TWENTY-ONE
Layla
Layla had never been jealous of Autumn. Not when her friend won the state spelling bee in fifth grade. Not when the beautiful redhead landed first chair in band, her soft flute playing outshining Layla’s. And even though her mother, Evelyn McShane, was beautiful, was closer to Autumn than Layla could ever hope to be with her heavily scheduled surgeon mother, Layla still hadn’t been envious. Layla’s mother was a badass. She was driven, confident and somehow able to have a successful career and an enviable family life. But her mother wasn’t like Evelyn. She was fierce, but lacked the sweet vulnerability that made Autumn’s mother so approachable.
Then that sweet, beautiful lady who treated all of them like sisters rather than a parent died, suddenly, and Layla had finally, morbidly felt a little jealous. Autumn, Layla had realized, had shared something with her mother that Layla would never have with her own: the unadulterated, honest truth.
Evelyn told Autumn about sex in fourth grade. She’d answered Autumn’s questions, all of their questions, without blinking an eye or hesitating in the slightest.
“You’ll find, girls,” the woman had told them when they were sixteen and discussing a classmate who had gotten pregnant “that men will expect a great deal from you. The key, the gift a woman has that men will never understand is that we have the power to change those expectations.” They hadn’t understood what she’d meant, not immediately, but Evelyn had a way of explaining things so that her truth, those honest realisms became small theories she wanted them to explore and experience for themselves. “It’s a man’s world, girls, but without women, it’s a world not worthy of living in.”
Honesty. That’s what Layla had always craved most from her mother. She knew that most mothers told their daughters so many romanticized, over sensitive things about life, about love, and especially about having babies. At least, Layla’s mother had. She’d told her about the birds and the bees when she was ten. She’d told Layla that being pregnant was a miraculous, wonderful thing, that she would feel whole and happy, that the life inside her would make her immortal one day. It was all fluff and fodder meant to keep Layla open to the idea of being a mother.
But her own mother had never told her about morning sickness, about the fullness of her breasts, how they’d ache, how even the slightest touch against them would bring Layla to her knees.
And she’d neglected to mention to Layla what it would be like to hear that tiny heartbeat for the first time.
She’d gone to the appointment alone. Donovan had wanted to be with her, but her father had called an emergency practice and Layla hadn’t wanted Donovan to miss that. God knows her father had already been giving him such a torture test since they’d returned from the holidays. Even after their conference win and the beginning of the spring semester, Donovan had still been treated like the squad’s water boy, fetching this and that for her father, taking everything he gave Donovan just to keep, what he called, “the peace.”
She’d felt guilt by association. “I’m so sorry, Donovan, really. He’s acting insane,” she’d told him, straddling him as he lay on his stomach so she could rub the knots from his shoulders.
“It’s okay… ow, not so hard.” His words sounded stunted against the pillow.
She ignored him, thinking about her father, his distance and ultimatums. The more thought she put into his demands, the harder she worked her fingers against Donovan’s shoulders. “He’s only doing this because I won’t marry you.”
“You won’t, huh?”
“Please.” She’d laughed, dismissing the mock frown that Donovan pulled down on his mouth. “Like you and I would survive marriage.” When he’d gone quiet and Layla watched his profile, saw how his eyebrows rose as though he was considering it, she smacked him in the back of the head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I would.” Donovan looked up at her then, giving her a sweet, almost believable smile before he batted his eyes. “Just like I’d take your dad’s shit if it means I get backrubs like this every night.”
“And there is problem. Guilt, Donley, that’s what keeps me nice.”
Layla’s hips moved against his butt when Donovan laughed. “I thought it was my gentlemanly habits and the sweet things I do with my mouth.”
“Those aren’t bad. The mouth thing, I mean. Those are, very nice.”
She’d lowered her hands beneath his shorts and squeezed his ass, hoping that he would get on with doing those sweet things just then, but Donovan shook his head, pretended to be offended. “I did mean when I call you baby or sweetheart, but the other things… yeah, I can keep that up. See…” and he flipped over, tackling Layla to the mattresses, ignoring her loud squeals as he pulled down her underwear to show her just how sweet his mouth could be.
