“He tried to explain it to me once,” she says. “I think it’s adorable when they get affectionate with one another, but not everyone feels that way. Even people who ‘tolerate,’”—she draws air quotes around the word tolerate—“their relationship are sometimes offended by their kissing and holding hands. So, they’re careful about who they do it around.”
“But they’re just two people in love,” I say. “What am I missing?”
She steps up onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “You, Paul Reed, are one special guy. Do you know that?” She looks into my eyes.
“In this day and age, they still get judged?” I ask. I just find it hard to believe. What it takes to be a family hasn’t changed through the years, but what families look like sure has.
“All the time,” Friday says. “He was just being considerate of your feelings. Don’t worry about it.” She waves a breezy hand in the air and follows Garrett and Cody into the sunlight. She puts her sunglasses on, and I walk beside her.
“We have to get back to work,” Cody says. He kisses Friday on the forehead and shakes hands with me. Then Garrett does the same.
“Take care of our baby mama,” Garrett says.
I put my arm around her. “I plan to.” I want to start with a nap. With her in my bed. Under my covers. Preferably naked.
Friday
I’m pregnant. My knees are a little bit wobbly, but I’m not sure if that’s because Paul is staring at me or if it’s because I’m scared shitless of the thought of being knocked up. It’s not mine. It’s not mine. It’s not mine, I chant in my head.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asks. He tips my face up, and I grab his wrists to pull his hands down. He tangles his fingers with mine, instead, and pulls my hands behind my back, tugging me until my body is flush against his.
I wiggle my fingers in his grip. He’s not holding me tightly. He’s just loosely gripping my hands, probably to keep me from shoving him away. “Do many of your women find this sexy?”
“Many of my women?” His chuckle rumbles through me. “How many do you think I have?”
“I don’t have enough fingers, toes, or freckles to count that high.”
“Oh, it’s not that many.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have a lot of freckles.” He laughs again. But he’s avoiding my eyes all of a sudden.
“I’ve seen you with the hoochies that come into the shop,” I tell him. It bothered me then; it bothers me now. But I don’t want him to know how much. “You get around.”
“I got around. I don’t get around. Big difference.”
I force a little joviality into my voice. “So you’re telling me that you’re not going to sleep with anyone else ever again.”
“If you commit, I commit,” he says. “I told you, I don’t share. And I don’t expect you to share, either.”
I twist my fingers out of his, and he looks like a three-year-old who just lost his new toy when I step back from him. If I run, he’ll follow and it’ll look like I’m playing with him, when I really just need space. Then no one’s feelings get hurt.
“Come back here,” he says.
I force a laugh and run for the subway. He follows. I can barley hear his running shoes on the pavement, but I know he’s back there. His shadow is following me, almost overwhelming mine, much the way he takes me over.
“If you were a man, I’d stick my foot out and trip you,” he says to my back.
“If you were a man, you’d be able to catch me,” I toss over my shoulder.
He scowls and catches up with me in two long strides. “If I were a man?” he says, dropping his mouth to my ear to growl the words at me. “You doubt it?”
“Prove it, big guy,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
I stop walking and put my hands on my hips. “You’re going to let me pick on your manhood and not try to prove it?” I ask. Take the bait, Paul.
“If you were anywhere near my manhood, I wouldn’t have to prove it.” He grabs for a handle as we step onto the subway car, and he pulls me against him. I kind of like having him hold me like this. It’s intimate and new. And he seems to like it, too, if the evidence of his desire pressing against my hip is any indication.
I lower my hand to rub him through his jeans, but he intercepts my questing fingers.
“Don’t fucking play with me,” he warns.
“Whoa,” I breathe out. “Where did that come from?”
“Sexual frustration,” he says. “Brings out the best in me.”
I play with a loose string on his sleeve. “So, what if I want to fucking play with you?”
His arm drops from around my waist. “Then you’re talking to the wrong guy.”
