Chapter 10
Layla
I look around the vast living room and at the pictures all over the place. I don’t know what I expected when I came here, but it wasn’t this beautiful apartment. It wasn’t to see him be a good father. I had suspected as much. I see him occasionally, and he always has her with him strapped to his chest. Jasmine is happy, healthy, and very much loved. I would have bet my last dollar that he would either be a deadbeat dad or just pay the child support and never see the kid. I guess neither of those options are on the table when the mother dies. I don’t know what I expected when I heard he was going to have the kid full-time, but it wasn’t this. He’s stepped up, and now all I want is to go home and not dwell on the side of Whorekowski that I just saw.
And the man is a great cook, which is the most surprising thing of all. The hits just keep on hitting. My Gaga always said to be careful of what you’re looking for because you just might find it.
“What you need to ask yourself, Layla, is this. What are you gonna do when you find out?” Gaga said to me once.
I assumed by the time I got close enough to eavesdrop, he’d be done with his father and would be talking dirty to one of the Sethheads, but he was still talking to his dad and the little that I heard screams complicated family relations.
While he’s finishing Jasmine’s bath, I clean the kitchen and load the dishwasher. There are no leftovers, so it only takes me a few minutes to put the kitchen in order.
He comes out fifteen minutes later holding Jasmine who is in Barbie footie pajamas. Of course it has a built-in tutu. He puts her down and she wobbles to me on two shaky legs. She wraps her pudgy arms around my legs, and I bend down to pick her up.
“Look at this clean, pretty girl,” I say, and she makes a gurgling sound. She looks at her father and reaches for him.
“I’m going to take her upstairs to the Chastains. I called, and they will watch her for me for a little while. Johnny is her best friend, so it will be fine.” After giving her a sippy cup full of milk, he leaves me in his apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the front of his car while he drives me home. Unsure of what to say to him, I look out the window and just think of what I need to do this weekend.
My mom and June Bug are both working tomorrow, so it will most likely be just me and Gaga. After about thirty minutes, he pulls up to the modest home I grew up in.
It’s just now starting to get dark despite it being close to nine o’clock.
“Thanks for dinner and thanks for the ride.” I jump out of the car as if it’s on fire. I don’t make it to the first step before his long legs reach me. “Good night, Whorekowski.”
“I’ll see you inside,” he says.
“This is not a date. It’s not necessary.” I run up the stairs, fully expecting him to leave, but he ignores me and follows me to the front door. After I open it, he walks inside.
The television is on full blast, and I can hear my mother yelling from my grandmother’s room.