Chapter Six
Zadie
Two fuzzy pink lines assaulted my vision. The longer I stared, the fuzzier they became. No, wait…that was just my eyes losing focus.
I blinked.
But they were still there. Squinting changed nothing. No matter how hard I concentrated, two pink lines still stared back at me. The symbol created by their intersection was unmistakable.
A plus sign equaled positive. Baby on fucking board.
I’d done the math in my head, on my fingers, once on my toes, and I’d looked at the calendar on my phone repeatedly. Still, I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
How was it possible that I’d been a walking, talking, human incubator and not known? Although looking back, it should have been obvious. I had all the standard symptoms. The mood swings. The lethargy. The sensitive, aching boobs.
And to think, if Chantel hadn’t stuck the test kit in my hand, I’d have carried on in blissful ignorance. How many periods would I have missed before it registered? How much weight could I have gained before I realized it wasn’t just the carbs?
Oh God. I might have narrowly avoided becoming one of those women who gave birth on a public toilet.
My hands were shaking so hard, the stupid pink plus sign looked like a moving target. My entire body vibrated with nervous energy. Despite the wobble in my legs, I drifted to the living room where Chantel was waiting with her feet propped, watching television.
“Well? You knocked up or what?” she quipped between bites of her apple.
“How did you know? You knew.” I waved the positive pee stick at her. “But how did you know?”
“I could just tell.”
I shook my head, still uncertain I trusted it, even with the evidence staring me in the face. “But I couldn’t tell, so how could you?”
“You, my friend, were in what we professionals like to call really big denial. Sorry, but I couldn’t stand the excuses any longer. Time to face the music.”
“But I don’t want to face the music. I don’t think I like this song.” I crossed my arms and pouted like a toddler.
Was this a normal reaction to pregnancy?
“I know, cocotte, but I’m here to sing it with you, and I can call some backup dancers if you want.” Her sincerity rang through, despite her sarcasm.
“Yes. Wait, I’m confused. You mean cry, right? Because the only backup dancers I want are Ben and Jerry, and you have a terrible singing voice. I don’t need any more trauma.”
“I do not. But if it makes you feel better, you can sing, cry, or curse. Or we could write a nasty letter to Trojan and then make a voodoo doll of Sean. Whatever it takes.” She patted the spot on the couch beside her, silently urging me to take a seat.
But I couldn’t seem to stop my nervous pacing. Not when her words dragged up the memory of the last time Sean and I had sex. Him pinning me to the bed. His brutal aggression. My sticky thighs.
“There was no condom,” I mused, like it was a fucking revelation. That awful moment—my shameful silence, unable to stand up for myself, to say no—and this was the result.
“Birth control?”
Fuck. “No,” I whispered, unable to find enough air to form more words. It felt like a vacuum was sucking all the oxygen from the room.
Were the walls closing in?
My eyes welled, blurring my vision, but it made no difference because blinding stupidity had already taken hold of me.
How had I not seen this coming? How many times could I run into the same wall before I learned my lesson that it hurt?
The wall hadn’t changed the way it looked.
It was still the same shade of perfect, store-bought prettiness.
The wall didn’t change its name or even try to hide the fact that it was still the same fucking wall.
Nope. I was just a na?ve idiot who couldn’t see the wall until I walked face first into it.
“Well then…” Chantel sighed. “I guess ice cream sounds about right. I can throw in a fried pickle or something, if you want. I hear pregnant chicks like that sort of thing.”
Thank God for my best friend. She understood my need to make light of this. She knew it was okay to crack jokes. Otherwise, I might fall apart into uncontrollable sobbing.
“Chantel, I’ve barely got things on track on here. I just started school and my job. And Sean? Fuck, I just got rid of him. I don’t want to let him infiltrate my life all over again.”
“He’s not going to.” Her voice shifted to stern doctor mode, and her face followed suit. “This baby, no matter what you decide to do about it, has nothing to do with him. You will decide what’s right for you, and he will live with the consequences.”
She sounded convincing, and I so badly wanted to be convinced. The thought of Sean coming back into my life, for any reason, spiked my blood pressure.
