by Teagan Kade
My head’s pounding. I’m in no state for this, but I don’t have a choice. I have to reason with him. “It’s your baby, Titus. It’s our baby.”
“Bullshit. How could it be?”
The reply I form is fragmented and broken. I can’t think how to explain it, to make him understand what we had. “You just have to believe me.”
He tosses the bottle of vitamins to the desk in the corner, standing and stooping down to pick up his clothes. He starts getting dressed and the anger all over his face. “I don’t like being tricked, Maya. I don’t fucking like it at all.” He picks up his underwear off the floor, tossing it hard against the wall when he realizes it’s mine. “I thought we had a connection and now you go and pull this baby trap shit on me? You can’t play a player, especially a King.”
“I’m not trying to play you,” I plead, trying to sit up but forced back down when I wave of dizziness comes over me. “Can we talk about this later, please?”
He doesn’t even reply. I hear him pull on his jacket, leave, the sound of the door opening before it slams shut, footsteps down the stairwell.
He’s gone.
I breathe out.
Great. Just. Great.
This was the last thing I needed. I should have been more careful. I should have told him sooner, eased him into it, but what now? It looks exactly like what he’s saying.
Devastated, broken, all I can do is lie there in self-pity and stare at the back of my eyelids hoping I can somehow get through to him—if I can contact him at all.
He’s clearly never going to believe me, and there’s no hope of him being there as he promised he would be. He doesn’t remember. He can’t.
The pain only grows when I think back to that conversation. The news was shocking at first, for the both of us, but that soon turned to excitement as we planned our future together. We went online and looked at baby furniture, scoured name lists… Everything was set in motion before that stupid, goddamn baseball went just an inch or two high and ruined the whole shebang. One second and everything we discussed and dreamed about was gone.
Is gone, I remind myself.
A darker thought grows.
Move on, it says. Move on and stop expending energy on this. Nothing good can come from it.
As painful as it is, there is merit to that line of thought.
Right now, the baby needs a positive, stress-free environment.
It doesn’t need this.
Perhaps it’s time I put the baby’s needs first.
Perhaps it’s time I finally let go.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TITUS
Normally the old batting cages down by Memorial Park are my place of refuge. No one comes down here since they opened up the sporting complex on the other side of town. The cages are half overgrown and look like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, but I don’t mind.
I send another ball flying, the thwack of it against the cage a welcome relief from greater, internal noise I can’t seem to shake. I try to clear my head, to concentrate on my swing and the small details that make up the ideal connection of ball to bat, but it’s impossible. Every time there’s nothing to hit the noise and questions filter and flood back in.
I smash ball after ball, harder and harder until I’m yelling aloud, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I shout aloud, the frustration of it too much to bear. I thought this would help but all it’s doing is making me madder.
I give up and head home, the anger growing and taking on a form of its own. By the time I reach our street I’ve never been so fucking furious.
I basically smash the front door down, trudging inside looking for something, anything, to project this anger onto. Because I still cannot believe what happened at her place this morning, the noose that has been slipped around my neck so damn seductively.
And you thought she was different.
I shut that shit down fast. The last thing I need is for my own brain to turn against me.
Erin and Peyton are approaching from the far end of the house oblivious to the human disaster zone I’ve become. They’re arm in arm, heads resting together while they walk. Their oh-honey-you’re-so-dreamy display of affection is so sugary, sickly sweet I can feel my teeth starting to rot.
I crack my knuckles instead, standing in the hallway.
Finally, they see me and pull up, Erin the first to notice I’ve gone nuclear.
She places her hand on Peyton’s chest, pulling him up. “Whoa, whoa. You good, Ti?”
Good. Ha. I’m as far away from ‘good’ as possible.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth.
Peyton senses my mood and shifts Erin behind him. What does he think? That I’m going to attack her or something?
He puts his hand up, speaking slowly. “What happened?”
I can’t fucking say it.
“Is it Maya?” asks Erin.
I nod.
Erin and Peyton exchange a look that’s a pretty clear ‘Oh, shit.’
“Did you guys break up?” Erin continues.
Whatever was plugging up my throat before manages to unclog itself quick at that. I speak in a torrent of words, let it just flow on out detailing exactly what Maya’s been up to, the stunt she’s trying to pull.
Erin’s next to Peyton again, the two of them side by side and I swear to god starting to look like each other. That’s what they say, isn’t it? The more time you spend with someone the more you become like them, physically. Guess that won’t be Maya and me.
She’s having your baby. She’s going to be part of your life whether you want it or not.
The thought has me clawing at my head.
I flinch when Peyton touches me, eventually let him guide me into a wingback by the lounge window. He crouches on the floor so we’re eye to eye. “Fuck, man.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Can you believe it?”
“I don’t think I do,” interjects Erin from the doorway. She has her arms crossed, standing straight. “There’s no way this is Maya. She wouldn’t do something like that.”
“How well do you really know her?” I ask.
“Well enough to invite her to my engagement party. She’s not the type, Ti.”
