Aria Cartier
As I sat in the restaurant with my husband and kids, I was tired down to my bones. Three months pregnant, I had been on my feet at Voss all day, but I was still glad we’d come. I had been promising the kids an outing for days.
Sire bounced on the seat next to me, tapping his fork on the table. Truth knelt in his chair across from me. Reign sat beside Legend, staring at the kids’ menu like she could read it.
The twins were with the nanny, thank God.
My stomach rolled again. Nausea had been riding me all day. My back ached. My feet hurt. My jeans were a little too tight. They were right when they said pregnancy gets worse the older a woman gets.
“Mommy,” Sire called. “Is the baby still in your stomach?”
I giggled. “Yes, it’s still in there. Unfortunately, we still have a long way to go.”
He pressed his hand against my shirt. I put my hand over his and rubbed my bump. As usual, I felt irritation and gratitude. I hated always being pregnant and loved my kids so much it scared me.
The smell of sausage and pepperoni got stronger as a server walked by. My stomach flipped again. I sipped my ginger ale and tried to breathe through it.
“Truth, sit your little ass down,” Legend fussed, playfully. He caught him by the back of his hoodie before he could stand on the chair. “You not about to be up here acting like you at the park.”
Truth plopped back down, pouting for a second before Legend slid a crayon and the kids’ menu in front of him. “Here. Color.”
Truth started scribbling. Reign copied him. Sire started telling Legend about some superhero show, and Legend listened, nodding like Sire was explaining something as serious as one of his drug deals.
I watched them, feeling my heart smiling.
Two months ago, I had been in my OB’s office yelling in disbelief because I was pregnant again. Now I sat in a booth at a Black-owned pizza restaurant, nauseous and annoyed, but overwhelmed that I was the woman God chose to mother Legend’s kids.
My eyes drifted toward the brick wall behind Legend.
A painting hanging there grabbed me by the throat.
It was big, almost as wide as our booth.
A Black woman stared straight ahead. While her eyes were tearful, she looked unbroken.
Instead of a halo, a crown of the Chicago skyline sat over her head.
The buildings stretched like a dark, gloomy sky.
At the bottom of the canvas, small brown children’s hands reached up toward her, some clutching, some reaching.
The brushstrokes were rough and honest. The colors bled into each other.
It felt like grief, grind, and love at the same time.
“Babe, look at that,” I said, touching Legend’s wrist.
He followed my gaze, then nodded. “That’s a dope piece.”
A server walked past our table.
I stopped her. “Excuse me. Do you know who painted that?”
She turned toward the wall and smiled. “That’s by a young sister named Rhythm Brooks.”
“She local?” I asked.
“I’m guessing so. She and her kids come in a lot.
While speaking with her, the owner found out she was an artist. She showed us some pieces.
We bought a few. She’s not a full-time artist yet, but people ask about that one all the time.
” She pointed to the bottom corner. “Her Instagram handle is on the tag. You should look her up.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As she smiled again and walked away, I pulled out my phone.
At the same time, Legend’s work phone vibrated on the table. We both glanced down. The name on the screen told me it was cartel business.
He looked at it, then flipped it over, face down, like it wasn’t worth his attention.
My eyebrows lifted. “You’re not going to answer that?”
“I told them I’m off the clock for a minute. They can wait. You and my kids can’t.”
My heart smiled. The old Legend would’ve answered, walked outside, and left me sitting there with the kids and my resentment. This version kept his hand on my leg and his focus on me.
The kids argued over a purple crayon. I slid another one toward Reign without taking my eyes off him. “You trying to make me cry in here?”
“I’ll fix your makeup if you do,” he said, smirking. “Where the little mirror at?”
I rolled my eyes and looked at the small tag next to the painting. Then I picked up my phone and typed Rhythm’s handle into Instagram.
Her work of murals, small canvases, portraits, and abstract pieces filled my screen. Her images were of people in all forms: mothers, kids, barbershop scenes, and city girls on buses with the same raw style, loud colors, and expressions of pain and hope.
She had pieces in other restaurants, a mural on the side of a daycare, and a canvas in a salon.
She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
She had a presence in the local art world but clearly hadn’t “arrived” yet.
She had no big gallery posts or solo show flyers. All I saw was work and heart.
My stomach rolled again. I set my phone down and pushed my hair back.
“I feel huge,” I muttered. “This baby is already rude.”
Legend frowned in disagreement. “You still the finest thing I ever touched. Pregnant, flat, round, whatever. I’ll eat that motherfucka off the bone regardless. You know that.”
“Whatever,” I said, softly. I believed him more now, pregnant with a body that was nothing like the one he’d married, than I used to, and that was its own kind of vulnerability.
The server dropped off drinks and extra crayons. The kids settled, coloring and watching the Black cartoon playing on their tablet.
I looked at Legend’s hands resting near the kids’ plates, at the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there when we met.
“I know I lost my shit when I found out about this baby,” I said.
“You had the right to be mad. I just didn’t like watching you act like this baby was a punishment instead of another blessing.”
“I was scared. I still am. I just had the twins. My body barely got to be mine before it was somebody’s house again. I’m scared of losing what I built at Voss, of people forgetting me if I disappear again, of not recognizing myself.”
“I panicked too. I just didn’t show it. I focused on being excited to try to calm you down. I thought if I acted like it was all good, you’d relax. I’m sorry for pushing for you to ‘just be happy,’ like you didn’t have a right to be afraid.”
“I’m sorry for how I talked to you that day. You didn’t deserve that.”
His eyebrows rose a little. “Look at us…Using what the therapist taught us and shit.”
Chuckling, I took another sip of ginger ale. “I’m still worried about Voss and my name in the art world. Another pregnancy means I’m gone more. People move on fast.”
“You are more than that. Listen. We’re going to continue to build the gallery and take care of this baby at the same time. That’s why you got a husband and not just a baby’s father.”
My smirked playfully. “You sound real grown.”
He shrugged. “We can hire more staff at Voss and hire another nanny if you need. You’re not carrying all of this by yourself. Not the kids or your dream.”
I looked at him, swooning. “You’re better at this husband thing than I thought you’d be.”
He leaned over and kissed my temple. “We’re learning together. Long as you don’t keep threatening to divorce me every time your hormones switch up, we straight.”
I smacked his chest lightly. He caught my wrist, kissed my knuckles, and let it go.
While the kids argued over who could use the red crayon, I picked my phone back up and went back to Rhythm’s page. After a moment, I switched to the Voss Contemporary House account.
Then I sent Rhythm a DM: Hi, Rhythm, this is Aria from Voss Contemporary. I’d love to talk about your work.