The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  I sneakily pay the bill while she’s off washing her hands. She looks confused, but doesn’t make a thing of it. Phew. Money always makes things weird sooner or later... But why make it sooner? For now, we’re just two overworked people with a shared appreciation for dry New York comedy.

  I can work with that.

  126

  Elina

  I’m not being fair on this guy—Nick, according to his name tag. Did he have that before? Must’ve been too distracted to notice....

  I’m not being fair on Nick. I’m not sure what it was—maybe the way he grabbed my arm in the diner; maybe something he said—maybe just that moment when he smiled, and I felt something like a spark... I don’t know. Something put me in mind of Joey’s dad, and my walls went up so fast I practically heard them slam into place. But he was nothing but honest with me the whole time, as far as I could tell.

  As far as I could tell.

  That’s always the problem. Everyone seems genuine enough, right till the moment they aren’t. Right till the moment the castles in the air collapse into bricks.

  Still. I’m being a freak. This isn’t even a date. We’re just two sort-of-acquaintances, grabbing a bite and a laugh. I can enjoy this. Hell, I deserve it. Doesn’t have to mean anything.

  The comedian’s stammering his way through a routine about how fat girls at least have big tits, but what do fat guys have? He’s sweating through his shirt. Think he twigged to the audience’s general contempt two punchlines in. Now’d be the time to change lanes gracefully, but I’m not sure he knows how.

  This is my chance to make it up to Nick for that weirdness in the diner. I lean in and whisper, “Not sure whether to give him a mercy laugh or let him die up there.”

  “Oh, let him burn.” Nick tips me a wink. “This guy’s clearly an asshole. Booo-oooo!”

  “Oh my God!” I duck my head, choking back a laugh. “What if he comes and heckles you at work?”

  “Bring it on. Boooooo!”

  Nick’s booing opens the floodgates. The bad comedian flips us all the bird and storms offstage to a chorus of jeers and whistles.

  The next guy’s better: one of those misery-is-hilarious types. “So two weeks later, I’m at student health: yup. Totally herpes. So what do I do? I fuckin’ propose! I mean, I am saving myself so many awkward conversations, so much burning—and, folks, I do mean burning—rejection. And I don’t even have to go all-out on the ring, ‘cause—“

  “I feel bad, how hard I’m laughing,” whispers Nick. “If any of that’s true...”

  “He’d never admit it on stage if it were.”

  “Yeah...but are you a hundred percent sure?”

  I open my mouth to say something about how you can never be that sure of anyone, but a tide of laughter drowns me out. I pretend to join in: some things are best left unsaid.

  I wonder if I’ve lost my capacity for trust. I mean, here I am with a guy who volunteers at a food pantry, gives fancy picnic baskets to complete strangers, and puts up with their weird, awkward diner conversation—if I can’t relax with him, who am I waiting for? A literal saint?

  It’s late by the time the show’s winding down and we’re spilling out onto the street, still giggling at our favorite parts.

  “The one with the elbow awareness,” Nick gasps, “where was he even going with that? I kept waiting for him to get to the...to make some kind of point, but it was just—“

  “I know, right? Like, you get on the subway, you suddenly lack all elbow awareness, and...? What? You elbow someone right in the face?”

  “I don’t even know! It was like...like he just enjoyed saying ‘elbow awareness’.” Nick’s arm finds its way around my waist. I think I like it there. I....

  I keep talking, to keep my paranoia from running wild. “I’m going to start using that. Like, if someone’s being inappropriate, making everyone uncomfortable, I’ll be all, ‘yep. She lacks elbow awareness’.”

  He pulls me a little closer. “Let me know if I’m ever lacking elbow awareness.”

  Should I pull away? Let my head rest on his shoulder? “You’re—you’re good. Master of your elbow domain.”

  “Oh—Seinfeld! Nice reference!”

  “Why, thank you!” I go with doing nothing, leaving him in charge of the physical contact situation. But that might seem weird, too, if he’s holding me tight and I’m not doing anything. I fumble for something to say. “What time is it?”

  He has to pull his arm back to check his watch. Shit. Now it’s gone, I...kinda want it back. “Eleven thirty. Oh—I should drive you home!”