It was the guilt she felt for her father’s treatment of him that had Layla telling him he didn’t need to bother playing the role of doting expectant father. So that February, when Layla was eight weeks pregnant she went to her first doctor’s appointment alone. She heard the baby’s heartbeat in that office with the cold gel on her skin and an ultrasound rod pushing around on her stomach. Layla cried quietly the entire time.
She’d never told Donovan about the emotional upheaval of that day. He’d become so worried about her, especially since that night months back when they finally came together again. When that hot shower had led to an endless night of re-exploring each other’s bodies. Now, three months later with her and Donovan having sex nearly every night, her round belly had made the little creature growing inside her impossible to ignore.
At her five month appointment, though, Layla would not be alone.
Donovan had insisted.
Layla had already gained at least ten pounds and there was no mistaking the belly anymore. She’d been stared at more often as she walked around campus and into her last semester classrooms. She’d had to adjust her wardrobe, grateful that her mother, at least, was supporting her, helping her out financially with tuition and cash when she needed it. But Layla couldn’t justify her mother spending exorbitant amounts of money on a maternity wardrobe. Not when Layla knew she could adjust a few hems in her shirts and skirts.
It was the pregnancy that gave Layla the idea about designs she hoped would cement her a spot at Parsons, perhaps a few semesters later than she wanted, but still with enough time so that she could finish up graduate school before she turned twenty-six. The pregnancy was something she hadn’t expected or wanted, really, but it birthed plenty of ideas for chic maternity wear that would satisfy even the most fashion forward expectant mother.
Still, those fresh ideas and the creative buzz that came along with gestational growth could not take away the heartache that was looming—the heartache that Layla expected would only grow once Donovan joined her for the five month sonogram.
He had done what she’d asked. Layla hadn’t wanted either of them to get attached. It would make the events post-birth too painful to bear. So they called the baby “it” and they never discussed what they thought it would look like. They never talked about names or expectations of what of Donovan’s it would have, or what of Layla’s might end up on its tiny body. She didn’t like to think about a little baby with her eyes and Donovan’s perfect cheekbones. Layla didn’t want to guess if it would be tall like its father or have white blonde hair like her.
She’d even stopped Autumn when she wanted to guess about the sex, or even what Layla “felt” like she was having, whatever that meant. Her friends, of course, had been so supportive, but Layla caught how often Autumn frowned when she changed whatever baby-centric subject Autumn wanted to discuss.
“I think it might be a girl,” the redhead had told Layla one afternoon as she sat in Mollie’s new living room, going through color swatches Mollie was considering for the kitchen. “A little girl with your legs and Donovan’s…”
“Autumn,” Layla had stopped her. “Please don’t.”
Her friends had tempered their baby questions after that day and Layla appreciated their sensitivity. She’s encouraged Donovan to do the same. He had. They kept the baby out of their minds and focused on dealing with their last semester at Cavanagh. They discussed what would happen after… after the birth, after the adoption, after graduation. It was assumed that they’d stay together, though “together” wasn’t something they’d discussed either. He’d hinted at going to New York, telling her he’d like a change of pace, that his cousin owned an apartment in SoHo that they could sublet if Parsons accepted her. But they never discussed emotions or feelings or if they’d continue a life together in New York as roommates who occasionally slept together or as… well, whatever else there was.
They’d discussed the adoptive parents they interviewed and Layla’s birth plan, but she didn’t want him at her appointments and they never talked about the baby as a person.
Until the night before when they were making love and Donovan accidently grazed her expanding stomach.
“I… I think it moved.”
“What?” she’d said, not trusting that look on his face, worried that she’d spotted a trace of wonder in his features. “How could you feel it and I didn’t?
“Layla, I’m telling you, the baby moved.”
The smile on his face and that excited glint in his eyes had completely killed the mood and Layla rolled over, told Donovan she was tired and he’d insisted on coming along with her to her appointment.
The appointment itself was a waiting game. Waiting for her name to be called. Waiting for the nurse to hand her a cup to pee in so her urine could be checked. Waiting for the nurse to weigh her and take her vitals. Waiting as Donovan blew up three rubber gloves in sheer boredom and then popped them all when Doctor Samuels walked into the examination room. Layla smiled, nodded at the doctor, rolled her eyes as Donovan tried to hide the flaccid gloves and silently waited wearing a paper gown covering her rounding body, praying that Donovan wasn’t getting attached.