I suddenly feel cold and alone. I cross my arms in front of me and try to glare at him. But it’s hard when I’m feeling this exposed.
“Don’t ever use sex as a way to control me,” he says quietly. Then his arm wraps around me again. This time, it’s me who pulls back. He scowls and follows me when I go to sit in an empty seat. He slides in beside me so I shove myself up against the window. He’s big, though, and he takes up all the seat on his side and some of mine. “Don’t run from me, either,” he says. “I’ll always chase. Until you tell me you don’t want me to.”
I start to tick items off on my fingers. “So, I can’t fucking play with you. I can’t run from you. And I can’t use sex to control you.” I throw my hands up. “Why don’t you just give me the whole list now?” I ask. “What else can I not do?”
He leans close and pushes my hair back from my nape with gentle fingers. His hand cups the back of my neck, and he talks quietly in my ear. “You can’t use sexy tricks to get away from my questions. I asked you what was wrong when we left the doctor’s office because you looked like something was bothering you. I wanted to know what it was, and you evaded my question with sexy innuendos and grabby little fingers. Don’t get me wrong. I want you to fucking grab every part of me, particularly my dick grabbed by your pussy with you on top.” He smiles when the hair on my arms stands up. “But if you can’t answer a simple question like ‘What’s wrong?’ then we have bigger problems than I thought. So, let’s try again. What’s wrong, Friday?”
“What makes you think something is wrong?” I ask, my voice quaky.
“Because I know you. I fucking know you, and I know when something is wrong.”
“What’s my tell?” I ask. Because now I’m curious.
“Stop it,” he growls. “I’m not going to let you change the subject.”
I want to say the words out loud. I want to say them so badly. But they get stuck in my throat. “Nothing is wrong,” I say. I shove his hand from where it’s still clasping the back of my neck.
“Don’t lie to me.” He doesn’t look angry. He looks…hurt? What the fuck is that about?
“I don’t know what you want me to say!” I cry. People turn and look at us, and I bring my voice down to a level that won’t call dogs from all areas. “I don’t know what you want,” I hiss.
“Are you happy that you’re pregnant?” he asks, sitting back and crossing his arms so he can stare me down.
“Of course, I’m happy,” I scoff.
“Not happy for Garrett and Cody. Are you happy to be pregnant? You, Friday. Just you.”
Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them furiously, trying to prevent the warm puddles from falling down my cheeks. If they fall, I’ve failed. I’ve shown weakness. I can’t allow that.
“Fucking hormones,” I say.
He chuckles. “You’ve been pregnant for all of a week,” he says. “You had better get used to it.”
“I don’t cry,” I say quietly. “I never, ever cry. Ever.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t let people get close enough to make me weak. “Because I don’t want to.”
“You don’t do anything you don’t want to do, right?” he asks. His eyes narrow.
“Not anymore.”
/>
“When was the last time you did?”
I suck in a breath. My stomach is roiling.
“Friday,” he sings.
“Why the interrogation, Paul?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs. “Fuck you.”
A grin tugs at my lips. I turn and stare out the window at the graffiti going by. The last time I cried was over him. It was over the baby I gave away. And I swore I would never let anyone else make me that vulnerable ever again. But I can’t tell Paul that.
“I like being pregnant,” I say. I smile at him and force out a giggle.
“Great, now you’re going to pretend to be fucking Pollyanna.” He throws up his hands.
“Stop prying,” I warn. I frown at him. “Stop fucking trying to dig into my psyche. It doesn’t like visitors. It likes its solitude. It likes the cobwebs in the fucking attic, so stop trying to clean them up.”
“Tell me something true,” he urges. “One thing.” He holds up a single finger. “Just one.”
“That was the truth.” I lay a hand on my stomach, and Paul looks down at it. “I fucking love being pregnant. I love that a life is growing inside me. I love that Cody and Garrett are going to be parents and that I get to cook their baby for nine months. It makes me so happy I could spin around and make rainbows from Skittles and shit. Shake the fucking Skittle tree and a rainbow will fall out, that’s how happy I am.”