  “You’re going to drive all the way to Brighton Beach?” Suddenly, alarm bells are blaring. Can’t have him knowing where I live. Too close; too soon. I play it off like a joke. “You even know your way off the island?”

  “Hey, I’m a living map of the city.” He grins. “Used to walk everywhere, back in the day. Literally wore the soles off my shoes. Probably know Brooklyn better than you.” His arm links with mine again. “My car’s just back at Happy Bean.”

  Fake address—I’ll give him a fake address, and slink the last few blocks like a walk of shame.

  A light snow starts to fall as we veer off into the parking lot. Nick reminds me of a kid again, the way he tips his head back to catch a snowflake on his tongue. “Love this kind of snow,” he says. His consonants are slurred from trying to talk with his tongue out. “Big puffy flakes.”

  “The best’s walking to work right after a snowstorm. When it’s still all perfect and sparkly.” I put out my hand and watch the flakes melt on my glove. “Walking home kind of sucks, when it’s all just a gritty, icy dog toilet.” I tip my head back to watch the flakes spiral down. The wind sets them whirling around my head. It’s dizzying. I stumble back a step, and collide with Nick—when’d he sneak up on me? I relax into it when his arms wrap around my waist. They’re good arms: strong. Warm. On impulse, I turn around.

  And...there he is, red-cheeked from the cold, gray eyes sparkling. Smiling down at me like the cat that got the cream. Is he... Sshould I close my eyes? Let him kiss me?

  He brushes the tip of his nose against mine, back and forth. My heart melts a little. Maybe he’s nervous too? It’s been a while; I should say something—I should—

  He kisses me. I hear someone laugh—at us? Can people see? Are we—

  The kiss is over before I’ve calmed my racing mind enough to enjoy it. Too swift for second guesses, I’m chasing his lips with mine, and he is a good kisser: soft lips, just the right amount of tongue, one palm on my cheek. My own hand’s on his waist, holding him close, and when’d that happen?

  I feel something smooth and cold at my back. He’s pressing me up against someone’s car—his, I hope—and this feels like more than a goodnight kiss. His body’s firm and unyielding against mine, full of a wiry kind of strength. Bet he could pick me up, throw me down....

  “This okay?”

  He’s asking, but he’s grinding up against me in a way that says he’s pretty sure I’m fine with it.

  “Keep going.”

  Guess I am.

  No—I definitely am. There’s a heat in my belly I haven’t felt in...in way too long, and I’m barely holding back from hooking a leg around his waist and giving myself over to whatever he wants to do to me, over the back of his car. He’s got one hand in my hair now, the other under my shirt. The wind’s freezing on the strip of bare skin around my waist, but I can’t bring myself to care. I want him to manhandle me more. Want him to—

  “You feel so good.”

  “You—you too.” I don’t want to talk. Never know what to say. I kiss him some more. If he’d just bite my lip, if he’d just...oh! And there it is! Oh...and he’s nibbling my neck, and I’m shivering and burning, grinding shamelessly against the bulge in his pants. Whatever’s got into me...whatever’s got into us, I don’t want it to stop.

  “We should—“ I hear the peep-peep of an electronic key, and a lock pops behind me. I let him low
er me into the back seat. Something goes sliding, and my elbow knocks something else off the seat—something that flops open and sends papers spilling to the floor.

  “Oh, I dropped your—“

  “Fuck it.”

  There’s a ton of crap back here. This guy might be many things, but a neat freak he isn’t.

  And he’s on me, pressing me into what sounds and feels like a pile of plastic bags. The door clunks shut behind us, and the sounds of the street give way to crinkling plastic and squeaking leather, and Nick’s breathless laughter as we fit ourselves into the tight space. Instead of claustrophobic, it feels incredible, the way there’s nowhere to go, no space that isn’t filled with him and me and the closet’s worth of shit he stores back here.

  One of his hands is pinning my hair, pulling a little. I tug against it, loving the sensation of restraint. His other hand’s down my pants—forward as hell!—and I can’t hold back a gasp as he finds the right spot.

  “You like that?”

