Chapter 5
FIVE
“I can’t pee with you staring at me,” I grind out, having sat on the toilet for a full minute, unable to go.
She rolls her eyes from her place in the doorway of my bathroom, munching on chips from the bag of snacks she brought with her. The black plastic bag from the gas station is full of tests and random snacks that look like they all collected dust on the shelves.
“Well, you’d better get used to people seeing your pussy,” Santana mutters as she turns to walk out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. “You’re about to be spread eagle in front of a room full of strangers. I hear you might even shit yourself.”
My exhale is loud as I glare at the open door she exited from. If she hadn’t been the one to bring over five different pregnancy tests, I’d tell her to take her ass back home.
“We don’t know anything for sure,” I call out, my hands shaking as I finish. The tests are lined up on the counter, and I’m washing my hands when she walks back in. She moseys on over, peeking at them, and I try not to watch her reflection for any reaction. It’s too soon anyway.
“It takes three minutes,” I remind her, but when I catch sight of her raised brows, my heart takes off, beating double time yet again. “What? What is it?”
“Three minutes, my ass,” she mutters, the bag of chips still in her hands as she munches away. “More like three seconds.”
I move to stand next to her, and when I see two lines on the test closest to me, one faint and one dark, life stops. I’m stuck, paralyzed.
“Does it matter if it’s light like that?” she asks, her voice soft beside me. I almost don’t hear her over my inner panic. My heartbeat thumps in my ears, like someone hooked it up to a huge speaker, and it’s currently playing on repeat.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could crawl inside myself and hide. But I can’t do that. Hell, according to these tests, someone else is already fucking hiding in there.
“I’m not less pregnant, if that’s what you mean,” I mumble, watching as the line gets darker right before our very eyes anyway. “What the fuck?”
“Do you know…”
I nod. “Well, technically, I know who he is, but I don’t remember his name. I don’t know how to find him.” Defeat fills me as the entirety of this fucked-up situation barrels into me.
I’m pregnant by a stranger, and I have no idea how to find him.
“Bitch…” Santana whispers, drawing the word out.
“I know.”
“So, what are we doing? Clinic or keeping?”
I want to tell her to stop with the fucking questions, to maybe let me breathe before I have to figure shit out. Instead, I take a deep breath, letting the air sit inside me before releasing it and praying for clarity.
“Can I have more than five minutes to think about it?”
I’m not sure an abortion is even possible at this point. Is it?
“Any more than that, and you start losing your options,” she reminds me.
I stare down at the tests as they all start to turn positive.
I’m positively pregnant.
Or negatively pregnant, if we take my feelings into account.
The sound of her crunching on a potato chip has me yanking the bag from her grip and tossing it away from us.
She’s quiet, but I catch the way her eyes widen and lips purse in the mirror. Maybe I am being a bit of a bitch, but I think, at least in this moment, I’m allowed it.
“What the fuck am I gonna do?” I wonder aloud. Abortion, adoption, keeping it… All these situations come with consequences. Even though this entire situation is a consequence, I find myself wondering which path will make it easiest to live with myself.
I allow my mind to wander, painting futures with each option, already feeling the deep sting of regret at the thought of ending this pregnancy.
I’ve never minded too much being alone. There are little moments here and there that sting, but they ultimately subside. In this moment, I somehow feel less alone, but I can’t rely on feelings wrapped in moments to propel me to the right decision. I need to include logic.
Still…
“I always wanted children,” I whisper, unable to tell Santana exactly what I’m thinking.
“And you can have them,” she tells me, her words soft, her eyes wide. “With someone who loves you. I don’t know if you want to do this parenting thing alone, Dani.”
It isn’t ideal. Which is why I’ve always practiced safe sex, but the universe had other plans. What did I do to deserve this?
“You don’t think I can?” I ask, my words wavering with unvoiced uncertainty. I’m not sure if I can either.
“I know you can,” she assures me, her hand reaching for mine. I grasp it, tighter than I likely should. “But I want a softer life for you. I came from that. I know what it looks like.”
“Things are different now,” I try to reason, even as she begins to shake her head. Santana is too realistic to let me lie to myself.
“Dani, be real. You’re on the cusp of major professional success, you’re single and living on your own terms. You’ve never even had a pet, let alone the desire to take care of another living thing.
All of that aside, even with all the success in the world, people will still look at you like another sad Latina who couldn’t keep her legs closed.
Who couldn’t get her baby daddy to stick around long enough to sign the birth certificate. ”
She isn’t wrong. Because for every feminist movement, for every woke man who stands up for women’s rights, female minorities still aren’t afforded the same grace as our less melanated peers.
We are ghetto, unsavory, and tainted once we have children out of wedlock and without a man in the picture, no matter how successful we are.
As if to drive her point home, Santana adds, “You know the image. We’re only good for fucking or cleaning and cooking as it is.”
My eyes water, and I hate that the knowledge burns deep within me. Latinas are sexual beings or we’re the help. Trying to break the shackles of those stereotypes does not include having a baby by myself that is the result of a one-night stand.