He was a filthy, lying, no good…father of my unborn child.
There was no question about the paternity. From the very first back-alley interlude, there’d been no one else. Right now, I kind of wished I wasn’t so hellbent on monogamy—anything to make it possible the baby belonged to someone else.
My entire body shook, each breath more ragged than the last.
“Zadie! Are you hyperventilating?” Chantel scowled at me. “Get your ass over here and sit down.”
I dropped on the cushion beside her and forced myself to calm.
“Listen to me.” Her hand landed on my knee. “Sean is not coming back.”
Her assurance should have helped. Instead, doubt crept in like a reflex.
“But shouldn’t I want him to come back?” Even the words tasted shameful. “Chantel, I’m having his baby. What kind of mother am I going to be if I can’t even stand the thought of my child’s father?”
And there it was. My mother's lesson, still whispering in the back of my head, telling me I was nothing without a man. That wanting one gone made me broken instead of smart.
“You will be the best damn mother. If you want it, you’ll make it happen.” Her grip on my knee loosened, and she stroked reassuring circles there instead.
“How? I don’t know what being a good parent looks like. You know I grew up with two terrible examples.”
“Mon dieu, give me a break.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to hear any more of this woe-is-me crap. You won’t make the mistakes your parents did, and you will not let Sean turn you inside out again. You can do this.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m good. It’ll be good, right?” I wasn’t convincing anyone, certainly not my limbs, which felt like rubber.
“Calm your tits, cocotte. Everything will be good.” Her voice wavered and she pulled away.
But Chantel was the queen of speaking her mind. She never stumbled over what to say. Or how to say it.
The contents of my stomach rolled. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You’ll be good. But there’s something we should talk about.” She hesitated again, putting me further on edge. “Now might not be the best time.”
“Seriously? What could be worse than me being knocked up by my deadbeat ex?” Every horrible possibility flashed through my head at once. “Please, tell me you’re not dying.”
“What? No. No, nothing that serious, don’t worry.” Her laughter was stiff. “It’s not that big a deal. It can wait.”
“Okay, good.” I let out a shaky breath.
Chantel had taken me in without hesitation. Opened her home, her fridge, her life. And I trusted her with mine. But I didn’t believe her. Something was off, and I could feel it, but right now I simply couldn’t handle anything else.
As I stared back at the disgusting pink lines, I let myself run through my next steps. I wanted to spill all my secret fears to Chantel. The fear of not being as capable as I seemed. The fear that my habitual bad choices would make it impossible to raise a child on my own. The fear of being alone.
But underneath all of that, a quieter thought pushed through. Ridiculous and impossible. Completely irrational.
What if Sean wasn’t the father?
My brain did the math again. Sean was the last person I’d slept with. The only person I’d slept with in over a year. There was no scenario in which the math pointed anywhere else.
But my stupid, reckless heart didn’t care about math. It kept circling back to a dark-haired guy with blue eyes and a wicked smile. The one I’d kissed at a party and couldn’t stop thinking about.
If I’d actually slept with Caleb that night… If there was even the slightest chance…
There wasn’t. I knew there wasn’t. Chantel had been adamant. But for one wild, hopeful, devastating second, I wished it could’ve been him.
I crushed the thought before it could take root.
“I don’t know if I’m equipped to handle this,” I admitted.
“Cocotte, you can do anything. You’re strong. You’re smart. You’ve got this.”
She was right.
I’d made it through a childhood filled with trauma, survived having my heart broken more times than I could count, and learned to rebound with flair. My life wasn’t perfect, but I still woke up with a smile most days.
A baby wouldn’t be that horrible, right?
Looking back at the pretty pink of the test stick, reality finally caught up.
I’m having a baby.
A strange sensation hit me. It was like the undertow of a powerful wave, but instead of pulling me under, it felt like it was pushing me up.
That crazy-ass hope was blooming bright and clear. This time, it wasn’t lurking in a dark corner, waiting to attach itself to the first sign of light. No, this time, hope had grown out of nothing at all and created a light all its own.
It was flashy and golden. Hard to ignore.
But I turned my back on it anyway, because I just wasn’t ready.