13. Laila
13
LAILA
“I thought I threw those away already.”
The admittedly beautiful bouquet is in a gorgeous crystal vase Arsen gifted me sometime during the second trimester. Before I can put the “gift” where it belongs, Mom thrusts a thin arm out to stop me. “You did, but I saved them from the trash. I like them.”
“You like bribes?” I arch a brow. “You like looking at meaningless gifts from a man who can’t be bothered to show up unless he wants something from you?”
It’s not lost on me that the crystal vase was also a kind of bribe, but at least Arsen’s bribes have a high resale value. The flowers my father sent are worthless and, therefore, goners.
Mom sighs, but she doesn’t argue as I rip the lilies out of the vase a second time and fling the dripping bouquet through the open window.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says once my breathing has evened out. Being eight months pregnant means just looking at my toes leaves me winded. “He’s trying to make amends.”
“You know what’s dramatic? Leaving your wife and daughter because you couldn’t deal with their hideous disfigurements—now, that is dramatic. And that ,” I say, jabbing a finger towards the window, “was a lazy attempt to get back in our good graces so he can steal what little money we have to our names.”
“They’re just flowers.”
“There is no such thing as ‘just’ anything with him, Mom. Dad can’t be trusted.” Pain shoots down my leg. Wincing, I plop down on the edge of her bed. “He left us high and dry after the accident. All because ‘he couldn’t deal with it.’ The rehabilitation, the doctor’s appointments, the therapy sessions—it was all ‘too much for him . ’ But he wasn’t even in that car with us!”
“I understand why you’re angry.”
“What I don’t understand is why you aren’t.” I work my thumb into my hip and thigh, trying to push out some of the pain that has only gotten worse the more I resemble a watermelon on stilts. “How can you defend him?”
“I’m not defending him; I’m defending the version of me that chose him. That loved him.”
“Do you still have feelings for him?” I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to. Her answer will determine if I have to ask Dominik to direct all future flower deliveries straight to the garbage.
We can’t afford for my dad to weasel his way back into our lives now.
She screws up her face and swats at my arm. For the first time in weeks—months, even—Mom looks like herself. “Of course not! That part is over and done with. But I think he’s looking for some closure and… well, maybe I wouldn’t mind some as well.”
“Divorcing him was closure enough,” I mutter.
She smiles, but it’s tight. Maybe I should’ve left the damned flowers alone.
Before I can apologize, Mom proves she will always be the bigger person—emotionally, that is, because, again, I’m watermelon-shaped. “I’m sorry about putting the flowers out, Laila. I’ve just always loved lilies.”
I hear what she isn’t saying. He remembers how much I love lilies.
For one second, I understand perfectly. Once upon a time, my mom had someone who knew her favorite flowers and her favorite color. Someone who knew her order when they went out to eat. Someone who could guess what she was going to say before she even said it.
I’ve never had that, but I’m sure it’s a hard thing to give up.
Hell, just the promise of it can be hard to let go of. I know firsthand.
“Then I’ll buy you lilies.” I stand up, shaking off the sudden storm cloud forming over my head. “We don’t need anything from him.”
Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then I grab my stomach and gasp. Mom’s eyes flicker to my stomach where my daughter is busy kicking up a storm.
No. His daughter. His baby.
The baby that I will give up in a month and never see again.
Not “mine.”
Mom frowns, and she looks older than I’ve ever seen her. “How are you doing?”
“I’m great,” I claim with fake cheer. “Couldn’t be better.”
“It would be normal if you were having some doubts.”
“Doubts about what?” I shrug. “I picked a wonderful couple for this baby. She’s going to have a great life.”
That’s what I’ve been telling myself, at least. At night, when the doubts creep in and I consider running like mad and starting over, just me and the little jumping bean in my belly, I tell myself that she’ll be happier with Arsen and his wife. In his world.
Mom reaches for my hand. “Laila, I’m worried you’re?—”
“Your hands are cold.” I drop her hand and pull her blanket up to her shoulders. “Why don’t you nap for a bit?”
I can tell she wants to argue, but she really is tired. If I didn’t know the cause, I’d be grateful for the quick eject from this conversation. As it is, she naps more than she’s awake these days, and I know our time is running out.
I settle her in bed. By the time I turn off the lights, her eyes are already slipping closed. I make my way through the quiet house and straight out the backdoor.
