. He says nothing for a moment, then slowly peels the blindfold away. I blink, looking around. Definitely somewhere in Uptown, large live oaks shading our car, but more than that, I can’t say.

  “Get César?” He pushes his door open, slipping his crutches over the console.

  Confused, I obey, wondering what he’s planning. While he levers himself to his feet, I climb over roots toward the backseat, easing César out of his car seat, sliding him into the harness strapped to my chest. He fusses but relaxes once he’s secure against my body. When Santiago first suggested bringing him with us to New Orleans, I was adamantly against it. Though the idea of spending even just a few days away from my baby was achingly painful—and I know Melanie wanted to meet him—at just three months, I didn’t think it was the best idea. Feeling his subtle warmth against me right now, though, I’m glad for him. Glad for Santiago too. “Our family started here,” Santiago told me. “It’s only right for us all to be here. Together.”

  I shut the car door and watch Santiago carefully pick his way over the renegade roots and broken sidewalk, a little nervous. After his fall last year, he’s worked so hard to get back on his feet. He’s still a little weaker on his left side, but he’s managed to recover nearly all his mobility. Anyone who doesn’t know him well might not even notice the slight yet more pronounced tilt of his pelvis to his stronger side when he walks. I’ve since learned how much he worked on his gait in the few years before we met, and I know it frustrates him. But he’s okay; he hasn’t fallen again, and he looks so freaking sexy. I even joke that it’s like he’s sashaying for me, which makes us both laugh.

  As I watch him negotiate the sidewalk, panels pushed up by roots and sunken and cracked from settling—a hazard even for an agile, able-bodied person—a feeling of warmth and love and pride fills my body. I think back to that first date, watching him carefully ease down the slope from the streetcar. It feels like so long ago and yet just yesterday. He reaches a particularly bad spot, the slab of sidewalk protruding into the air at an angle, and pauses, assessing how to progress. Finally, he shifts his body, plants his left crutch over the crack, and maneuvers his right foot up. He shifts his right crutch, then, bracing himself, pulls his left foot over. What could be worth all this trouble, I wonder as I follow him.

  He’s stopped a few feet away, leaning heavily on his crutches but smiling. Another effect of his fall is his legs tire more easily, so he uses his chair more—but whatever he brought us here for has to be important.

  “Did you even notice where we are?”

  I finally look around, seeing the house in front of us for the first time. The shutters are new, the shingles painted blue instead of yellow. A wrought-iron fence encircles the front drive now, and the landscaping is completely different. There are dozens of shotg
uns in the city that resemble it, but there’s no doubt about it.

  The house I grew up in.

  My parents’ house.

  I wrap an arm around C, feeling my eyes begin to well up. “How…?”

  Santiago shrugs, moves a little closer. Flashes that smile. His eyes soft, his cheek dimpling. “This is it, right?”

  I nod, overwhelmed. I turn, close my eyes, remembering. My mom working on the rosebushes by the front door. My father’s car, an old sports car he loved—and that they died in—parked in the drive.

  Any control I may have had is shattered, tears rolling down my cheeks. I bite my lip so I don’t upset César, feel Santiago’s grounding touch on my arm.

  “I didn’t want to upset you, but with the divorce finalized, I thought maybe it was time you said good-bye to the past so you can better accept the future.”

  I open my eyes, kiss C on the top of his head, smiling through my tears.

  Santiago leans a crutch against the fence, stretching to wipe my tears away with his thumb. I watch, confused, as he reaches into his pocket and sets something to play. After a few notes, I suck in a breath as I recognize the song: We The Kings’ “You and Only You.”

  “Di,” he says, “I know life with me won’t be easy. There are things I can’t do that other men can. There are things I can do now that in a few years I won’t be able to do anymore. My body will get weaker, but one thing that will only get stronger is my love for you and for our son. Di,” he says with a tilt of his cheeks, his dimple showing faintly, “I can’t drop down on one knee, but…”

  I hold my breath.

  He pulls a small blue box, trimmed with gold, out of his pocket. I recognize the logo of the jeweler; they’re only a few blocks away, within walking distance from Cooter Brown’s. Symmetry. So appropriate.