and that’s okay by me.

  I’m enjoying circling

  the bases. Home plate,

  now safe, can wait.

  We Take Our Time

  And we both score twice.

  And the seismic waves

  are incredible. Massive.

  Nothing like the gentle

  temblors with Monica.

  My bed, my room, the entire

  house, are plenty warm now.

  I kick off the covers, skin

  cooling slowly within

  the circlet of Gabe’s arms.

  So, what do you think?

  The words fall against

  my cheek, carried in warm

  Earl Grey–scented puffs.

  “I think that was pretty

  great. And I’m glad you

  were my first.” I don’t add

  the masculine reference.

  Let him assume what he will.

  Eventually

  And much too soon,

  Gabe’s arms release

  their hold on me.

  I should probably go.

  “You probably should.

  Do you have any plans

  for tomorrow?”

  No. Why? Miss me already?

  “You’re still here, in case

  you missed that, dude.

  I know I’m a pain, but

  I need a ride out to see

  Hillary. And her horses.”

  Happy to chauffeur you anytime.

  Deal struck, I struggle

  with what to say now.

  Is it always so awkward

  after you have sex?

  I watch Gabe get dressed,

  admiring again the cut

  of his muscles. And again

  I’m bulldozed by guilt.

  Everything’s changed

  between him and me now.

  But what about Monica?

  Maya

  For Casey

  You arrived today. Every minute is seared into my memory.

  I woke from dreams of drowning in quicksand—a slow suck under, no one I could trust to take my hand and pull—to nightmare cramps fifteen minutes apart. I wasn’t sure what labor felt like, if that was it or the fake-you-out kind. But, at a week beyond my due date, you seemed anxious to find your way into the world.

  When I reached out for your daddy, his side of the bed was empty. He went out with his buddies last night and never made it home. I called and called, scared the worst had happened, but finally he answered and explained, “I was too drunk to drive, so I slept in the car.”

  Something to be grateful for, I guess.

  “You have to come home right now,” I told him. “It’s time to go to the hospital.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Seriously? “Positive.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he promised.

  But he wasn’t. I hate to break this to you, but Daddy isn’t very reliable. It took me a while to figure that out. It’s what happens when you marry someone you barely know. It wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. Hopefully it won’t be the worst. At least I’m not in L.A.

  I suppose I kind of used you, but I promise to make that up the only way I know how—by loving you more than anything in the whole universe. Half of me can’t wait to cuddle you, play dress-up with cute little outfits. Watch you grow. Mold your life.

  The other half is scared shitless. What if I can’t do this? What if being an awful mother is genetic?

  Yesterday I painted your room. Your daddy and I argued about color. He wanted “cornflower” because he was sure you’d be a boy. I knew better, not that it matters, but either way, I didn’t want to resort to stereotypes. Blue doesn’t have to represent maleness any more than pink is the only suitable hue for a girl.

  So I chose a pretty golden yellow, almost the exact shade of the roses that bloomed outside my windows back home in Austin. Despite the ugliness inside our house, those flowers gifted me with snapshots of beauty I could carry anywhere. I brought their memory here, and call it up when the need arises. That happens often.

  Like this morning.

  I waited and waited for your daddy to get home, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like I learned in Lamaze. That part was easy, but trying to relax through the clench-build-release of contractions designed by some unearthly power to move a baby closer to viable life outside its mother’s body proved impossible.

  They got stronger. Closer together. When they were maybe seven minutes apart, you shifted inside me and I knew your tumbling act was wrong. Suddenly, it felt like someone stuck me with a knife right below my belly button, only from the inside out. Luckily the phone was in my hand. I dialed 9-1-1.

  The ambulance was there in less than ten minutes, but it seemed like hours, and the whole time I prayed you’d be okay. A very nice EMT (that’s “emergency medical technician”) sat in back and talked to me on the drive to the hospital. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Every baby comes into the world in his or her own way.”

  Your way was the hard way.

  We got to the hospital and your vitals weren’t the best. The ER doc said you were in fetal distress and he needed to perform a C-section. Fast. I wanted so much to deliver you the way I’d practiced. But the pain was incredible, and once the epidural kicked in, I couldn’t feel a thing from my waist down. I did like that. In fact, since I could barely sleep last night, I dozed off. Next thing I knew, I heard you cry and the nurse said, “It’s a girl.”

  Then you were in my arms, all seven pounds, eleven ounces of you, and I smiled at the titian waves of downy hair that promised you belonged to me. Jason arrived not long after that, still smelling of last night’s beer and pool-hall sweat. He didn’t want to hold you, said he was afraid of breaking you, but he did pet your pretty amber curls. “She looks like you,” he said, and that was the best compliment he could’ve ever given me.