  “Would it sound slutty if I said yes?” Did I seriously say that out loud?

  “Only if I’m slutty for doing it in the first place.”

  “Keep—keep doing it.”

  He’s got my shirt open, sleeves pushed down my arms—no room to work my hands free. I wonder if he knows I’m trapped, if that was his intention all along. Can’t hide anything like this. I glance down; fuck. Had to go for a sports bra; what’s he going to—

  He’s pushing the dowdy thing out of the way—huge hands; God, he could probably wrap them most of the way round my waist—and just like that, I’m exposed. Flat on my back, helpless, and he’s devouring me, kissing me everywhere—is that me, moaning like a hussy?

  “Fuck, I could cum just like this,” he groans.

  “Don’t.” I can feel his dick throbbing against my thigh. “Do you have—I didn’t bring any condoms, or....”

  “You want to?”

  I really do. “Yeah, if you’ve—“

  “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

  “My hands are tied.”

  His eyes go wide, as he takes in the state of me, trussed up with my own shirt. “God, that’s hot.”

  Seconds later, I hear the wrapper tear. He sits up as far as he can without hitting his head on the ceiling, so I can watch him roll it on. I can’t see much in the glow of the dashboard, but I can make out strong thighs, narrow hips, and a proud cock jutting straight up.

  “It’s...it’s been a while,” I warn him.

  “Me too.”

  I lift my hips. He tugs down my pants just enough to wedge himself between my legs. I try to kick them off the rest of the way, but my boots won’t let me.

  “Bound hand and foot,” he murmurs, low enough that I’m not sure he meant me to hear that. It sends a thrill down my spine all the same. I’m hot all over, back already arching as he pushes inside. He doesn’t even use his hand to guide himself; he’s got both of them in my hair, forcing me to look him in the eye as he takes me. Not that I’d be looking anywhere else. His eyes are black with lust, lips slightly parted. It occurs to me, with a shameful little shock, that I probably look just as desperate. I’m panting for it, making sounds I don’t ever remember making.

  “Give me—“ I shut my mouth quick—what was I about to say?

  He seems to get it anyway, picking up the pace, thundering into me like the bombs are falling, and this is our last chance. I can’t lift my hips to meet his thrusts; all I can do is beg for more... And I do. I’d probably be blushing, but I’m so dizzy it feels like there isn’t a drop of blood in my head.

  “Are you—are you close?” Sounds like he is.

  “Whenever you’re ready....” I can never quite get there with a guy—feels like I almost could this time, but... I can’t be the girl who puts his back out making him pound her for an hour in the back of a...a...whatever kind of car this is.

  “I’m—“ He shudders all over. “Oh—oh, that’s—“ I feel him throb inside of me, over and over, and for a second.... There’s a tingling, a warmth; my toes start to curl, like I could nearly....

  “You...you all right?” He’s sort of...half-collapsed over me, one arm keeping him from crushing me completely.

  “Fantastic.” I feel a sudden laugh well up inside me, and swallow it down so as not to give the wrong impression. “We...we fogged up your windows. Anyone walking by would totally know....”

  “Mmph...let ‘em.” He does the nose-rubbing thing again. Feels...affectionate.

  “A cop could see.”

  “Ugh, lemme bask! This is my first afterglow in...uh, embarrassingly long.” He pulls out, though, and makes a token effort at tugging his pants and my bra into place. “There. All good.”

  I manage to free one arm enough to give him a light swat on the back of his head. He messes with our clothes a bit more, and soon, we’re kind of half-sitting, half-lying across the seat, snuggled under his coat. It’s warm, and his heartbeat’s slow and soothing even after all that exertion, and...

  ...and it feels like five seconds later I’m waking up in a panic, with the first light of dawn in my eyes.

  Joey!—fuck—what time is it?

  Nick’s arm’s in my face. I check his watch as I wriggle out from under it—almost seven! How the hell did I...?

  My pants are still somewhere around my thighs. I shimmy them back up as subtly as I can. I cannot do the crack-of-dawn drive to Brighton Beach with some stranger I’ve fucked out of nowhere. What was I thinking? I wasn’t even drunk, wasn’t even buzzed, and—

  —and it was good—

  —and I’ve got to get out of here, stay on my side of the tunnel, pretend this never happened. Can’t afford...can’t do any of this.

