Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Christmas morning has never felt like this before, not even when I was single. I always spent Christmas Eve getting into trouble with Santana. I usually didn’t have to kick anyone out of my bed, knowing they wouldn’t want to spend the holiday with a complete stranger.
Then I’d get in the shower, say my prayers, and drag my hungover ass to my mom’s house.
It was unspoken that this year, I wouldn’t be spending it with her.
She didn’t mention any plans, didn’t ask what I wanted for dinner, didn’t give me a time to show up.
I know, in her mind, she likely felt it was time for me to create new traditions with my own little family.
I know I’m welcome if I show up there, but I won’t, not when I know it’ll lead to questions I’m not in the space to answer.
In a few weeks, once the holidays are over, I’ll let them know we just…didn’t work out.
I check my phone, finding no response to the text I sent Quintin last night. I regret the moment of vulnerability, feeling like a fool.
But I’m different than I once was. Old me would be embarrassed. New me knows being vulnerable is actually a sign of strength, even if it stings afterward.
Something about today makes me want to get on with life, to accept the partnership offer, figure out the best place for me and the baby to stay so we’re closer to Mami.
I just want to make every decision I can to forget the way I’m mourning a life I was so close to living.
It was far too enticing, and now, it’s gone before I even got to experience it.
I swear I hear something at my door, but my phone doesn’t go off.
Hm.
When I look down at my phone, I notice it died in the seconds after I checked my texts. Mom brain is fucking me up.
Just as I plug it in on my nightstand, there’s a knock at my door.
My hair is still a wavy mess from sleep, and my terry cloth pajama top rides up to show the bottom of my belly.
The matching bottoms are stretched within an inch of their seams over my ass.
There’s a cardigan on the back of my couch that I pull on to answer the door, knowing the top doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
One glance through the peephole, and my heart stops just as the warmth of anger bubbles in my gut. The nerve of him to finally show up on Christmas ?
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” I call out from my side of the door.
“Merry Christmas, Dani,” Quintin says, peeking around the hall before facing my door again. “I want to talk to you.”
“Talk to my door,” I respond, not caring if Mr. Jenkins hears. That old fuck probably needs a little excitement in his life.
Not nice, Dani , I try to tell myself, but I’m so upset with the idea that Quintin thinks he can set me down and pick me back up whenever he so wishes. Not me.
I used to wonder how he was single. Maybe this is why. If you ask me, we’re both single now.
“If you won’t let me tell you how sorry I am, at least let me show you,” he says a little louder, as if he’s testing how much I care that our neighbors can hear.
I’m already the single pregnant Latina . I don’t need fucking noise complaints, too.
I yank the door open, wishing I didn’t love the sight of him, wishing images of him from our short time together didn’t flash through my mind. In these last few months, I was able to love him, to trust him, to want a future with him.
Then he threw it all away because things got a little uncomfortable. He’s as unsteady as I worried he might be. I can’t lean on him. My child can’t lean on him.
“Show me.” I gesture with my hand before slapping it against my thigh. Irritation is the very tip of the massive iceberg that is my feelings.
“Put your shoes and coat on,” he says, and I don’t miss the way his eyes take in my rounded belly before trailing down my body and back up to my face.
Warmth of a different kind fills me. I was just starting to forget what it felt like to be wanted by him, and in less than five minutes, I can feel the mutual attraction again. It’s so dangerous.
Will I let it lead me out of this apartment with him?
Will the fear of being alone be the main culprit for the decision to leave with him?
“I don’t need you,” I whisper, a quiet reminder to both of us.
“I know. I’m sorry I let that be the reason I faltered.” He clears his throat, bringing his fist to his mouth as his eyes fill with tears. “But it’ll never happen again. Words aren’t enough, so, please. Come with me.”
I’ve never seen a man cry in my entire life. I’ve never known a love that could cause it, whether from sadness or happiness. It takes everything in me not to walk right into his arms, to soothe the worries away and accept everything he’s telling me.
But my own tears, my own trepidation, stop me.
It isn’t enough , I tell myself, wanting something permanent for my child, for me . As honored as I feel, tears don’t mean anything once they’re dried.
Wordlessly, I shove my feet into slip-on booties and grab my parka, praying it zips up over my bump.
