Chapter 9
Alyssia
How the hell did I get into this mess?
I try to untangle the strings of the mess that’s become my life on the drive across the Brooklyn Bridge to my apartment.
In my fingers I fidget with the bag holding the prenatal vitamins along with the discharge papers from the hospital.
Suspected subchorionic hematoma.
That’s what the emergency room doctor put on my chart with a strong recommendation to make an appointment with my OB-GYN as soon as possible to get an ultrasound to confirm diagnosis.
Another glance over to my left finds Travis staring straight ahead, jaw rigid, body tense as we ride in the back of his chauffeured vehicle.
I owe him an explanation. Something more than I’ve been able to give him, but I’m barely able to use full sentences.
Ever since a simple visit to the bathroom had me staring down at the droplets of reddish-brown blood on the seam of my panties sent me into a frenzy of uncertainty, I haven’t been able to think straight let alone articulate my thoughts.
But he deserves an explanation.
“We’re here, Mr. Townsend,” the driver says after coming to a stop in front of my apartment building.
“Don’t move,” Travis’ low but firm command stops my hand midway to the door handle.
Before I turn and ask him anything, he’s out of the car and coming around to my side, opening the door for me.
“Take my hand.” Another order that I somehow find myself obeying when I lay my hand in his, allowing him to help me up.
A piece of me wants to tell him I don’t need the assistance. Under normal circumstances, I would tell him off for trying to tell me what to do.
But my fiercely independent streak has chosen to abandon me at the moment.
I expect cold stiffness or even a harsh grip the second I place my hand into Travis’, but I get the exact opposite. His hold is firm yet gentle while at the same time being supportive, strong.
As if he’s telling me without words, if I wanted, I could lean on him and he’d have no problem holding me.
That’s just my imagination.
This man doesn’t know me, nor do I know him.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m coming up,” he insists without hesitation.
“It’s a fifth floor walkup,” I reply.
His eyes narrow, lips forming a frown.
He doesn’t like that for some reason. Probably because it doesn’t meet his high-priced, tailored tuxedo and shined to perfection shoes wearing standards.
I try to pull my hand from his, but Travis’ hold is firm. Not until we make it into my building and start for the stairs does he let my hand go. I suspect it’s only because there’s no way for two people to fit side by side on this narrow staircase.
Instead, he places his hand at the small of my back, as if holding me up.
When I glance behind me, I catch him examining the wooden banister, marble laminated stairs, and horrifically ugly tile patterned landing with a slight disdain on his too handsome face.
I never loved this building either, but seeing him look down on it makes me roll my eyes as I continue up the stairs.
We don’t exchange words as he follows me into my apartment, shutting the door behind him.
Again, Travis’ gaze sweeps the span of my comfortable, two-bedroom apartment. His gaze pauses on the foldable desk and chair that now sits empty ever since I had to turn my work laptop in.
His expression remains neutral but his eyes read unimpressed.
Silence greets us both, indicating my roommate is either out for the night or asleep.
“My roommate might be home,” I tell him quietly.
“Where’s your room?”
I gesture down the narrow hallway toward the closed door on the right-hand side. Travis takes my elbow, directing me toward the room.
“The doctor said you need to stay off your feet for a few days.”
Travis flicks on the light of my bedroom. Thankfully, I keep my space neat and make my bed every morning. I glance down at the opened notebook that sits on the nightstand beside my bed.
The moment I reach it, I flip it closed and stuff it away in the top drawer of the stand. This morning’s gratitude list doesn’t need to be on display right now.
“Sit.” Travis juts his head toward the bed.
I tell myself I’m obliging only because I’m following the doctor’s recommendations, not Travis’.
The moment my butt hits the mattress, Travis surprises me, lifting my legs onto his lap so that I’m forced to lie back against the metal headboard. He removes the ugly, three-inch heeled, black shoes I wear for my catering job and instantly starts massaging the insoles of my feet.
My breathing stutters, and I have to pinch my lips together to trap a moan.
Why is he torturing me like this?
“You shouldn’t have been on your feet all night,” he says, his voice rigid with pent-up anger or frustration or both.
My eyes pop open, strange since I don’t remember closing them.
“Travis—”
“How long have you known?”
His question startles me, and whatever I’d been about to say fades away.
“What?”
“About the pregnancy. How long have you known?”
He turns those seafoam eyes on me and words become difficult to push through my lips. The whole time his hands don’t stop massaging my feet.
“Almost four weeks,” I admit.
“And you’re eight weeks pregnant,” he says, not asks.
I clear my throat.
He never breaks eye contact and neither do his hands break their rhythm on my feet.
“If you’re asking whether or not—”
“I had time while in that waiting room,” he says, talking over me. “Time to work out exactly how many weeks ago I was in Vegas.” He pauses, then asks. “Where were you eight weeks ago, Alyssia?”
My heartbeat knocks against my ribcage, and I finally realize it does this whenever he says my name.
“Las Vegas.”
“Wrong.”
I jut my head back at his reply. Oh goodness, is he about to deny that this is his baby? Of course he is. What man in his right mind wouldn’t question it? He doesn’t know me from a doorknob.
Heat floods my cheeks in embarrassment before Travis says, “You were in my bed.”