There’s a tree along the back fence with branches that stretch across most of the lawn. It’s quickly become my favorite part of my new home.
I used to settle cross-legged against the trunk, but that’s out of the question these days. If I get all the way to the ground, there’s zero chance I’m getting back up. Instead, I sit on a bench Dominik had brought in for me and stare at the house I earned at the cost of my child.
I told my mom I was putting the baby up for adoption because it felt like a half-truth, but the closer I get to my due date, the more I have to reckon with the rest of it.
I’m not giving my baby up for adoption—I’m selling my child.
Maybe I’ve been too hard on my dad all these years. Sure, he abandoned me and Mom when shit got hard, but I’m not exactly in the running for any parenting trophies, either.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Dominik appears out of nowhere, the way he always does. I swear he lurks in the lower branches of the trees, waiting to drop silently down next to me.
“You’re gonna have to cough up more than a penny if you wanna hear my thoughts.”
He reaches behind his back. “How about a?—”
“If it’s another present from him, don’t bother,” I snap. “I’m not interested.”
“It’s a cupcake. And it’s not from Arsen; it’s from Nina’s Deli.” He waves the strawberry cupcake under my nose. “I also happen to know it’s your favorite flavor.”
I snatch it out of his hand. “Thanks, Dom.”
He lets me enjoy one singular bite before diving into my sad state of affairs. “How was your mom’s appointment today?”
“There’s nothing more the doctors can do for her.” I practiced saying it in the mirror earlier, but tears still fill my eyes. I rub them away angrily.
“They really said that?”
“According to the fancy doctors Arsen claimed were the ‘best in the country,’ the most anyone can do now is keep her comfortable.” The cupcake, so sweet at first, now tastes like sand in my mouth, and I drop it into my lap. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Dominik exhales softly. “I’m so damn sorry, Laila.”
“It’s a weird feeling, knowing I’ll be all alone soon.” I thread my fingers together, and my hands are cold now just like Mom’s were. “My dad is a waste of space, my mom will be gone in six to eight months, and even my baby will—” I clear my throat and rephrase. “He’ll take his baby, and it’ll just be me.”
Dominik opens his mouth, but I stop him.
“Don’t. Lying makes it worse.”
We lapse into a long, easy silence. I was resistant at first, but Dominik really has become a friend. I don’t say it, but I’ll miss him, too.
“Dom?” I ask. He turns to me, his glassy eyes suggesting that he’s somewhere else. I place a hand on my belly. “Do you think he’ll be a good father?”
“I don’t have to lie about that at all,” he says, laying a hand over mine and patting gently. “She’ll want for nothing, Laila. He’ll protect her with his life.”
We don’t say much after that.
Once it’s dark, Dom walks me back to the house, though he doesn’t come in.
All I did today was go to my mom’s appointment, but I roll into bed feeling more exhausted than I can remember. I reach for the pregnancy pillow that appeared in my bed a few months ago without so much as a note to explain where it came from and tuck it close.
When things get bleak—as they so often do these days—I may or may not wrap the pillow around me and pretend I’m being held by a man. A man who doesn’t lie or leave or ask for anything except to hold me.
What can I say? My most successful relationships have been with inanimate objects.
I consider it a sign of personal growth that I didn’t name this one.
Even if I had the energy to pull Seth out of the drawer and rekindle things, everything about the cheap little vibrator reminds me of Arsen. I can’t touch myself without imagining Arsen’s hand on my skin, his lips between my legs, his voice in my ear.
I hook a leg over my pregnancy pillow—another thing that reminds me of Arsen, since he’s the one who gave me the damn thing. I would’ve thrown it out the window, too, if it wasn’t so comfortable. Now that I’m a human-shaped planet, comfort is something I can’t afford to throw away.
It’s not even the pillow’s fault, really. I can’t be alone without thinking about Arsen… seeing his face in my mind.
I roll over to look out the window. The curtains are still open, and I can see the dim reflection of my new room against the dark glass.
Tears fill my eyes, the loneliness of the day finally too much to keep at bay. And as my vision blurs, I swear I see his green gaze in the glass.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but then there’s a knock. A soft tap-tap-tap against the glass.
I open my eyes, and he’s still there.
But this time, he’s looking back.
“Arsen.”