  But then, after they took you away to be cleaned and dressed and swaddled, he blew up. “They said you agreed to a Cesarean. Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Liar!” His voice was sharp and way too loud.

  It was like being smacked upside the head. Again. Only, no lunatic mother involved. But I don’t guess you need to know any of that, at least not right now. One day, when you’re old enough to understand, I’ll tell you, because girls have to grow up smart.

  I try not to argue with your daddy. If facts get in the way of his opinion, he won’t believe they’re true, so disagreeing with him is pointless. But I said, “I did it for our baby. She was in trouble.”

  You know what he said?

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She was fine. And now you’ll have a scar.”

  I will have a scar, a flaw in his eyes, but to me it’s a forever reminder of my connection to you. Casey, my beautiful, perfect baby girl. Jason’s contempt for your birth journey is painful. And right now, everything hurts, but that doesn’t matter because you’re here. You’re safe. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.

  Ariel

  I’ve Got a Problem

  Okay, I’ve got several problems,

  and this one might actually

  not be an issue at all,

  though I think it has to be.

  I like sex.

  I mean, maybe it can become

  a horrible habit, if that’s all

  I ever think about in the future.

  Right now, there’s other stuff, too.

  But I like sex.

  I like it with Monica. I like it

  with Gabe, though the two

  experiences were not the same.

  At the moment

  I’m not interested in liking

  it with anyone else.

  But if I like sex

  as much as I do, what if

  I can’t turn off this person

  I’ve lately turned on—

  pun most definitely intended?
r />   After Gabe Left

  Last night, I lay in bed

  worrying. Not about the fact

  that we’d made love,

  or even that I’d enjoyed it

  so much, but about how

  it might change the way

  we relate to each other.

  Part of the attraction

  was not acting on it, and

  now that isn’t an option.

  So what happens next

  time we’re together?

  Does having sex once

  make it a requirement

  going forward? I don’t

  even know if that would

  be such a bad thing.

  But I don’t want to feel

  trapped. Sex should be

  spontaneous, I think, not

  something expected.

  And on the far end of all

  that, what if I’m the one

  who comes to expect it?

  Look at Me

  I’m a regular sex expert.

  Not.

  The thought is hilarious.

  Totally.

  I’ve barely done two positions.

  Lame.

  But then, I’ve done a girl and a guy.

  True.

  I should really stop thinking about this.

  Duh.

  It could become an obsession.

  Maybe.

  I’m going to see Gabe today.

  Awesome.

  I should hang out with Monica tomorrow.

  Definitely.

  Can we chill with no sex involved?

  Only one way to find out.

  What’s that?

  Just say no.

  But what fun is that?

  Dad Still Isn’t Home

  By midmorning, when Gabe picks me up.

  I’m ready to go as soon as the GTO pulls

  in the driveway, and I meet him outside,

  denying any chance at a roll in the hay,

  as Dad likes to call it, at least when talking

  to me. Once I asked if he’d ever actually

  done it in the hay, because it sounded itchy.

  He didn’t think the question was funny,

  coming from his daughter. I didn’t think

  the discussion was merited, coming from

  my dad, who was warning me against

  rolling anywhere, anytime, with anybody.

  I listened pretty well for quite a while,

  though once I understood the way of things,

  I thought him quite the hypocrite. I still do,

  but maybe now I can forgive him some.

  Meanwhile, I hop into Gabe’s car, allow

  him to lean across the seat for a kiss hello.

  It is sweet. Not demanding, or even requesting.

  I’m a little relieved I don’t want to jump his bones.

  At Least Not Right This Minute

  As he backs out onto the road

  I ask, “So, have you seen Dad

  this morning? He survived

  the eggnog, I take it?”

  Yeah, but barely. He looked

  beat-up hungover.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.

  When he gets three sheets

  to the squall, a nasty hangover

  is guaranteed. He deserves it.”

  Yeah, he was pretty shitty

  yesterday. Sorry he did that.

  “Not your fault. Don’t be sorry.

  Besides, I’m used to it. Sort of.”

  I’m tired of talking about Dad,

  and this conversation could go

  somewhere I’d rather it didn’t.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  We bump along out toward

  the highway, and it strikes me,

  “I should probably give you

  some money for gas.”

  He smiles. Do you have any

  money? No, I didn’t think so.

  No worries. It’s okay. I planned

  to see you again, and besides,

  who wants to spend the day

  with your dad and Zelda?

