18. TRUTH #3
“Fuck the contract.” His voice was firm, final. “This stopped being about a contract a long time ago if we’re being honest. You need something, you call me. You’re scared, you call me. You’re hungry at three AM, you call me. Understood?”
I stared at him. At the intensity in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Understood,” I whispered.
“Good.”
He opened the car door for me, and I climbed in. The drive back to Mama’s house was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet than before. Comfortable. Settled. Like something between us had shifted and locked into place.
Mama was on the porch when we pulled up, exactly where I’d left her. She stood as Amai parked, her eyes sharp and assessing as we got out of the car.
Amai walked me to the door. Mama’s gaze tracked every step.
“She okay?” Mama asked.
“She’s pregnant,” Amai said.
Mama’s face broke into a smile—wide and genuine and full of relief. “Well, all right then.”
She pulled me into a hug, squeezing tight. I buried my face in her shoulder and let myself feel it—the joy, the fear, the overwhelming weight of what had just happened.
When Mama finally let go, Amai was watching us with something soft in his eyes. Something that looked almost like longing.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said to me.
“Okay.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked back to his car. I watched him drive away, the black Mercedes disappearing around the corner.
Mama put her arm around my shoulders. “That man’s in love with you.”
I looked at her. “I know.”
“You in love with him?”
The question hung in the air between us. I wanted to say no. Wanted to say it was just the contract, just the hormones, just the situation. But the lie wouldn’t come.
“I don’t know,” I said finally.
But I did know.
I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.
My phone rang an hour later while I was lying in bed, staring at the ultrasound pictures.
“Hello?”
“Truth?” Kaisen’s voice was warm, familiar. “It’s me. How’d it go?”
I sat up, surprised. “How did you know I had an appointment?”
“You mentioned it the other day. Said you were getting close to finding out.”
Had I? I couldn’t remember. The past few weeks were a blur of hormones, hope, and fear.
“It worked,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Then, “Truth, that’s amazing! Congratulations!”
His excitement was genuine, infectious. I found myself smiling despite the exhaustion pulling at my bones.
“Thank you,” I said.
“We need to celebrate,” Kaisen said. “I know you were stressed about this. It’s a big deal.”
“I don’t really feel up to going out?—”
“Then come to my house. I’ll cook. Nothing fancy. Just… I want to celebrate with you. Please?”
I hesitated. Going to a man’s house—a man I barely knew—felt like crossing a line I wasn’t sure I should cross. But Kaisen had been kind. Supportive. And I didn’t want to be alone right now, didn’t want to sit in my childhood bedroom and spiral into fear about everything that could still go wrong.
“Okay,” I said finally. “But I’m driving myself.”
“Deal. I’ll text you the address.”
Kaisen’s house was in Lakeview—a nice neighborhood with tree-lined streets and houses that had survived Katrina and come back stronger. I pulled up to a modest but well-maintained bungalow and sat in the car for a moment, second-guessing my decision.
My phone buzzed. A text from Kaisen: You here?
I took a breath and texted back: Yeah. Coming in.
The front door opened before I could knock. Kaisen stood there in jeans and a t-shirt, grinning like I’d just made his entire day.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“I know. But I wasn’t sure you’d actually do it.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”
I walked into his house and immediately felt the difference between Kaisen’s world and Amai’s. Where Amai’s spaces were cold, controlled, and expensive, Kaisen’s house was warm. Lived-in. There were books on the coffee table, a laptop open on the couch, dishes in the sink visible from the entryway.
It felt like a home.
“I made pasta,” Kaisen said, leading me to the kitchen. “Nothing fancy. But it’s good.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” He pulled out a chair for me at the small kitchen table. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
So, I did.
I told him about the blood test, the ultrasound, the tiny flicker of a heartbeat on the screen.
I told him about Dr. Beaumont’s instructions and the prenatal vitamins and the follow-up appointment in two weeks.
I didn’t tell him about Amai holding my hand.
Didn’t tell him about the way Amai had looked at the ultrasound screen like he was seeing something sacred.
Some things were mine to keep.
Kaisen listened, asked questions, celebrated every detail like it was the best news he’d ever heard.
