Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Kennedi woke up to her stomach staging a full revolt or her child already picking sides…
their fathers. She couldn’t call it, but the room spun before she even opened her eyes fully, and the wave of nausea hit so hard she had to grip the edge of the mattress to steady herself.
Her body was slick with sweat despite the cool air from her fan.
Her hands trembled as she pushed herself upright.
She hadn’t felt like this in a month or so and hadn’t missed it all.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Not today. Please not today.”
It was finally Monday, and she’d had her weekend and was supposed to start work in—she squinted at her phone—two hours. And she couldn’t even stand up without feeling like she was going to pass out. Tears welled up in her eyes at her circumstances. Alone and pregnant. Or was today just a bad day?
Another wave hit, stronger this time, and she barely made it to the bathroom before her stomach emptied what little she’d eaten last night. She gripped the porcelain, forehead pressed against her arm, trying to breathe through it.
“Little LA,” she said weakly, one hand moving to her belly. “Baby, come on now. We had a deal. You let me get through this first day, and I’ll eat whatever nasty combination you want for lunch. Please.”
No response. Obviously. But Kennedi liked to think they had an understanding.
She flushed, pushed herself up to the sink to rinse her mouth, and sank down onto the cool tile floor, her back against the tub.
The bathroom was the only place that didn’t feel like it was moving, and even that was debatable.
Her phone buzzed from the bedroom—probably her alarm going off, reminding her she needed to get in the shower, get dressed, show up looking professional, and put together.
She couldn’t do it. Her body had been patient for weeks — the fatigue, the random nausea, the dizziness — and today it was done. Today, it was saying absolutely not.
She pulled herself up slowly and made her way back to bed. Her phone sat on the nightstand, Rolani’s name at the top of her recent texts.
“Shit.”
She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over his name. The idea of texting him made her cringe; she could hear him now, accusing her of running and avoiding him, but that was far from the case… well, somewhat.
Kennedi: Good morning. I’m really not feeling well and won’t be able to come in today. I have my laptop and can handle anything remotely if needed.
Ro: Sick, huh? Or are you doing the thing you always do?
She tilted her phone and snapped a picture of herself looking like death warmed over—hair wrapped in her bonnet, face bare, eyes barely open, the clear exhaustion written all over her features. Fuck it, she thought. She sent the photo without a caption.
Kennedi:
Three dots appeared before his message took its place.
Ro: Damn, baby. Get some rest, it ain’t no biggie.
Kennedi: Thank you for understanding.
That was too easy, but she decided to let it be. She had bigger shit to focus on, like settling her stomach, showering, and resting so she could show up as her best self.
She turned on her TV and found a Christian R his presence immediately filled her small apartment.
Speak of the devil.
“How did you—” She stared at him. “I didn’t give you a key.”
“Your landlord knows me.” He kicked the door shut behind him, set the bags on her coffee table, and turned to look at her. “You look worse than that picture, no cap.”
“Get out.”
“Nah.” He pulled items from the bag—ginger ale, crackers, and stuff to make soup… from scratch. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Rolani, I’m serious—”
“So am I.” He opened the bag, handing her the drink and oatmeal, and the smell of citrus hit her, and she sighed. “Sit down and eat.”
“This is strike two. You can’t break into my apartment. Just saying in case you were confused about that.”
“I didn’t break in. I walked in. Not the same thing.” He moved into her space, his hand going to her forehead and then neck before she could stop him. “How long you been like this?”
She swatted his hand away. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is now.” He guided her to the couch. “Eat.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“Ken.” His voice dropped lower, that tone that said he was done playing. “Stop being difficult and eat the damn food before I feed it to you myself.”
She glared at him, but her stomach growled traitorously at the smell of the cinnamon. She took the container, spooned some into her mouth, and—fuck—it stayed down.
“That wasn’t hard, was it, doll?” He sat on the edge of her coffee table, watching her like he was making sure she actually ate.
“Don’t trip on today. Your start date’s Wednesday now.”
“You can’t just…”
“I just did.” He looked up at her, eyes hard but not cold. “You’re sick. You need rest. You’re not coming in until you’re better. It ain’t that deep.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stood, grabbed the remote, and scrolled through her streaming options. “What we watching?”
“Nothing, because you’re leaving.”
“I’m not.” He settled on a crime documentary, lowered the volume, and sat on the other end of her couch. “Be a good girl and eat your food, Ken. I’m not asking again.”
Their eyes locked before she turned away. Getting wrapped up in eye contact was a bad move — she was sitting on something that would change everything. She’d been telling herself it would be easy to say. It wasn’t.
She took another bite.
“Good. I met your momma, I know she ain’t raised you to be mean to those helping you.”
He pulled out his laptop and started working, the soft clicking of keys mixing with Kirk Franklin and the TV. He didn’t try to talk to her, didn’t hover, existed in her space.
After a while, she set the half-empty container down. “Why are you here? I didn’t ask you to come.”
“Because you’re sick.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only reason I need.” He didn’t look up from his laptop. “You my woman, right?”
He asked, knowing she’d deny it. He was fine with that. He was patient. Hell, he had already waited four and a half months for her to come back. Escaping him wasn’t going to happen; she had to know that.
“But I’m not.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He glanced at her, that smirk playing at his lips. “Now lay down and rest.”
He closed his laptop and set it aside. “You want a blanket, or you good with that hoodie? Cute ass.”
She fought to hide the smile from him.
“I’m fine on the couch—”
He stood and helped her from the couch. “You need to take your wishy washy ass to bed. Come on.”
Before she could finish, he bent down and scooped her up—one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She let out a startled noise, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders instinctively.
“Rolani, put me down,” she fussed, giggling.
“Nah.” He adjusted her weight like she was nothing, already moving toward her bedroom. “You’re sick. You need to be in an actual bed, not curled up on that uncomfortable ass couch.”
He kicked her bedroom door open with his foot and carried her inside. Rolani set her down gently on her bed, pulled back the covers, and waited. She stared up at him, caught between irritation and admiration.
“Get in,” he said.
She did, too tired to keep fighting, and he pulled the covers up to her chin like she was a child.