Anger gets the better of me. “What would you know?”
I go to rise, but Peyton holds me fixed in the chair. “We’re all friends here,” he says, looking to Erin. “Aren’t we, babe?”
I see her pull in a breath. “I’m just saying, the Maya I know, and I do know her well enough, she just wouldn’t go to this kind of extreme, even if she is pregnant. She wouldn’t lie. I don’t think she’s told a lie in her entire life. Her whole moral framework is built around being honest. She prides herself on it.”
My tone is cutting. “You’re wrong.”
I know Erin and I are going to get nowhere here, and I’m more than prepared to throw down, so it’s left to Peyton to get between us—quite literally—and referee.
“Both of you,” he says, “have valid points, but let’s all agree the only person who can sort this out is Maya, right?”
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I stand, pointing around Peyton at Erin. “She’s a fucking liar, Erin, moral framework or not. She lied. To. My. Fucking. Face.” I circle it for good measure, can feel the hot heat of anger prickling its way up the back of my neck, the tight twist of muscles under my skin, the sheer irritation of it all. How the hell could I be deceived like this, and so easily? Head injury or not, I should have known better.
I remember the first few times Erin showed up around here so quiet and meek. There’s no sign of that now. She’s basically part of the furniture. She starts towards me. “You better watch what you’re saying about my friend. I don’t care who you are.”
“Oh, yeah?” I laugh.
Peyton shoves me back when I head to meet her in the middle of the room. He looks from her to me. “For fuck’s sake, can you two cool it for one damn second? You going to fight over this shit, seriously?”
I point at her. “You better keep a leash on your b—”
Peyton shoves me so hard I’m forced back into the armchair. “Careful, brother. I know you’re hurting, I get it, but you do not take it out on Erin, understand?”
There’s a moment where I consider clocking him in the mouth, but what then? Go to war with my own family? He’s right. What the fuck am I saying? This isn’t me.
I don’t know what to do, so I sit there, stewing.
Erin takes out her cell, flipping it open. “I’ll meet you outside, babe.”
Peyton goes to say something to her, but she’s already walking away, the front door slamming in her wake.
Peyton shakes his head, pacing in front of me. “Thanks for that, dipshit.”
“What am I going to do?” I ask, anger turning into emotion and bubbling up so high in my throat I can barely breathe. The world’s closing in on me and I can’t see a way out, any kind of path to rescue.
I used to think Peyton was the most thick-headed and dull of us all, but a certain sense of wisdom has shown through ever since he met Erin. He’s more confident, if that was possible, but also more grounded and surer of himself.
“Look,” he sighs, returning to the crouching position in front of me, “there’s only one possible way I see out of this: You’ve got to give Maya a chance to either explain or convince you.”
“I tried.”
“How hard?”
“You know me,” I say. “I would never get a girl pregnant. That’s like King 101. Dad was handing out condoms before the first of us hit fucking puberty. And a relationship? Commitment? Same deal. You know me,” I repeat. “I don’t do long term. Does any of it sound like me?”
“A lot has changed, brother, since…”
“What?” my voice is practically a knife, words stabbing, cutting at the air. “You think I take a hit to the head and suddenly I’m someone else. It doesn’t work like that.”
“No one’s blind around here, Ti. What you’ve been doing with Maya lately… Some would call what a relationship.”
The fucker might have a point, but I don’t want him to see it’s hit home. I remain silent.
“Admit it,” he presses. “Come clean.”
I’ve got nothing left to give, no gas in the tank to fight what I know is actual truth, because I am in a relationship with Maya. She’s done something to me, gotten past that King conditioning somehow just like Erin did.
“Fine,” I get out. “What if we are?”
I hadn’t even noticed Erin slipping back into the room. She’s holding up her cell.
Peyton spins, following my line of sight.
I squint to see what’s on the screen. “What’s that?”
She tosses me the cell. “See for yourself.”
I catch it one-handed, flipping it over to see the image onscreen.
It’s a shot of Erin and Peyton at their engagement party, a shot taken right in this very lounge, actually. “I don’t get it.”
“The background,” says Erin. “Look closer, dumbass.”
I squint, using my fingers to pinch outwards and zoom in.
Now it’s clear.
Maya and I are in the background. We’re close, my hand on her hip and a look on my face I’ve never seen before but one there’s absolutely no mistaking. I’m smitten with her, beaming at her like she’s my entire world, like the rest of it simply doesn’t exist.
Holy shit.
“And that was just the night you met,” adds Erin.
Poor Peyton’s completely out of the loop here. “You knew, babe?”
Erin huffs. “She asked me not to say anything.”
This changes everything. I don’t even know what to make of it.
I hand the cell to Peyton, who scrutinizes the shot. “Fuck me,” he says. “I knew there was more to this.”
My head’s imploding and exploding at the same time. I can’t seem to keep any thought strapped down for more than a few seconds.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I head for the door.
“Where you going?” asks Peyton.
“I have no idea,” I reply, stopping by Erin. “I’m sorry.”
