by C. C. Piper
“We’re getting to know each other,” I argued.
“So he knows about your first pregnancy?”
“He knows I had a prior miscarriage, yes.”
“So he knows who was responsible and how it happened? The horror and pain you went through?” she whispered as if saying those words quietly would lessen their impact. It didn’t.
“No,” I mumbled.
“Or what your mother did in response?”
“No,” I mouthed.
Trevor knew next to nothing about my past. Not only because it was hard to talk about, but also because I couldn’t imagine any man wanting me after finding out something like that. What guy would want a girl who’d been both broken beyond repair and rejected by the only family she’d ever had?
Ashley stood, grabbed my wrist, and brought over to the mattress to sit beside her. “I’m not saying this to be hurtful, honey. I’m saying this because these are all things a man you might want to build a relationship with needs to know. These are secrets that you’ve been hiding, but if you plan on trying something real with him, you’ll have to be more honest and open about this stuff.”
“What if I explain it all and he heads for the hills?”
“That would suck,” Ashley said. “But at least then you’d know if he was in it for the long haul.”
I rested my head on her shoulder, considering what she’d said. My best friend always had my best interests at heart, so I knew that listening to her was a wise decision. I’d need to think about this.
“Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“Dougal’s out, too.”
She sighed.
At seven that evening, I put on the only maternity dress I had, a black cotton number that Trevor had bought me. I’d refused to accept it at first, saying he didn’t need to purchase clothing for me, but he’d said it was a late Christmas gift so I had to take it.
I’d also wiggled into some ballet flats that used to belong to Ashley’s mom. My feet had swollen too big to wear the only other pair of flats I owned. At seven thirty, I began to apply a few touches of makeup. At a quarter till, I was ready. And one minute later, Trevor set off the door buzzer.
“I’ll come down to you,” I told him.
“No, I’ll come up. Wait for me.”
When Trevor appeared, he wore jeans, low cut leather boots, and a Henley. That casual appearance agreed with him in spectacular fashion. He looked good enough to eat, despite that not being the plan. I gave myself an internal headshake. This whole being with child thing had wreaked so much havoc on my hormones that I literally ached for his touch sometimes.
Not that he knew that.
And I wasn’t about to ask for a pity lay. That would just be pathetic.
I greeted him, but he said nothing back. He also seemed a bit pale now that I looked more closely at him, as if under the weather. I cocked my head to the side as I studied him, but as if coming back from somewhere scary and far away, he refocused on me and held out his arm.
“Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
“Wow. That was super cheesy.”
Finally, his lips quirked upward into a smile. “There’s more where that came from, but like a contestant on Jeopardy, I thought I’d phrase them in the form of a question.”
“Oh, yeah? Lay ‘em on me. But you have to answer the same questions for yourself.”
“I’m good with that.”
As he led me down my three flights of stairs as if I were some fragile china doll, he began his silly game.
“Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” he affected a voice I could only describe as greasy used car salesman.
I snickered at him. It was so bad I couldn’t help myself. “I’m a Leo.”
“Aquarius,” he said. “Favorite color?”
“Green.”
“Blue for me. And speaking of blue, is that the color you’re painting your room for the baby?”
“No. We’re not allowed to paint since we’re renting.”
“I’m going to paint mine. I was thinking of turning my second bedroom into the nursery. I’ve just got to take out my treadmill and weight set and stow it in my home office.”
How often did he expect our son to be with him? The inquiry was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t ask him. Suddenly, I felt too hot and felt glad to traipse out into the night air. The sounds of Brooklyn rushed at us, the cars honking, the sirens wailing, the music of a passing vehicle blaring. It was a welcome interruption. We continued our game as Trevor left the streets I’d grown up on to head across town.
“Where are you taking me, anyway?”
“Claw Daddy’s.”
“Claw … what?”
He chuckled. “Claw Daddy’s. It’s a Cajun and Creole place over on Orchard Street in the East Village. I feel like you and I are doing this gigantically momentous thing together, but there’s still things we don’t know about each other. So, I thought I’d let you experience the food often boiling in my nana’s kitchen when I was a kid.”
A warmth I hadn’t seen coming filled my chest. The way he spoke about his nana made it obvious that he loved her. “Your nana sounds like a neat lady.”
“She was the best. I’d come home from school and steam would be rising from her pots on the stove. The smell of butter and crawdads is the best ever created.”
I couldn’t help but notice he’d used the past tense when describing her.
“I hope this place is up to scratch,” he went on, and if I wasn’t mistaken, a certain twang had entered his speech. “I haven’t tried it before. The pictures on Yelp look pretty inviting, though. It probably wouldn’t be quite up to Nana’s standards, but then again, nothing ever was.”
“Do you ever get homesick being so far away from your hometown?”
“Sometimes,” he said, sounding contemplative. The lights curving over the Williamsburg Bridge flickered across him as we crossed the East River, throwing his hands on the steering wheel into alternating bands of lightness and darkness like an old movie reel. “Mostly, I’m too busy to worry about it much.”