“Thank you.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just crosses his feet in front of him and stares down at them.
“Fuck you, Paul.”
“Fuck you, Friday.”
“I’m not lying about that,” I whisper-shout at him. “I do love being pregnant. I love it this time, and I loved it the last time. I loved it all the way up until I fucking gave him away. Is that what you wanted to fucking hear? Is that what you want to hear, Paul?” I stand up as the subway car slows down. “I love being pregnant,” I hiss in his ear. He flinches. “I get to give birth to another baby that isn’t mine. Only this time, I can check up on him to be sure he’s all right.”
Finally, a tear tumbles over my lashes and down my cheek. I swipe it away with the back of my hand. I scoot around him and walk toward the exit. He steps out, and I hesitate. I wait until the very last minute, and when he spins around to see where I’ve gone, the subway doors close, and I’m still inside. I close my eyes as I pull away because I can hear him calling my name.
Paul
It’s almost eight at night, and Friday still isn’t home. Hayley is with her mom this week, so I don’t have much else to do except pace and wait for Friday to come home. I can’t fucking believe she left me like that on the subway platform. She won. For now. But when I find her, I’m going to get her spill her guts and tell me her secrets. She’s carrying an awfully big burden, and I wish she’d let me help her with it.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Logan sending me another picture of Kit. This time, she has a piece of paper on her belly that says, I wonder when my Uncle Paul is going to come and visit.
I shake my head and grin. Then I grab the keys to my motorcycle and go down to the garage to get it. I won it in a card game, and I can count the number of times I’ve ridden it on one hand. Logan uses it a lot more than I do. But it’s getting late, and I don’t want to ride the subway at this time of night. I never get accosted because of the way I look, but I do get a lot of curious glares because of the tats and piercings. People push their children behind their legs, and women put their purses on the other sides of their bodies, like I’m going to steal from them or something. Just because I have tattoos does not mean I am poor, a thief, or in need of their hard-earned cash.
I park at the hospital and go up to the ward where Emily is still waiting to be sent home. I knock softly and open the door. I stick my head in and see Emily sitting in a chair with Kit pulled close to her breast. She rocks and motions me forward. She points toward the bed and rolls her eyes.
“He got tired,” she says, shaking her head.
Logan is stretched out in the hospital bed with his mouth hanging open. The best thing about having a brother who is deaf is that he can sleep through anything, so I don’t even worry about talking while he’s sleeping. I sit down across from Emily, and she just stares at me.
“She was here a few minutes ago,” Emily says. She quirks her brow.
“Who?” I ask. I try to look like I have no idea what she is talking about.
She snorts. “Who do you think?”
I don’t say anything. Emily pops the baby off her breast with a grimace and fixes her shirt. She does it all under a blanket, so it’s not the least little bit weird. Then she hands Kit to me and throws a burp cloth over my shoulder.
“See if you can burp her,” she says with a laugh.
“I just happen to be a master burper,” I say to Kit. She squirms in my arms like a caterpillar trying to makes its way out of a cocoon. I put her gently on my shoulder and pat her on the back. “When are you going home?” I ask Emily.
“Tomorrow morning,” she says.
“Everything okay?” I ask. Kit lets out the sweetest and loudest burp next to my ear, and it makes me laugh. “Good one. You sound like your daddy,” I say to her as I lower her in my arms and cradle her close to me.
“Everything is fine.” She jerks her thumb toward Logan. “I told him to go home and get some sleep, because we’re not going to get much rest when she comes home. But he refused.”
“He’s smart,” I say to Kit, making baby talk. “His mama taught him right from wrong,” I say in a singsong voice, talking to the baby still.