They had already broken each other’s hearts so much, too often and with very little effort. She couldn’t stand it if Donovan actually looked forward to the baby’s arrival, if he forgot that this baby would never belong to them.
So Donovan sat in the chair next to the examination table and didn’t speak. He moved his leg, bouncing his foot against the floor, looking up at the ceiling when the doctor examined her, though Layla found it ridiculous that he seemed shy at her being so exposed. But he stood next to her when that glob of gel was spurted out onto her stomach and Dr. Samuels, a chubby, middle-aged redhead with deep brown eyes and freckles that rivaled Autumn’s said, “Let’s see what’s going on in there.”
Donovan stood by her head, leaning down on his arms as the fuzzy black and white image glowed from the screen and the fast drumming heartbeat swooshed and beat from the speakers.
“Is… is it okay?” he asked the doctor, his eyes a little too wide, too expectant as he watched the screen.
Layla saw that awed expression on his face, the way his eyes moved left and right, up and down as the doctor rubbed the wand over her stomach.
“Yes, it’s excellent. Nothing that causes concern at all.” The doctor’s fingernails clicked against the keyboard and she adjusted the settings, moving her wrist to push the wand in deeper and then Layla felt a sharp kick against her belly. “Ah. Did you feel that, Layla?”
“What? What was it?” Donovan asked, leaning closer, watching her face, the doctor’s.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Excellent and…” she stopped, looking between Layla and Donovan, “do you want to know what you’re having?”
“Um… I… I guess,” she told the doctor but immediately regretted saying anything when the woman smiled , when Donovan stood up straight with his arms crossed tight over his chest as though he was waiting for someone to attack. “Hey,” she said to him, pulling on his sleeve. “You okay with that?”
He didn’t answer, but nodded once, keeping his eyes on that screen and Layla could have sworn he’d stopped breathing.
“Wonderful.” A few more clicks and Dr. Samuels printed out a few images from the machine. “Congratulations, guys, it’s a girl.”
“A girl?” Donovan asked her, tilting his head.
“Yes,” she said, ripping the print out from the machine before she offered it to Donovan. “You’re going to have a daughter.”
Layla dismissed the doctor’s parting instructions and the way she quickly wiped her stomach dry. She could only look at Donovan, trying to catch his thoughts in the way he stared down at that print out. Reading him was impossible. Was he shocked? Was he happy? Was he scared to death? She didn’t know and the longer he held that paper in his hands, the more worried Layla became that he had already fallen in love with a little girl he’d never really know.
“Donovan…” and just that low whisper of his name brought him back to her, but it was the surprise on his face, the way he seemed shocked that he wasn’t alone in that room that had Layla biting her lip. “Are you okay? I know this is probably freaking you out. It freaked me out the first time, but it’ll be fine, right? This will all be over with soon.”
She didn’t like his frown or how he lowered his arms, still hanging on to that print out as he stared at her. Donovan blinked twice and a deep line settled between his eyebrows. “I’m…” he inhaled, rubbed his free hand over his face. “You need help getting dressed?”
“No. I can manage. Just give me a second.”
And Donovan nodded, sat back in that chair as Layla dressed but he did not speak, he didn’t look back at the print out but Layla noticed he also didn’t look at her and he kept that paper between his fingers.
It was cold for April. The pitch still carried the bite of winter and the grass had not completely grown in though spring hinted with every whip of frigid wind that wasn’t as piercing as it had been weeks before. Below Donovan from the stands, the maintenance crew worked around the field, preparing the stadium and the turf for that weekend’s coming match against Arkansas Technical. The work was monotonous, slow, but Donovan didn’t want to leave, not just yet.
The past week, Coach had eased up on him, though Donovan didn’t know why. He was still forced to tidy up the locker room, collect the equipment after Mullens rode him to exhaustion every practice, but over four months in and Donovan had already grown accustomed to the extra work. It kept his mind distracted.
It kept him from thinking about Layla constantly.
Two workers on the pitch painted the uprights, refreshing the bright white paint, smoothing away the chipping flakes the hard winter had cracked on the metal and Donovan watched their movements—the slow strokes of their brushes, the muted conversation as they spoke to each other. He wasn’t really seeing anything, hearing even less, and so he was not prepared when someone appeared to his left, leaning against the hard plastic chair next to him.