“Everything you’re telling me, I know.” I swipe the tear before it can reach my chin. “But I also know me. If I get rid of it, it will kill me.”
Santana nods, her eyes unflinching and her jaw set as we stare at each other’s reflections: two women currently in drastically different places in our lives, coming from similar upbringings.
I’ve known Santana since I was a teenager.
I lost my virginity the same day she did.
We went to college together, and I watched her become the powerful attorney she is now.
I never thought, after all the hard work we’ve done to keep from being a statistic, that I would end up becoming one.
“Just promise me you’ll think before you commit to a decision. And no matter what you decide, I’m here,” she murmurs.
She gives my hand one last squeeze, and I hold on tight until my tears turn her reflection into a blur of colors.
Is that a woman’s voice?
It’s late, later than I would normally be up on a weeknight, but I can’t sleep. Of course, I can’t after that fucking atom bomb of news decimated my life as I know it.
If I had to hear Santana ask me if I was okay one more time, I was going to lose my shit. She’s been gone a few hours now, and I’ve been sitting in silence since.
But someone of the feminine variety is talking outside my apartment door, and I’m too nosey not to get up and look.
Because what if she’s with Quintin?
That is none of your business, bitch.
But I can still check.
I rush to tiptoe to the door, trying to make sure I skip the parts of my hardwood floor that creak under my weight. These sizeist floors better get used to it. I might be gaining even more weight soon.
I line up my right eye with the peephole just in time to see someone pass my door.
Someone with a short, dark ponytail stops short just when she’s about to be out of view and takes two steps back.
I can’t see her well, but she’s in a dark-green parka, and I can just make out the black Doc Martens on her feet.
“Is this the one?” she asks, her thumb jerking toward my door.
“Nah, next one,” I hear a familiar voice say, and my heart pounds as he comes into view. He doesn’t look in my direction, and I have to fight the urge to open the door. Because why would I? What would I even say?
She glances at my door, and she’s beautiful, artsy-looking like Quintin, with a hoop in her nose and black winged liner.
She looks like what I would imagine his type to be.
“Is this…” The woman’s voice trails off, and I damn near plaster myself to the door to try to hear her. “This is her place?”
Her.
She…knows about me?
I mean, there’s nothing to know but…
My heart pounds as he doesn’t answer, placing his hand on her elbow to lead her away. I hold my breath, wondering why the fuck I feel like this, my pulse thumping like I ran a lap around my apartment.
Are heightened emotions a part of pregnancy? Because I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of them.
He doesn’t say another word, but I catch the way he looks at my door at the very last second. I grab it like a life preserver—or a dumb little girl with a crush on the popular boy who happened to look my way.
What the fuck is a look doing to me?
A few moments later, and his front door is opening and shutting. I finally allow myself to step away, thoroughly embarrassed by my behavior.
What am I doing?
I just found out I’m pregnant, so any possible flirtation with this man who resides in my building has officially been extinguished.
I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do, remain the ever-constant professional and ask Paula who else I can get to cater this event so I don’t have to wade through this thick-ass sexual tension.
I tilt my head.
Should I masturbate tonight?
Probably. But now that I know I’m pregnant, I can’t help feeling not as alone. Like the baby can hear me diddling with myself, or the vibration of the sex toy will somehow scramble their little brain.
I don’t even know if I’m keeping the damn baby, but just in case, I’d rather be safe than sorry.
My motto in life.
But I was safe, and now, I’m just sorry.
Just a sad, sorry woman stalking her neighbor, trying not to listen for potential sex sounds. Apparently, if I’m not getting dicked down, no one else can.
But it’s silent next door, save for the odd murmur of voices.
Would it be creepy to stay up and see if she sleeps over?
Yes.
Am I tempted?
Yes.
Am I going to do it?
Probably.
But I’ll give myself a fighting chance for dignity’s sake. I’d like to be able to look at myself in the morning. I turn on my television and search through the options before landing on an animal documentary.
Boring but informative.
About an hour later, I’m still awake, sobbing over the mama lion whose cub was eaten. What the fuck am I doing to myself?
I hear what sounds like Quintin’s door opening, and I don’t waste any time rushing over like a weirdo to see what’s going on.
I can’t see them out of the peephole, but I can almost make out what he’s saying. Something about servers.
“Yes, I know,” she says as she walks into my line of sight. “Don’t bore me with the details.”
She’s zipping up her parka, and when she glances at my door, I see her smirk, her light eyes sparkling.
“Don’t give up, Q,” she whisper-yells, and I press my lips together, my brows furrowing. Because she can’t mean… There’s no way… “Goodnight!”
She’s walking away when she suddenly jumps toward my door and knocks on it three times. My heart hits my feet, and I duck and roll away, sure I probably look as dumb as I feel.
I hear what I can only assume is Quintin calling out, and then complete silence.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself, placing my hand over my heart. “What the fuck was that?”
Odd behavior, but…who am I to judge? I can officially blame the hormones, but still.
I’m lusting after my neighbor while I’m knocked up with a stranger’s baby.
Talk about stranger danger.