15. Mahasin Paris Summers
Mahasin + Paris Summers
(late October)
M ahasin
If someone had told me I’d be lying back in my baby’s daddy’s—who I’m not in a relationship with—Rolls-Royce at seven months pregnant, listening to his two best friends crack jokes about what a bitch I’ve made him out to be, catering to my every need, I would have called them a bold-faced liar.
But there I was—digging the scene with my gangster lean—feet on his dashboard to relieve some of the pressure on my swollen but moisturized ankles.
Often, I had to catch myself from massaging the back of Gage’s neck as he drove through the streets effortlessly, as if he were proud to have me in his front seat.
He’s been amazingly supportive thus far, and I couldn’t have asked for better.
He hired a private chef to ensure I get three meals a day plus snacks, a driver for the days I just want to be chauffeured, and an in-home Lamaze instructor.
At my doctor’s appointments, he'd always asks several questions and looked forward to rolling up his sleeves and conducting the sonogram sessions himself.
I had the pleasure of meeting his parents—and he, mine. And although neither thought our union was traditional, both sides were excited to get to know each other and help raise our baby girl in a loving family.
“Aye, Mahasin, tell the truth. You got our boy running all over Rosemoor when the pregnancy cravings hit, don’t you?” Jason’s voice boomed through the car speakers.
“Why are they in my business?” I smiled at Gage.
“Because his punk ass called me at 10 p.m., nervous like a defendant on his last strike, talking ‘bout, ‘Bro, she wants kettle popcorn but only from the farm. The farm isn’t open, but if I tell her that, she’s going to start crying.’” Jason’s laughter echoed. “With his soft ass.”
“Nah, that ain’t even the worst one. Remember the nigga almost lost a finger trying to make a chopped pickle taco recipe?” Desmond chimed in.
“Man, shut y’all asses up,” Gage laughed.
“Nigga be scared to go home if he ain’t got what his Dollface asked for,” Jason continued.
I couldn’t help but smile. Knowing not only that this man had no limits when it came to my happiness, but that he also used my nickname when speaking to his friends about me, made me blush. It felt good to know that I wasn’t thought of as the baby mama from hell.
“Don’t nobody be scared. If they ain’t got what she wants, then she just gonna have to—”
“Gage!” I cut him off in disbelief about what he was about to say. “You would come home defeated and not find my snacks?” I playfully whined and poked my bottom lip out.
He let out a deep chuckle. “I’d go get you the world if you craved it, Dollface,” he said as he turned his head, smiling, and quickly caressed my chin.
The car got quiet. Even the baby I was carrying paused from kicking my internal organs.
My hand stilled on my stomach, and I looked out the window like I hadn’t heard him.
But I heard every word—and felt the warmth and sincerity in his touch.
My chest tightened, and had I not already been pregnant, my ovaries would have jumped.
“So anyway,” Gage said, clearing his throat. “Y’all coming to the baby shower, right? Mahasin got this whole baby-animals-meets-Noah’s-Ark-meets-sunflowers theme going on.”
“Why are you making it seem more dramatic than it is?” I asked playfully.
“Hell yeah, I’m coming. How could the godfather not come?” Desmond asked.
“Who the fuck said your ugly ass was the godfather?” Jason intercepted. “As the real godfather, I’ll be there—with the best gift.”
“Ugly?, Nigga I’m beautiful.”
“Beautiful? That’s a stretch, you more like Flavor Flav without the clock,” Jason carried on.
“Flavor Flav, without the clock? Fuck does that even mean, bro?”
“That you still ugly, mother fucker.”
We all couldn’t help but laugh at Jason’s crazy ass. This trio really needed to rethink labeling Desmond, the funny one.
“Who said either of you was the godfather?” Gage questioned. “I do have a brother, remember?” Gage interrupted.
“Fuck that, nigga!” they responded in unison.
“Aight, then I’m the best man at you and Mahasin’s wedding,” Jason said, staking claim on an imaginary event.
“And what about Paris?” I asked, being messy.
“Fuck that nigga too!” they replied.
I suppressed my chuckle and pretended to be invested in the view. We were pulling up to a private boutique specializing in maternity styling. Tru, the owner and celebrity runway designer, had designed my gown for the baby shower, and I just knew she was going to have me looking like a goddess.
Gage parked in one of the private shopper spaces and looked over at me.
His eyes were soft, the kind that lingered.
Lately, he’d been looking at me like it was the first time every time.
Rubbing my massive stomach, he leaned in and started talking to my belly—something he’d been doing a lot more lately.
It used to just be during appointments, but now he did it everywhere: when we stopped on the sidewalk so I could catch my breath, when I went too long without eating, and he’d ask my belly what it wanted for lunch like the baby could order it, and sometimes he’d even sing old-school R I just literally couldn’t control my emotions at that moment.
I must have scared the shit out of Tru because when she couldn’t open the locked door, I heard her heels take off. Seconds later, he was knocking on the dressing room door.
“Dollface, open the door,” Gage asked gently.
Silence.
Well—except for my sobs. I laid completely still on my right side, letting snot and tears run down my face.
“You got some tissues or wipes?” I heard Gage ask someone nearby. “She's one of those ugly criers, snot just everywhere.”
“Dollface, I’m coming in.”
Before I could protest, he and his muscles were crawling through the open space beneath the dressing room door.
How he managed to get those broad shoulders through that crawl space will forever be a mystery.
But as soon as he cleared it, his ass jumped up fast, checking his clothes thoroughly like something got off the floor with him—panic and disgust written all over his handsome face.
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Shit ain’t funny. Get my baby off this nasty-ass floor,” he said, helping me to my feet.
He removed a small pack of wet wipes from his back pocket and began gently cleaning my face. His scent filled the space—today’s blend was a mix of sandalwood and something fresh, like cotton.
“There you go,” he said, swiping the last wipe under my nose. “What kind of show are you putting on here?”
“I look fat,” I blurted out, sounding childish even to my own ears.
He blinked, like he genuinely couldn’t compute what I had just said.
“Doll—”
“Dollface, my ass, Gage. I look like I stuffed myself into a high-end pillowcase.”
He chuckled. “You’re seven months pregnant, and you look exactly how you’re supposed to look. You’re supposed to—”
“I’m supposed to look glowy,” I said, rudely cutting him off.