“What are you doing here, Donley?” Donovan closed his eyes, made to stand, to prepare for whatever rude thing Coach Mullens would say to him, but the man tapped his shoulder to keep him in his seat. “Is, ah… everything okay?” Donovan lifted his eyebrows, shocked that the coach’s voice was softer, that though his eyes were narrowed and glaring at Donovan, his mouth was relaxed. “I mean, Layla…”
“She’s fine,” he said returning his attention back to the pitch. He would do whatever Coach Mullens wanted on the field. He wasn’t about to volunteer information about Layla. She’d kill him for talking to her father about their business. Or the baby.
“My wife, she said she’s starting to show.” Donovan nodded, but didn’t answer him, preferring to fold his arms over his chest as one of the workers climbed down from the ladder leaning against one of the uprights. “Is she… feeling…”
The man stopped speaking when Donovan cut him a hard look. “If you want to know how she’s doing, then why don’t you go see her?” When the muscles around Mullens’ face tightened, Donovan shook his head. “It’s been five months, Coach. Let that shit go.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Think so?” Donovan jerked his attention back to Layla’s father. He was tired and frustrated and sick to death of Mullens giving him shit about doing what felt natural to him. Oh he understood the disappointment the man felt, but damn him if he thought Donovan was going to spend the rest of his life apologizing.
The coach sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Donley, you don’t get how difficult…”
And just then, what little patience Donovan had left for Coach Mullens faded. He stood, ignoring how the coach copied him, both men stretching to their full height as they glared at each other. “I’m sorry, I don’t what?” Donovan’s knuckles ached as he clenched his fists and he had to remind himself that this man wasn’t just his coach, that lashing out at him would be epically stupid. This was also his daughter’s grandfather. Layla’s father, for better or worse. “I don’t get how difficult this shit is? Me? I’m not the one pretending like I don’t have a daughter, which, by the way, I will soon.” Mullens’ mouth fell open at the revelation and Donovan nodded. “That’s right. A girl. A daughter. Know the difference between the two of us? I won’t see my daughter, ever. I won’t watch her grow up. I will know nothing about her, Coach. But you? You had twenty-three years with your daughter and you willingly walked away from her because she didn’t follow the perfect little plan you had for her life.”
Donovan had let the older man push him, but no more. He respected the man’s intensity and his anger, but not enough that he’d let him get away with threatening him anymore, even when he repeated, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” Donovan said as Mullens jerked toward him as if he was going to say something, but Donovan stopped him with one lift of his eyebrow. “And I probably never will.” The coach closed his eyes, glancing at the field but Donovan continued. “You got first steps and first words. You got birthdays and holidays and all the shit fathers are supposed to be there for. I won’t have a single one of them. And while you’re putting me through the ringer here, treating me like I somehow fucked you over because I was with Layla, try to remember that you’re the real asshole in this situation.”
“Excuse me?” Two steps and Mullens was in Donovan’s face. He wondered if the man would hit him. He knew he wanted to, but Donovan was tired of deflecting his coach’s rage. He was done feeling like an asshole for what he and Layla had done together. It wasn’t his fault alone that Layla was pregnant.
“No, I don’t think I will.” The longer he looked at Mullens, the angrier he got. Layla was special, too special for Donovan and until five months ago, she thought the sun set and rose around her father. But now whenever he was mentioned, Layla would excuse herself from the room and Donovan knew why. There had been too many nights he’d held her while she cried, while she asked over and over if he thought her father would hate her forever.
“You should be crawling on your fucking knees begging her forgiveness. Not treating me like I’m a piece of shit because I fell for your beautiful, clever, sweet daughter. You raised her, Coach so why I am the one she’s leaning on? Why am I the one trying to convince her that you don’t hate her?”
At those words, Mullens sat down hard on the seat in front of him, as though he’d never considered his distance or anger would have alienated Layla to the point where she thought he hated her. Donovan was glad his words were sinking in. God knows it was about damn time. He knelt down, squatting in front of his coach wanting the man to understand what he had, what he could have again with very little effort.
Something Donovan never would.
“I’m going to give my daughter the best shot at life. I’m going to give her a family that will make sure she has the best of everything, love and laughter and support. Something you should be giving Layla. I’m a kid who will never get a day with my daughter. You’re a father that’s had a lifetime and yet out of the two of us, who is acting like the real parent here?”