His unconcerned words contradicted the sorrow in his voice, though.
“How about your nana? Do you miss her?” I held my breath when I mentioned his nana. It felt risqué to go there.
“Every single day. She died five years ago, right after I turned twenty. She was a tough old bird and lived all the way to ninety.” His features were a mix of sadness and fond remembrance. “The folks and I got along okay, but they’re foreign diplomats who traveled all the time. Still do. I hardly ever saw them then or now. Nana is my dad’s mama. She’s the one who really raised me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Nah, I’m fine. You gotta grow up sometime. My only regret was that she’ll never see our son, you know?”
My eyes grew hot and began to sting. Time to change subjects. “Have you been thinking about any names?”
“Don’t hate me, but no. Not yet, anyway.”
“I don’t hate you, but be forewarned, Ashley has made it her life’s mission to name him something ancient-sounding.”
“Ancient-sounding?” he huffed out a chuckle.
“Yes. So far she’s mentioned Dougal, Bernard, Miles, Nigel, and Rupert. All of which I adamantly vetoed.”
He laughed louder then. “Those are … interesting.”
“No, they’re not. They’re horrible. You don’t have to be diplomatic.”
“Those sound distinctly British to me. Does she have that kind of ancestry or something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She loves the UK, I know that. England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland are all on her bucket list, but she’s never been out of the country.”
“Not even to Mexico or Canada?”
“Afraid not.”
“Before I turned ten, my parents did the ‘travel with your kid’ thing. I remember being in all these far-flung places, some of which were dangerous for Americans. Finally, Nana put her foot down a
nd insisted I stay with her. I was a much happier camper after that.”
“How many countries did you visit?” I didn’t think I could even imagine such an existence.
“Oh, damn. Let’s see … There was Russia, China, France, Japan, Turkey, Germany, and Brazil. I may be forgetting a few, but they all kind of blurred together at a certain point. Since I was a kid, the main thing I cared about was if there were sweets and whether other children my age were around to play with. In Brazil I wandered off into the forest and had to hide from what I later realized were likely members of the local drug cartel. That was my last trip.”
“God, Trevor. It’s a wonder nothing terrible happened to you.” My heart pounded with fear despite him being safe and sound next to me.
“I know.” My brain was still reeling from this shocking piece of information when he switched topics. “Have you ever had crawfish etouffee?”
I’d never even heard of etouffee, whatever that was. “No.”
“You’ve gotta try it. It can be spicy, but I think you’ll enjoy it. How about a po’ boy sandwich?”
“I once tried a shrimp po’ boy during a Mardi Gras festival we had at school. It was good.”
He nodded. “Have you ever attended Mardi Gras?”
“No. Never been out of New York.”
“The state?” he sounded incredulous.
“The city.”
He glanced at me with wide eyes at that news. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” That’s me. Ms. Never Go Anywhere. If the destination wasn’t on my MetroCard, it probably meant I hadn’t been there.
“I’ll have to remedy that at some point.”
As Trevor escorted me inside, the noise level was high. It was one of those restaurants where people came to knock back a few beers and relax with friends, family, or coworkers. Nearly every table had four or more people surrounding it, some of them wearing plastic bibs, and the décor was simple, with wooden chairs, laminate tables, and paper towels right at the center.
The scent of freshly cooked seafood drifted over to us, and immediately my stomach moved. Apparently, our son had similar tastes to his father. Chalkboards filled out large sections of each wall advertising happy hour and the specials of the day. Fishing nets serving as lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling overhead, adding another touch of authenticity.
The meal turned out to be excellent. I had corn on the cob, crawfish, and snow crab legs while Trevor had clams and lobster served with a sauce so spicy it was literally entitled “Insane” on the menu. We tried each other’s meals, though I took only a teeny bite of his. It was way too high on the Scoville scale for me. I had to down a full glass of water afterwards.
Trevor bit his cheek as if to keep from laughing at me, but I nearly kicked him anyway. I wondered if his nana had been in the circus as a freaking fire-eater. He seemed to have a good time there, coming across as more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. And when I asked him how it compared to his nana’s he said the following:
“Not as good, but not bad.”
We both ate enough to have us groaning, and I joked that I needed a dump truck to haul me to his SUV. We stayed in physical contact throughout our dinner, which he referred to as “supper.” Trevor’s hand remained on my shoulder, my arm, or my hand. We feed each other and then cleaned one another up with the paper towels provided. And when I told him about the baby leaping around in reaction to the food, he rubbed my stomach while wearing a massive grin.
“That’s my boy.”
When I begged off of dessert, he ordered some lava cake despite this, telling me we could have it later at his place. For some reason, his mention of going back to his apartment sent a thrill up my spine.
I’d been there before, but not only had that meeting gone badly, I’d only seen what amounted to his entryway. Him bringing me there now seemed to cement something together that had been separate up till now, and I felt equal parts nerves and anticipation as we headed toward that section of the city.
“Home sweet home,” he said as we entered, lights coming on automatically as he crossed into each room.