“He sounded like Henry, telling me that he can’t sleep without me. Without us.” Henry is a dear old friend of ours whose wife died recently. He was the doorman in Emily’s building when she came back to town, and he’s part of all our lives now. Her eyes well with tears as she looks over at Kit. She swipes a hand beneath her nose.
“I’m so glad he found you,” I say to Emily. I look directly into her eyes when I say it so that I won’t confuse her. I want to be very clear. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“He’s the only one who ever accepted me exactly as I am.”
“Hey!” I cry in playful protest. “We all accepted you.”
She smiles softly. “The Reeds are a special bunch.”
“You can blame that on our mom,” I tell her.
The room goes silent for a minute, and I take in the beauty that is their daughter. She is asleep already, and she looks so peaceful. She’s perfect. “How was Friday?” I finally ask in the silence.
Emily shrugs. “She’s Friday.”
“Is she coming home tonight?” I ask. I brush my hands along the silken down on top of Kit’s head.
“Probably,” she says.
I heave a sigh and pinch the skin at the bridge of my nose.
“Keep pushing her,” she says.
I jerk my head up. That was the last thing I expected her to say. “What?”
“Keep pushing her,” she says again. “She’s got a lot of baggage. And you can’t help her carry it until she’s willing to present it to you. So, keep pushing.”
“You know?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I just know someone who’s hiding. I did it myself. I can see the signs. She desperately wants someone to find her. And probably for someone to forgive her for whatever she did, so she can forgive herself.” She shrugs. “I’m just guessing, of course. I could be completely wrong.”
“I doubt it.”
“Don’t worry about being gentle. Just be yourself. You know what to say and do.” She looks at me with a soft smile on her face.
“Did she talk to you?” I ask. I wince inwardly. I should be asking Friday all of these things.
“About being a surrogate?”
I nod.
“Yeah, we talked about it when she offered to do it.”
Well, that surprises me. “I didn’t real
ize you were that close.”
“No one is close to Friday,” she says. Then she looks directly into my eyes. “Except you.”
I laugh, but there’s humor in the sound. “I am about as far away from Friday as anyone can get. She’s got so many fucking walls that I can’t get a peep over them, much less get around them.”
“Eventually, she’ll open the door and let you walk in.”
I look up when the literal door opens. Friday startles and looks at me. “I forgot my purse again,” Friday says quietly. She points to a bag lying in the chair beside me. I didn’t even see it there.
Emily pushes to her feet and goes to the bed, where she roughly shoves Logan. He jumps and grunts, his eyes flying open. That’s exactly the same way I’ve woken him up since he lost his hearing. It’s the only way to get his attention. “Come and take me for a walk,” Emily tells him. He stands and stretches.
Babysitters, she signs at him.
He furrows his brow at her, and she just nods toward the door. “Oh,” he says. “A walk.” He looks toward Kit. “Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
“I just fed her. Let’s go.” She takes his hand and leads him from the room. They let the door close behind them.
Friday reaches for her purse, but I stretch out and catch her hand in mine. “Please don’t go,” I say. “Please.”
She nods, biting her lower lip between her teeth. “Okay,” she breathes. She sits down beside me and fidgets. I lean over and place Kit in her arms and then press a kiss to her temple.
“Let me love you,” I say softly. Then I sit back and I watch her as she arranges Kit in her lap so that she can look into the baby’s face.
Silence sinks over the room like a wet, heavy blanket. “He was perfect,” she says quietly. “He looked like me. He had dark-blue eyes and freckles and he wasn’t but a minute old. Then I never got to see him again. Not close up. They took him from me, and I didn’t even get to hold him.”
“Where is he now?” My throat clogs so tight with emotion that I have to cough past it.
“He’s with a wonderful family that adopted him when he was a day old.” She finally looks up at me, and her eyes shimmer with tears. One drops down her cheek, and she doesn’t brush it away. “They send me pictures every six months. He’s beautiful. He plays baseball, and he loves trains.”