Those words put an end to my thought spiral.
“Excuse me?”
“You were with me eight weeks ago. I remember every single detail of that night. Including the moment the condom broke on our third go-round.”
My mouth falls open, and I don’t know if it’s from the casual way he says all of this or if it has to do with the fact that I do actually believe he remembers it all.
“I also recall that a broken condom didn’t stop either one of us.”
Shit.
He’s right.
I, too, remember how my annoyance at him not being there that morning when I woke up remained with me.
So much so, that instead of going directly to find a pharmacy to get a morning after pill, I quickly packed up my room, checkout of my hotel and checked-in early to my new hotel just to get away from him.
That coupled with the activities Kandace and I scheduled, and I stuffed down any and all memory of my night with Travis.
I inhale a deep breath, closing my eyes for a beat before allowing myself to face him.
His stare is unwavering.
“This is my baby, right.” He has an uncanny way of posing sentences that should be questions as mere statements of fact.
As if he doesn’t have any doubt as to what he’s saying. That total confidence and assurance is part of what I found so intoxicating in Vegas.
Right now, it’s overwhelming.
“Look.” I sit up straighter and draw my legs out of his grip and to sit in a crisscross position. “You probably have no reason to believe anything I say. I mean, we both had no intention of allowing what happened in Vegas to go any further. But …”
“Didn’t we?” He cocks his head to the side, his unwavering gaze on me.
I blink, and then blink again at the question. There’s no hint of a smile, smirk, or even a grin on those bow lips. No joking in his voice either.
He’s playing you.
Then I remember what I overheard earlier tonight. Before he rushed me to the hospital. The part about him only having room in his life for a championship.
Which reminds me of what he does for a living.
Travis and I could never be, that’s a given.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I tell him, my voice growing stronger because I know I need to lay down my cards. “Yes, I’m pregnant. And yes, it is your baby. Now …” I hold up my hand when he tries to speak.
“Let me say this. You have no reason to believe me. We met for one night and I gave it up after a couple of jokes in the elevator and some great calamari, but the truth is, this is your child. I haven’t been with anyone for a while before or since.
“And this baby …”
I try to continue but nothing else comes out. The words ‘you're free to live your life without worrying or thinking about me or this baby’ refuse to come out.
“What do you want?” he asks in the face of my silence.
That wasn’t what I’d been expecting either.
The question sends me back against the headboard again, contemplating. For the past few weeks, I’ve asked myself this same question over and over again. Even as I sat in my doctor’s office, her confirming the results of my pregnancy test.
She’d gone down the list of options but I couldn’t think straight.
After finding out the biggest news of my life, coupled with losing my job, I was in a state of numbness.
But now, tonight after seeing those droplets of blood in the bathroom and the horrific fear over what it could mean.
My hands move to my stomach.
A family.
That’s what I want.
“This baby,” I answer, clearing my throat and lifting my chin. “I want this baby.” My answer is firm and for the first time since finding out, there’s not a doubt in my mind.
Fear? Yes.
Uncertainty? Most definitely.
But no doubt. Not about the life growing inside of me.
Everything else is a mystery though.
“Listen, for all I know you could have a girlfriend or—”
“I’m single,” Travis says, not allowing me to finish.
“I’ll take your word for it. In any case, the last thing you want to deal with is becoming a father.”
“And you get to make that decision for me?” he asks, his voice deepening.
“You said it yourself. Earlier tonight,” I remind him.
“You’re busy trying to win a championship or something,” I say.
Awareness blooms in the line of his forehead.
“I’d pretty much assumed we’d never see each other again, and it’s not like I was planning to make you a part of this whole thing. That said …”
I press my hands to my belly again.
“You’re off the hook. I won’t come after you for child support or anything. If you want, I can have a lawyer draw up papers relinquishing your paternal rights …”
I trail off the moment Travis’s eyes darken.
With measured movements he rises from my bed, never breaking eye contact. The air between us swirls with an added layer of discord.
Something I’ve said has caused tension to enter in the set of his shoulders.
He doesn’t speak for a long while as his shadow looms over me.
Everything in me wants to shrink back, away from that look that I can’t put into words. But this is my apartment and we’re discussing my body, my life, and the life growing inside of me.
I won’t back down even if my words bruise his ego a little bit. In the end, he’ll likely walk away because me and this baby will cramp Travis’ style.
“I’m going to say this one time,” he finally speaks.
“We don’t know each other. That much is true, because if you did know me at all, you’d know there is no scenario on this Earth in which I’d allow you to be pregnant with my child, and I’m not there every step of the way.”
He moves closer.
After opening and closing my mouth a few times, I reply, “Given your lifestyle,” as an athlete, nonetheless, “you probably don’t have time.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Here’s lesson number one about me,” he replies. “I don’t like when other people make judgements about what I can or can’t do.”
“That’s easier said than done,” I throw back.
“If I say it, then it’s as good as done. I’m in this now,” he asserts before leaning in, taking my chin into his hand.
Staring into those eyes that threaten to steal away all of my common sense, I swear I feel a nudging inside of my chest. Something that’s been locked up tight for years begins to loosen, expand.
“Now, tell me why at eight weeks pregnant you were working on your feet all night.”