  Nick grunts and stirs in his sleep, but doesn’t rouse when I ease the door open. I grit my teeth when it clunks shut—don’t wake up, don’t wake up, and if you do, be too tangled in your pants to chase after me—and then I’m practically sprinting for the subway.

  It’s not till I’m halfway home that I realize my shirt’s still hanging out of my pants, and I’ve left my coat behind. My makeup feels smeared. A quick look round tells me no one’s paying attention. Thank God for phones and tablets and Angry Birds.

  No one who matters ever has to find out.

  127

  Nick

  “Everyone else’s parents sent a driver.”

  How late did the Sharps let those kids stay up? Katie’s got full-on suitcases under her eyes, and an attitude to match.

  “Yeah, well, everyone else’s kids’ll miss out on pancake breakfast with their dads.”

  “We already had breakfast. Fruit and pastries and champagne.”

  What!? “You had—“

  “Non-alcoholic—duh.”

  I cannot wait for this “duh” phase to be over. “All right. Well, we can still go to the park, say hi to the animals.”

  “Zoos are cruel.” Katie whips out her phone. Clearly, Twitter needs to hear about her evil, clueless dad. I open my mouth to tell her to knock it off, but fighting with a tired, grumpy kid doesn’t seem like a good use of my time.

  Besides, I’m kind of grouchy myself. Woke up half an hour ago to an empty car and a king-sized crick in my neck. My mad dash across town barely got me to the Sharps’ in time to be pulled up by their doorman: “Excuse me, sir, but there’s something unfortunate on your shoe.”—last night’s condom, of course; where else would it be?—and Katie wanting to know why I was so late and...homeless-looking was how she put it. She and her friends shared a nice giggle over that.

  Checking my reflection in the lobby on the way out didn’t do much for my ego: I do look pretty rough. My hair’s sticking up on one side, and there’s syrup on my shirt from the diner. And I’m missing a button—when and how did that happen?

  Well, I have a fair idea when, and the how isn’t much of a stretch, but....

  “Cindy Rajania’s mom says you’re nouveau riche.”

  I blink. “Uh...and what did you s
ay to that?”

  “I said her mom’s a nouveau bitch.”

  “Katie, Jjesus!” I’m practically crushing the steering wheel. Calm down. “Next time, you stick your nose right in the air, and tell Miss Cindy Rajania that by European standards, there’s no such thing as old money in a country as young as America.”

  “Whatever.” And she’s tweeting again. Or texting. Or whatever it is she does on that thing all day.

  “So...no park, then?”

  “Huh? So I’m grounded? Just for saying ‘bitch’?”

  “You just said it again.” Sometimes, I swear.... I take a deep breath. “And, no, you’re not grounded. I thought you didn’t want to go. I was all ‘let’s go to the park’; you were all ‘zoos are the worst’. Do you want to go?”

  “Ob-viously.”

  By tween girl logic, maybe.

  We end up skipping the zoo in favor of skating. Katie dives into the back seat in search of her skates, and what’d I do with that condom wrapper? Is there anything...anything incriminating back there? Is she about to—

  “Daddy?” She’s got her skate bag in one hand, a lady’s soft sheepskin coat in the other. “Whose coat is this?” Busted.

  “Oh, that’s, uh...that’s Mary’s, from work.” My face is burning.

  “What’s it doing in your car?”

  Good question. “I gave her a ride home last night.”

  “In the back seat?” Katie looks doubtful. “With the junk?”

  “No, she...uh, the heater was blasting in her face. Guess she must’ve got hot, tossed it back there.” I reach for it. “C’mon, give it here. Let’s get our skates on before everyone else scratches up the ice.”

  Katie’s bad mood is gone by the time we hit the rink. I don’t even try to keep up with her as she twirls circles around me. This could be an idea for her birthday: skating, hot chocolate, and...something to do with horses? Makeovers? Or am I supposed to fly them to Aspen? Apparently, the tenth is a big one. Like a dry run for sweet sixteen.