5. SistersSarah
SISTERS
NATALIA
“P lease be negative. Please be negative. Please, please,” I whisper while staring down at the little piece of plastic in my hand that can determine my future.
“Come on, Nat! We’re going to be late,” Jason shouts from the opposite side of the bathroom door. Irritation flares and I try to squash it down. This isn’t his fault. It’s mine.
“I’ll be out in a minute! My hair isn’t done yet,” I lie. Cool tile kisses my butt as I rest against the base of the bathtub in my two bedroom townhome. Two bedrooms because the second room is an office, not because I’m planning for a kid at forty-five years young.
Especially not with Jason.
I shove that voice aside, too. It sounds eerily similar to my younger sister, Sarah. The last time we hung out at Louie’s bar, she felt the need to question why I’m still involved with a guy after five years with no ring and still living in separate houses.
Unlike Sarah, I’m not on a mission to do everything without a man, like IVF or adoption—not that I don’t absolutely adore my niece, Lauren—but some things are better with a man around, even if I’m not planning to pop any kids of my own out yet.
Or ever. Who has kids in their forties?
“Babe—”
“I’ll be out in a minute, Jason!” I snap, nearly throwing the pregnancy test down in agitation.
Be careful who you have kids with .
God. I press a palm into one of my eyes. Now, that voice sounded like my adoptive mother, who disapproved of every guy I brought home in my twenties. Not that she wasn’t wrong. If there was an award for having the most shitty boyfriends, I’d probably be runner up.
“I’ll wait for you in the car,” Jason yells, feet pounding away from the door in tune with the pulse throbbing in my head.
Okay, he’s not perfect, but he’s better than all the other guys I dated. And he’s not up my ass all of the time. Sometimes I get consumed with work and become unreachable or distant until I’ve closed a case out. Jason never seemed to mind. Sarah’s narrowed green eyes and dark brow cocked flashes in my mind.
Oh, fuck off, sis. At least one of us has gotten laid this month. Come to think of it, I should call her when we get back from the restaurant. She’s bailed one too many times on my invitations to hangout and my big sister radar is flashing signs that trouble is a foot.
Maybe she finally got laid . Right. Dr. Bell finally unwinding, lowering her standards for a guy that doesn’t have a PhD and getting railed. I can’t even picture it, not that I want to imagine my sweet sister pinned under anyone.
Slowly, a single line appears on the stick and I whoop for joy, jumping to my feet, anxiously checking to make sure a second one doesn’t appear. Oh, thank God. No more unprotected sex, I promise.
I’m too old for this shit. Unlike Sarah, who’s tried multiple times to conceive, I’ve been quite content with not getting knocked up and toyed with the idea of getting my tubes tied. Menopause will render that redundant so I’ve put it off.
Either Jason will start wrapping it up or I’m making that appointment. It just felt so final. After tossing the negative pregnancy test in a waste bucket, I walk toward the sink to wash my hands.
You need to be more like Sarah.
Shaking my head as I towel my hands off, I try to exorcize my mother’s voice from my mind. What should’ve been friendly competitions between sisters was fanned into all out sibling rivalry that nearly destroyed any chance of Sarah and I being close enough to consider each other friends. That was then. Our parents are dead, Sarah’s a doctor, and I have a job I love as a social worker.
Walking out of the bathroom and ignoring the pang of loneliness that stirs behind my ribs upon noting Jason truly stuck to his word to wait outside, I pad over to my closet. My hands reach blindly in for the first article of clothing. After five years, Jason stopped complimenting my appearance and I stopped trying to impress him.
My hands smooth down imaginary wrinkles in the backless dress I slip on and I wonder not for the first time, what is my life missing ?
I’m not Sarah. Kids aren’t missing. But maybe someone willing to patiently wait inside the house for me while I get dressed or doesn’t yell through the doors to rush the process. Coily hair like mine takes time to wrangle into something society deems “appropriate”. If only Jason understood that.
I blame the hormones for my morose mood and slip on some heels. If Sarah was here, she’d probably tell me all about my luteal and menstrual phases. She lives for the gynecology shit and I enjoy her ramblings sometimes. It’s soothing to have another woman that knows more about what's going on in my body than I do.
God, I miss her. I make my way out of the bedroom after giving my hair a final once over and make a strict mental note to call my sister. It’s been two months since we hung out. What possibly could have happened in that amount of time that I don’t know about? Dr. Bell lives on routine. If something out of the ordinary happened to my sister, I’d know about it.
* * *
SARAH
Muscles flex and I bite my lip, resisting the urge to rub my thighs together. Oblivious to my ogling, a shirtless Zaiden runs a loving hand down Sheba’s scales, cooing softly at the reptile. My nipples tighten at the gentle whisper carrying across the room. My hormones are running a little haywire and I’m quickly approaching the point of no return.
I just haven’t found the right time or the right words to tell Zaiden I’m pregnant. Maybe I make a sound or maybe a voice whispers to him because he whips his head up and zeros in on me standing in the doorway of what I’ve come to call his “pet room”. My eyes stay focused on him or my skin will crawl from the various enclosures and insects flitting around in them.
The father of my child has a bug problem. He fucking loves them and finds the odd chirping, fluttering of wings and sliding of scales to be soothing. Sometimes, I’ll lead him into this very room if I suspect he’s having an episode or disassociating.
“My Sarah,” he says, lips curling into a wide smile. I return it without stepping further into the room. Instead I lean against the wood door frame and crook a finger at him. He hurries to me, claiming my mouth in a possessive kiss when he reaches me. His mouth swallows my moan as he pins me against the doorframe.
My thigh rises, hooking around his waist to pull him closer. Our mouths part and heavy pants fill the space between our faces.
“Are you alright, my raven? You took the day off?” he asks, running the tip of his nose along my neck. Tingles rise across my skin, goosebumps pebbling. I don’t tell him I called in sick because I had the worst case of morning sickness shortly after he left for his own check-up with Dr. Shaw.
A wry smile twists my lips. It’s still unbelievable that I’m not only on a first name basis with the Dr. Benji Shaw, but I have his number on speed dial and he plays chess once a week in the park with Zaiden. They also walk the trails, enjoying the solitude of nature—or rather, Zaiden enjoys the various insects present—or simply catch up. He always seems more centered when he returns from his visits with Dr. Shaw. The man wields magic on Zaiden’s mind.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I tell him honestly, running my hands down his scarred torso. I’ve memorized every groove and abrasion at this point. A day doesn’t go by where we’re not connected at some point. His body has become as familiar to me as my own. I wouldn’t change a thing, not even his struggles with his mental disorder.
He’s mine, flaws and all. My tongue licks into his mouth and his groan travels straight to my core which clenches on air.
“Sarah,” he growls, grip tightening around my neck. He’s naturally submissive but my body tightens with expectation when he seizes control. I don’t want sweet Dayton, who looks at me with complete adoration while I perform the most mundane tasks. I want Zaiden, who stares at me with ownership blazing in his eyes as his cock wrecks me.
Right now, I want to be owned. I want my body aching with reminders tomorrow of who I belong to.
“Fuck me, Zaiden. Make me feel better,” I murmur against his lips. A mewl leaves me when he hefts me in his arms before slamming me back into the wall. My back complains but my legs tighten around his waist, hips grinding against the hardening cock in his pants.
“Mine,” he growls and my pussy weeps in response. Yes, I’m yours . It’s the last coherent thought I have before Zaiden marches us from the doorway of his “pet room” and walks us to our bedroom a couple of feet down the hall.