I watched as he put away the brown bag with the dessert into his bright stainless-steel fridge. I couldn’t help but ogle at his place. It was ten times bigger than what Ashley and I called our quaint and cozy hole in the wall in Brooklyn. His kitchen was a collection of silver and charcoal gray with a countertop and island made of some glittery but hard surface.
“It’s recycled glass,” he said, as I ran a hand over it.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s old bottles crushed and made smooth. That’s part of the reason I chose this place. When they renovated it, they tried to make it as eco-friendly as possible.”
“I didn’t know you cared about the environment,” I told him, impressed at this unexpected nugget.
He shrugged. “Nana again. She didn’t believe in waste, and her parents were a product of the depression. She reused everything and taught me to do the same.”
Once we left the kitchen, I noticed that exposed beams and brick work pervaded each room. His tan sectional stretched across his living area, and a maple wood table graced the smaller dining room.
“The table and chairs in there came with the place,” he told me. “I never actually eat in there.”
“Where do you eat then?”
“On the sectional mostly. Each end has a recliner.”
“Do you use TV trays like Ash and I do?”
“Naw. I just do my best not to spill anything.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Which doesn’t always work, admittedly. Good thing I had the fabric treated to be stain resistant.”
“You are such a dude,” I said, pointing a finger at his chest. He took my finger and kissed it, smirking in that flirty way he had sometimes.
“You know it.”
He then drew his lips along the palm of my hand, and I felt their warm softness all the way up my arm. And elsewhere. I was tingling in some interesting locations when he tugged me toward a wall covered in blinds.
“Saved one of my favorite features of this place for last.” He hit a remote control I never saw him pick up, and I heard a whirring noise as the blinds were whisked away into either side of the adjoining walls.
With the blinds out of the way, I could see the glass of his floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the entirety of his exterior wall. Beyond that was Manhattan, in all its nighttime glory. I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I was a New Yorker, born and bred, but the modest abodes I’d lived in had never been privy to views like this.
The skyline sparkled against the black sky while the massive rectangle of Central Park lay before me. Beyond were the myriad of bridges crossing the waters of the Hudson, a low half-moon reflecting in the water.
“My God, Trevor. This is …” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. None of my words seemed good enough to describe it.
“I like it,” was all he said, uncharacteristically meek.
“Me, too.”
Then, as if the majesty of the outside didn’t hold the same level of fascination as his television, he did an about-face. “So, what sounds good? I have all the latest Marvel movies. Or if you want to go old school, I have the original Star Wars trilogy, Indiana Jones franchise, or the Back to the Futures. Unless you want to watch sports.” That last suggestion sounded saturated with hope, which I unfortunately had to dash.
“Not much of a sports aficionado, I’m afraid.”
This was true, especially because my mother’s boyfriend’s favorite pastime had been baseball. He’d been a rabid fan, and if you dared interrupt while he was slumped in front of our television watching a game, there’d be hell to pay. He’d record games with a DVR and watch them over and over. The worst part was that he’d had one playing in the background when he’d hurt me. Up till then I hadn’t cared about any sport much, one way or the other, but afterwards…
Yeah.
If I never heard or saw another baseball gam
e again, it’d be too soon. Thinking about any of that made my throat dry up and my pulse run the hundred-meter dash, particularly when I thought of Ashley’s advice to unload all that baggage on the father of my baby.
Ugh.
“So, a movie then?” The said father brought me back to the present. “Here.” Trevor handed me the remote. “Pick whatever you want, okay? I’m going to get us something to drink. I have sweet tea, lemonade, and filtered water.”
“What? No beer?” I joked past my desert-like mouth, but it might’ve been a little forced.
He paused beneath the arched doorway leading from his living room to his kitchen. “No, I have plenty of beer, I just didn’t want to rub your nose in it.” He didn’t move from his spot, waiting for my answer.
“Um, anything, I guess. Is that sweet tea of yours hot or cold?”
“Cold. It’s iced tea.”
“Never cared much for iced tea. It’s kind of bitter.” I hit a button on the remote and brought up a whole slew of war movies. That would be a hell no.
“You’ve never had sweet tea?”
“Don’t think so. I’m fine with water, though.”
He disappeared and reappeared with three tall glasses. “Under no circumstances is it okay that you’ve come this far in life without having sweet tea. Try it. If you hate it …” The expression on his face told me he considered such a thing pure sacrilege. “Then, I brought water, too.”
To placate him, I took a sip of his cherished sweet tea. And sweet was right. It burst over my taste buds like soda but without the fizz. It wasn’t syrupy or saccharin-like, though. It felt fabulous on my parched throat. I took more of a gulp the next time. The more I drank, the better it tasted.
Sweet tea. Who knew?
He smiled at my newfound love of a beverage that he’d just highly recommended, then marched off to get what turned out to be a ceramic bowl full of popcorn. The buttery aroma pervaded his apartment, and he flipped on a gas fireplace, the violet and orange flames instantly coming to life.