And for a little while, sitting in his warm kitchen, eating pasta and talking about the future, I let myself forget about the contract, the complications, and the fact that I was falling for a man I couldn’t have.
For a little while, I just let myself be happy.
I didn’t get home until after ten. Mama was in the living room watching TV when I walked in, and she raised an eyebrow at the time but didn’t ask questions.
I went to my childhood bedroom and closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the ultrasound pictures, studying that tiny dark circle and the flicker that was my baby’s heartbeat.
My hand moved to my stomach.
“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s me. Your… I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m here. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”
The baby didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Was barely more than a cluster of cells at that point.
But I felt it anyway—the weight of responsibility, the fierce protectiveness, the beginning of something that felt like love.
I lay back on the bed, hand still on my stomach, and closed my eyes.
Everything had changed today.
And I had no idea what came next.
Week six hit me like a freight train I never saw coming.
I woke up at 5:47 AM with my stomach churning, a wave of nausea so intense it pulled me out of sleep before my alarm could.
For a moment, I just lay there, hand pressed against my abdomen, trying to breathe through it.
Trying to convince myself it would pass if I just stayed still and didn’t move too fast.
It didn’t pass.
The nausea built and built until I threw the covers off and stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth, the other braced against the wall for balance.
I barely made it to the toilet before everything came up—stomach acid, bile, and the crackers I’d eaten at midnight because I couldn’t sleep.
I heard Mama’s footsteps in the hallway before I heard her voice.
“Baby?” She appeared in the doorway, her robe tied loose, her bonnet slightly askew. Then she saw me hunched over the toilet, and her expression shifted from concern to something that looked almost like sympathy. “Oh. There it is.”
Another wave hit, and I retched again, my whole body convulsing with the effort. Mama moved behind me without a word, gathering my hair back from my face and holding it with one hand while the other rubbed slow circles on my back.
“Welcome to pregnancy, baby,” she quietly said.
I couldn’t respond. Could barely breathe. My throat burned, and my eyes watered. I wanted to ask how long this was supposed to last, but I couldn’t form the words.
When the wave finally passed, I slumped against the toilet, exhausted and shaking. Mama handed me a washcloth she’d dampened with cold water. I pressed it against my face and tried to steady my breathing.
“This is normal?” I finally managed, my voice hoarse.
“Unfortunately.” Mama sat on the edge of the bathtub, still watching me with those sharp, knowing eyes. “Some women get it worse than others. Looks like you’re one of the unlucky ones.”
“Great,” I muttered. “That’s just great.”
“How long you been feeling like this?”
“This is the first time it’s been this bad. But I’ve been nauseous for a few days. Thought it was just nerves or something I ate.” I wiped my mouth with the washcloth and tried to stand. My legs felt weak, unsteady. “I need to brush my teeth.”
“You need to sit down before you fall down,” Mama corrected, but she helped me to my feet anyway and guided me to the sink. I brushed my teeth twice, trying to get rid of the taste, then rinsed my mouth with mouthwash that burned going down.
By the time I made it back to my bedroom, I was exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with how much sleep I’d gotten. I collapsed onto the bed and closed my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.
Mama appeared a few minutes later with a sleeve of saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale.
“Try these,” she said, setting them on the nightstand. “Small bites. Don’t rush it.”
I managed to sit up enough to take a cracker. It tasted like cardboard and sat heavy in my stomach, but I forced myself to chew slowly and swallow. The ginger ale helped a little—the carbonation settling some of the churning—but within ten minutes, I felt the nausea building again.
This time I made it to the bathroom before anything came up, but barely.
Mama held my hair again. Rubbed my back again. Didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. This was just what it was. This was pregnancy. This was what I’d signed up for when I agreed to carry someone else’s child for money.
Except it didn’t feel like someone else’s child anymore.
It felt like mine.
And that terrified me almost as much as the nausea did.
By noon, I’d thrown up four more times and couldn’t keep anything down. Not crackers. Not ginger ale. Not the plain toast Mama made me try. My stomach rejected everything, and the exhaustion was so heavy I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to move, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Amai’s name lit up the screen.