  That makes me laugh. “I get

  your point. But you know,

  I think you need a hobby.”

  He grins. How about I make

  you my hobby? You, girl,

  are quite entertaining.

  “Entertaining? I don’t think

  anyone’s ever called me that

  before. It’s a good thing, right?”

  A very good thing. You’re funny.

  And smart. Not only smart, but you

  know lots of stuff, and the two don’t

  always go together. In fact, I’ve wondered

  how you know as much as you do.

  Didn’t you change schools a lot?

  “Yeah, I did, and that was hard,

  especially as I got older. But

  there’s something to be said for

  seeing a lot of the country and

  learning that way. Plus, someone

  invented these great things called

  books. I read all the time.”

  I Don’t Add the Part

  About swiping books.

  Dad called it “borrowing,”

  but what we did was steal

  them, sometimes from

  the people we were mooching

  off of, and other times

  from libraries. Either Dad

  would scrounge a library card,

  or, if we stayed in one place

  long enough, he’d get one

  of his own. Once in a while

  those books would get returned,

  but more often they’d move on

  across the country when we

  did. Then Dad would make

  a game of removing any pages

  with a name stamped on them

  and dropping the well-read books

  into a return slot at a library

  in another town. Rotating

  books into their catalog

  can only be a good thing, right?

  On some level, that was true,

  and it never struck me that

  what we were doing was wrong

  until I hit maybe fifth grade.

  Books are definite necessities,

  says Gabe. I spend a fair amount

  of time reading myself, especially

  at Zelda’s. Either that or indulge

  in her steady diet of reality TV.

  “Dad jokes about that. Says

  if he wanted to watch people

  hooking up he’d rather do it

  at a bar, and as for surviving,

  he’s already done that in the army.”

  Your dad was in the army?

  He sounds incredulous.

  “Well, yeah. He was a mechanic.

  Worked on helicopters, mostly

  here in the States, but I guess

  he went to Iraq for the Gulf War.

  He doesn’t talk about it much.

  Only when he gets really drunk.”

  Wow. I never would’ve guessed.

  He doesn’t seem like the type

  who can take orders very well.

  “Probably why he’s not still

  in the army. He hated it, actually.

  Said it’s for losers and fools.”

  We Reach the Triple G

  Turn into the driveway, where

  we’re stopped by the mammoth

  wrought-iron gates. Gabe pushes

  the buzzer on the intercom,

  and when he informs whoever’s

  on the other end that we’re here,

  a remote opens the barricade

  to let us in, then shuts it behind

  us. Is that to keep people out or in?

  “Probably both. And to keep

  their animals more secure.

  Horses are great escape artists.”

  The driveway is recently paved
>
  and lined with tall deciduous trees,

  wearing not a single leaf. On either

  side, white fences enclose large

  paddocks where elegant horses and

  grass-fattened cattle graze. Maybe

  a quarter mile in, the road splits.

  To the right is the training barn,

  which is huge. To the left looms

  the main house, plus two smaller

  cottages for guests or hired help,

  at least that’s what I’m guessing.

  “This place is ridiculous. Can’t wait

  to see what the house is like inside.

  It looks big enough for thirty people.

  Pretty sure there are only three,

  plus maybe a maid or twenty.”

  Despite all the miles Dad and

  I logged, I’ve never seen anything

  like this up close. I wrap up

  my musing out loud. “Bet it’s lonely.”

  Nah. They probably have huge

  parties and stuff. Mr. Grantham

  is connected. Gabe parks in the circle,

  as instructed, and before we

  reach the front door, it opens.

  “Don’t tell me. Security cameras.”

  Peg Grantham greets us on

  the front step. Come in, come in.

  Hillary’s excited to see you.

  She leads the way into a formal

  living room, where the centerpiece

  is a huge fireplace, burning some

  fragrant wood. Make yourselves

  at home. I’ll go help Hillary down

  the stairs. She’s still a little shaky.

  How Do You Feel at Home

  In a single room the approximate

  size of an entire apartment,

  minus the walls, of course.

  Not surprisingly, the decor

  looks straight out of the pages

  of a chic glossy magazine.

  The navy-blue sofas (three!)

  don’t sag, and their upholstery

  is perfect. Ditto the contrasting

  cream-colored overstuffed chairs.

  The tables gleam under thick

  coats of polish. The caramel

  carpet is spotless, the cathedral

  windows show no streaks

  or water marks. I’m afraid

  to touch anything for fear

  of leaving fingerprints behind.

  I’m contemplating how to sit

  without leaving butt indentations

  on the cushions when Hillary