She nods and places her hand on my shoulder. “I get it. It’s okay.”
Peyton’s trying to block my path. “Maybe you should hang around a little longer…”
But I shift around him and keep walking.
I need air.
I need clarity.
I need to get my game in order.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MAYA
It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m over being hurt, or at least pretending like I’m over it. What I really want to do is compartmentalize the whole damn nightmare and box it away for good. It’s sucking the life from me, taking all my energy and turning me into a mushy, sad sack of a human. I need a future and I’m not going to find it hanging onto the past.
It’s time to move on—simple as that.
Simple? Really? my head interjects. Since when has any matter of the heart been simple?
That’s the whole problem. Titus had my heart. I don’t think he has it any longer.
Chrissy has noticed the shift, doing her best to distract me with wholesome animal videos, Cards Against Humanity, and walks around the block where we guess the sexual kinks of the people we pass. Typically, I’d be all-in on such activities, but I can barely muster the enthusiasm for anything these days, let alone the abstract.
Chrissy catches me staring at the wall, throwing a German Shepard plushie at my head. The throw’s wide. Not her strong suit, apparently.
“Come on, Maya,” she protests, taking me by the shoulders and shaking me back and forth. “You’ve got to snap out of this thing.”
“This thing?” I laugh. “You make it sound so trivial.”
She lets go and exhales, walking in a tight circle around the living room. “So he wasn’t Mr. Right, and yah, yah I know the whole hit-in-the-head thing and true love’s kiss and even sexy times couldn’t shake the memory tree, but you have. To. Move. On.”
She’s been on about this for days.
“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I tell her, “but I’m kidding myself. Don’t tell me you’ve never felt like this.”
She takes a seat beside me at the breakfast bar. “I’ve never had a guy forget who I was, no, but I’ve had my heart broken thinking ‘the one’ got away. Now when I think about that guy all I remember is the weird way he ate Froot Loops and how he always wanted to lick my butthole before sex. He wasn’t Mr. Right, but he sure as hell seemed like it when I had nothing to compare him against.”
“You’re saying I should sleep around? Because that doesn’t sound like sage advice.”
“No, no, no. Fuck it. Gosh, I’m not helping, am I?”
I can’t help laughing. “I think you might be terrible at this, actually.”
It’s nice to be laughing for real again, genuinely amused. She’s trying. I’ll give her that, but I’m pretty sure Cosmo would do a better job at relationship advice right about now.
“It’s just a weird fucking situation,” she confesses. “All around, but I still think you’ve got to get on with your life, and that is good advice.”
I nod because I know she’s right.
She slaps her thighs and stands. “Now, how about I cook us some chocolate pancakes, drown them in maple syrup, and we eat until we vom?”
“I don’t think I’ll have to try very hard. I’m puking so much these days I’m practically dating the toilet bowl.”
She pats my back. “It’ll get better, babe.”
“In your informed medical opinion, I suppose?”
I get a stern look in return. “I was there for when my sister gave birth, I’ll have you know. I’ve seen some shit.”
I look at her quizzically. “You speaking literally or figuratively, because I read—”
The hand goes up. “Enough with the Google diving, Ms. Maya. From what she tol
d me it never really goes to plan. If you shit yourself, you shit yourself. Still want those pancakes?”
“After hearing about your ex licking your butthole and the horrors of giving birth?”
“Hey,” she says, “I’ll have you know my butthole is like super-duper clean. I’m talking eat-your-dinner-off-it clean.”
I put my hand up. “Oh, sweet Jesus, please stop.”
“Which is exactly what I told him every time he—”
I start to push her away, laughing. “Chrissy, just stop talking.”
She taps the breakfast bar. “Butthole pancakes, coming right up.”
*
The following day my mood changes again. Chrissy is out all day, leaving me more time to sit around and stew on things, and what I find is anger—red hot and getting brighter. I try to suppress it but the more I think on it the madder I get.
“Enough,” I say aloud, standing and stamping into the bedroom.
Chrissy was right. I have to move on. There’s no other way around it. I must purge myself of Titus King.
I begin to pack up his things, placing them far from carefully inside a box I drum up from the cupboard. I’m choking back tears as I do it, but it’s cathartic in a way, too. There’s a stupid white teddy bear he gave me when we first started going out, the kind of cliché gas station teddy you got free with a box of donuts. He admitted himself it was cheesy, but I loved it because it somehow smelt like him, reminded me of him. But I can’t look at it any longer. I shove it into the box with the rest of his things—clothing he left over, books he gave me, a sketch of our ‘dream house’ complete with batting cage out the back and a big green lawn the kids could play on while we sipped margaritas on the porch.
When there are no more things to pack, I write Titus a note. I had intended to keep it short, but before I know it, I’ve written a novel, loosely folding the pages together and placing it on top of the pile of things.
I close the box and take the masking tape roller, sealing it shut like a time capsule.
I sit back against the wall looking at my handiwork.
It’s just a box, I tell myself, but it’s not very convincing.