Willa
I wake up with Diesel sleeping on the floor next to me, his head resting against the wall, and his knees propped against his chest. He looks cute and huge sat like that, like seeing a fully-grown adult sitting on a kid’s playset chair. I think about waking him up and telling him about the baby, but it’s almost eight and I need to get to work. Life hasn’t stopped just because I ran into Diesel.
I creep across the room and search through my bag for a change of clothes, taking out some jeans and a T-shirt and then going through into the bathroom. I find a packet of toothbrushes in his bathroom cabinet, brush my teeth, and splash water on my face. When I emerge, as clean as I’m going to get, Diesel is sitting on the couch.
He smiles at me when I walk in. “Howdy,” he says. His dark green eyes flit with worry. I can tell that he’s wondering if I’m going to suddenly flip on him, turn from the affectionate woman I was last night into somebody who doesn’t have time for him.
I return the smile. “Howdy,” I say. “Except I don’t remember when we became cowboys.”
He shrugs, and then jumps to his feet. He walks across to me and places his hands on my shoulders. They feel so good, I just sink into him. He wraps him arms around me, holding me close. “I chose you last night,” he says. “I chose you instead of the club.” A note of wonder enters his voice. “I’ve never found someone I’d rather be with than the club. Now the club seems so petty. I just … I hope you really do wanna be with me, Willa.”
“I do,” I tell him, disentangling myself. “But I might still want to be a proper journalist one day. I need to get going.”
“Want a ride?” he asks.
I think about it, and then nod. “If you drop me off down the street,” I say.
“I hope I don’t always have to drop you down the street,” he replies. “But yeah, it’ll probably be best for today.”
He hands me his jacket and a helmet when we’re outside, and then we’re speeding toward the station as we did countless times before. I clutch onto his rock-hard belly, my body already excited just by touching him, by his ridged abs. I wish I hadn’t been so tired last night. I think about later, a whole night with Diesel and nothing stopping us now. As long as he doesn’t go back to his old ways, we can screw, screw, screw until we can’t move. He drops me in the same spot he used to, and I climb from the bike.
Handing him the leather and the helmet, I say, “See you later, Diesel.”
He grins, revving his engine. “I’ll be here.”
“Oh.” I nod. “That’d be nice. Yeah.”
Then he reaches into his pocket and hands me a twenty.
“What’s this?” I ask. “Pocket money?”
“Lunch money,” he says.
I watch him ride away, my pussy aching at the thought of tonight. But first I have to get through today. I take a sip from my bottle of water, telling myself I don’t feel sick, I won’t let myself be sick, that women are pregnant all over the world and somehow manage to keep their food down. My belly growls at me, reminding me that keeping your food down means actually having eaten. I get a sandwich from the van outside using Diesel’s cash, and then head into the station.
I know something’s happened when Joseph, the security guard, walks over to me, smiling widely and nodding so that his chin hits his chest. “Congratulations,” he says, offering me his hand. “You must be so pleased. What lovely news. What fantastic news! I am sorry for being so forward, but sometimes life can be so—so swell!” As if to prove the point, he swells his chest up. When I don’t take his hand, he glances down at it and then at me. “Oh,” he says. “I … uh … I better get back to work.”
It’s just like the day my apartment building burned down. When I stand in the elevator, I can feel eyes on me, even if nobody makes it obvious. The elevator is dead silent, as though everybody is afraid of speaking near me just in case I guess something’s up. What they don’t know is that this is way more suspicious than anything else. When I arrive on my floor, I’m intercepted by a woman I’ve never spoken to before.
Her name is Molly—I think—and she’s worked here for a few years—I think—and she’s married to one of the TV reporters—I think. She’s the head of human resources for this department. She’s a short, redheaded woman with a mole the size of a bottle cap on her left cheek, which she’s tried to cover with powder. Despite that, she’s bubbly-looking, fun-looking. At least she usually is, the few times I’ve seen her walking through the office or talking with people near her cubicle. Now she stares at me with wide, amazed eyes. I vaguely remember hearing something about Molly losing two children to miscarriages.
“Is it true?” she asks.
“Um, is what true?” I reply, though by now I can guess what’s happened.
She bites her lip. “I don’t want to be rude,” she says. “I just want to say that I’m so, so happy for you. I know we haven’t spoken much. But I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be friends, right?”
“Sure, Molly,” I mutter.
Her face lights up when I use her name. “Great!” She all but punches the air. “That’s just fantastic.”
She lingers, watching me. I don’t know what to say to her so I just stare back at her. Eventually she smiles, nods, and retreats.
“Mad, isn’t it?” I’ve spoken to Kenny a couple of times. He’s the mailman who often hangs around the office for a few minutes after making his deliveries. He’s tall, black, and handsome in a clean-cut kind of way. He’s standing by the water cooler as I pass him.