Typically, I have to bend a little, grab the ends of it, and pull them up to zip the bottom, but Quintin stops me, squatting down to zip up the coat. Once it’s over my belly, I smack his hand away, pulling it up to the top.
I swear I hear a quiet chuckle as I grab my newly-designated mom purse and shut the door behind me. We’re quiet as I lock up, and then we walk out of the building. I’m about to pull my car key out when he stops me, gesturing toward the Lexus in front of us, a silver SUV I’ve never seen before.
“What…” I trail off as he approaches it, opening the passenger door before glancing back at me. “This is yours?”
He nods, grabbing my hand to gently pull me closer. “It’s cold. Get in.”
There’s that quiet, steady, logical voice of his. I’ve missed it in the hysteria of my own emotions.
I let him help me climb in and turn back to look at him. “When?—”
He shuts the door, and I glare at him, but he smiles as walks around to the driver’s side.
Oh, I’m gonna cuss his ass out.
He climbs in and, instead, I turn to face the window, my arms crossed.
If he wants to waste his time trying to convince me he isn’t a piece of shit, it’s going to take more than a new car. I don’t know if he’s had women in this car while he’s been out, ignoring me.
I turn to glare at him again, and if he feels it, he doesn’t show it at all, eyes on the road as he drives out of the city into suburbs I used to know well.
Are we going to my mother’s? What the hell is there that’ll convince me?
But he takes an unfamiliar turn, and I sit there stumped, watching as he finally glances over at me with a grin, one of those panty-dropping ones that has my hormones flaring up.
I got used to steady sex, and now, my vibrator collects dust in my nightstand.
He parks on some random street, and I glance around, confused.
“If you choose to murder me now that my family and friends know you, you’re pretty bad at this,” I say, looking over at him.
He shakes his head and pulls something out of his pocket.
“Wait here,” he tells me before getting out.
He shuts the door behind him, and then I’m sitting in silence as I watch him walk up to the front door of one of the houses.
It’s beautiful, the Victorian style making me sigh at its charm.
The brick exterior feels like it’s a piece of the city, those brownstones always feeling so homey and appealing to me.
He enters, and while I’m curious about where we are and who’s inside, I’m equally as curious about this car. Is it a rental? I pull open the center console, but there are only a few mints inside.
Need fresh breath for all your dates? I slam it shut and look at the house before glancing at the back seat.
There, in all its glory, is a car seat, installed and ready to go.
What the ? —
The passenger door opens, and I clutch my chest, scared nearly to death.
“Jeez—”
“You okay?” he asks, grabbing my hand as I take a few even breaths.
“Why would you scare me like that? You want me to go into labor?” I grab the door, pulling my hand out of his so I can get out of the car. I feel like a damn roly-poly.
He takes my hand, undeterred by my bullshit as he leads me through the snow.
“Whose house is this?” I hiss as we approach the door. He doesn’t answer, and I want to remind him I don’t like people, but he walks ahead of me to pull me through the door.
The first thing I notice is how empty it is. Our footsteps echo, and the empty white walls feel so impersonal. Even with that, though, the space is beautiful. I can hear Christmas music playing somewhere, and I let Quintin pull me through the house as it gets louder.
I gasp as it comes into sight.
While the rest of the house is empty, the living room is fully furnished, complete with a Christmas tree. Gifts seemingly spill from around its base, and the massive fireplace is lit.
“Quintin,” I start as I look over at him, “what is this?”
“Home,” he tells me, a secret smile on his face. “Or it could be. I asked for it to be staged for you to decide if you could see us here.”
Us?
“Us?”
He nods, swallowing as he clasps his hands together. “I made plans, decisions that I took upon myself to make before…before everything changed.”
“Nothing changed,” I remind him. Not how I feel, not what I want.
“For me, they did. I wanted to give you the space to?—”
I shake my head, unwilling to hear that cop out. “No. You were being a little chicken and didn’t want to get hurt if he wanted to be with me and help raise the baby. This had nothing to with space for me to decide. You damn near forced me to tell him.”
By the end, my eyes have filled with tears, and they fall freely as he stands there, knowing I don’t want him to comfort me right now.
“You’re right,” he tells me, his stare unflinching. “You’re right, and I was wrong. I’m sorry. But I was never going to leave you.”
“You already did ,” I cry on a sob. “And now, you’re here to try to sell me a fairytale.”