“What’s crazy?” I ask.
“A simple thing like having a baby, and everybody goes kooky.” He smiles kindly. “I’m not saying it isn’t special. Just … have I made a complete fool of myself? My wife and I have three little ones. It’s an amazing thing, a blessing.” He smiles again, this time a little shaky. I guess it’s because I’m looking at him like he’s just grown another head. “Anyway, congrats.” He hurries away.
I march across the office to Brittany, prodding her in the arm and walking toward the hallway. She’s wearing an oversized blue dress, which for some reason makes me want to slap her across the face. It’s so pretentious, but that’s Brittany, doing whatever she likes with whomever she likes, whenever she likes.
“Is this where we always have to meet, Willa?” She waves at the storage cupboard, her sleeve billowing as though in the wind.
I struggle to keep my voice at a reasonable level. “Why does everybody know I’m pregnant?” I ask as calmly as I can. “Why is that, Brittany? Why should the whole damned station know that I’m pregnant?”
Brittany pushes her pale blue glasses up her nose. Only a woman like Brittany would have ten pairs of glasses. “I don’t know where this anger is coming from,” she says, “and frankly, I find it insulting and unwarranted. You never asked me to keep this a secret. If I remember correctly, you never mentioned anything like that at all.”
“I don’t get you, Brittany. What’s your problem with me? Why would you tell everybody?”
She looks genuinely confused. “Listen to me, Willa,” she says slowly. “If I had any clue you’d be this upset, I never would’ve told a single person. But you never asked me to keep it quiet—”
“I shouldn’t have to ask!” I snap. “It should go without saying!”
“You’re annoying me now,” Brittany declares. “You’re getting angry at me for not doing something you didn’t ask me to do. Surely you realize how ridiculous that is?” She leans in closer, her voice vicious, whipping at me. “You really shouldn’t talk to me like that. Don’t forget that you’re just an intern, Willa. Soon you’ll be gone. When does it end, your internship? December? Interns don’t get maternity leave, remember, and how likely do you think it is that you’ll be hired now that everybody knows you’re pregnant? Oh, everybody talks about job equality, but why would they hire you over somebody who’s not going to poop out a brat in nine months?”
I feel tears stinging my eyes. She’s cutting right to the heart of the matter. Even if I have been confused about whether or not I want this job, I don’t want it wrenched away from me like that. “I’ll tell them who the arsonist is!” I blurt.
I immediately regret saying it. I wipe my eyes and barge past Brittany, going to my desk and dropping into the chair, heart thudding, head aching, everything feeling dreamlike and dizzy. I shouldn’t have said that, I reflect. That was a big mistake.
I start my work for the day, hoping that nobody will bother me and I can just go home to Diesel. I need to stay focused, block out the rest of the world. But then Peter is standing over my desk, pointing at his office. His mouth is moving but I hardly hear the words. He’s going to fire me, I think in a panic. That could never happen with a normal contract. With internships, though, anything goes.
I think about all my dreams of being a reporter. They were vague before. But the idea of losing the chance makes them solid. Suddenly losing this job seems like a catastrophe, if only because I know how difficult it is for people my age—even college-educated people—to find work.
He closes the door to his office behind me, and then walks around his desk and drops into the chair. “What do you mean, you know who the arsonist is?” He squints at me, steepling his fingers. He looks like he’d enjoy nothing more than tearing my throat out for leaving him last night.
Brittany. I can’t believe I ever considered her a friend.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, keeping my voice innocent.
Peter leans forward, opens his mouth, and then jumps to his feet and starts pacing the room. “Don’t mess me around, Willa,” he says. “You’ve messed me around enough already, treating me like I’m a piece of dirt on your shoe, treating me like a loyal dog who’s just oh-so-desperate for another kicking.” He wrings his hands. “You’ve messed me around personally. I won’t let you do it professionally, too. Listen to me.” He paces over to me. His eyes are bloodshot. I wonder if he got drunk last night after I left, if he’s still a little drunk now. “You’re an intern, so unless you share what you have with us, you better start looking for another job, because this station won’t take you any longer.”
Then he lurches forward, grabbing my leg. “You’re such a dirty bitch.”
I slap him across the face, hard. “You’re a fucking pig!” I hiss. And that’s the worst part. I want to be quiet just in case anybody hears.
He laughs and waves a hand at the door. “You better have something we can use, or it’s bye-bye to journalism, Willa. I won’t let you walk all over me anymore.”
I walk from the office, leg burning from where he touched me. I know that I could call up Diesel right now and by the end of the day Peter would be a picture of bruises and cuts. But I don’t do that. Instead I sit at my desk, seething, wondering what to do.