Stella

Across the park I spot Delia walking a cow. At least, it looks like a cow from afar, though it’s probably a dog. Anything with fur and Delia is advocating for its rights. Fostering hard-to-place dogs happens to be her thing.

“Is he safe? Or am I in danger of losing a hand if I get any closer.”

“You’re in danger all right, but not from this one,” she says pointing to the black and white giant. “It’s this one you need to stay away from.”

Suddenly, a small, somewhat mangled head pops out of the doggy bag slung over her shoulder. A half toothless, one-eyed Chihuahua growls viciously. With the cow leading the way, we walk over to the dog park on East 86^th, a stones throw from the East River walk.

“What kind of dog is this anyway?”

“A harlequin Great Dane. He was born mostly blind.”

Wonderful. The point of getting together with Delia was to stop obsessing about the decision I made. All for naught, Dane’s presence has stalked me here as well.

A mini panic seized me this morning when I realized I promised Dane that I wouldn’t back out before we signed the contract. For someone that has absolutely no qualms about making million dollar decisions, I’m failing in spectacular fashion at this one.

The large dog area is mostly empty. We walk in and take a seat on one of the empty benches. The big one obediently sits.

“He’s sitting on my feet.”

“He’s trying to get close to you. Tupac has self-esteem issues. He’s scared of any dog larger than Biggie Smalls.” She motions to the tiny tyrant in her bag. “I’ve been working on socializing him a little at a time. Two weeks ago he wouldn’t even walk in here.”

“Tupac and Biggie?”

“I’m trying to inspire some confidence.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to name them?”

“I’m not supposed to eat carbs past ten, or pick at my face but guess what––” She points at the tiny zit with a scab on her chin. “Have you made a decision?”

“I think so,” I grumble.

“What’s the holdup?”

“I’m not sure if he’s the worst case of arrested development I’ve ever encountered, or it’s all an act.”

“What are you leaning toward?”

“An act.”

“Then he’s the perfect opposite of you. Loose where you’re tight.”

She gives me a raised blonde eyebrow. I say blonde because since we met, Delia has spent her time reinventing herself. Where there was once a mass of red hair, there is now a sexy, platinum blonde bob.

I search for clues that she’s joking and come up empty.

“That would be terrible. And I’m not tight.”

“Au contraire, it would balance the equation. You would complement each other. And, gurl, you are tight. I don’t know anybody else who schedules their weekends with ringtone alerts for lunch and sleep.”

“Or I would look like the bitter killjoy for imposing some structure and Dane will end up the superhero that lets the kid do anything.” I shoot my supposed best friend an admonishing glare. “And getting seven hours of sleep is really important.”

“Not as important as getting off.” I look her way and she shrugs. “How’s Tina?”

“Back at work––acting like nothing’s happened. I’m worried.”

“Have you told her?”

Every time I try to summon the courage to tell Tina about my plans, I back out at the last minute. I shake my head, no words necessary.

“So you find this mystery dad––maybe it’s this Dane guy––then what? You never date again? You’re going to give up your prime sex years to raise a child by a man who’s basically a stud for hire?”

Leave it to my bestie to go straight for the jugular. “When you put it that way it sounds so appealing.”

“Explain it to me then. Make me understand why you would sacrifice the best years of your life.”

“I don’t know if I can, Del. It’s a feeling, an urge. It’s always there, this longing. Like something’s missing.”

“And the sex-longing isn’t there?”

“It comes and goes,” I admit with an embarrassed shrug. “Basically no.”

“And the man-longing?”

“Sadly, less so. And being a single mother isn’t the end of the world, dating-wise. There are plenty of single fathers out there that would understand.”

One can hope.

Delia gives me a long, hard look. My sounding board. My polygraph test. She must like what she sees because she remarks, “Single daddies you say?”

On cue, a hot guy jogging behind a sport inline stroller passes us on his way to the river walk.

“I’ll take single daddies for the win.”

* * *

After my lunch with Delia, I take the subway to 22^nd Street. From there I walk down Park Ave. On the way home, my cell rings. I glance at it, expecting a call from Alex or my mother. Instead, I see Jeff’s name flash on-screen.

“Why him?” he says as soon as I answer.

Apparently, he’s beyond exchanging pleasantries. Sigh. I guess it was too much to ask that he let the matter rest.

“Stella?”

“I’m here.”

“Well?”

“It’s not what you think.” My feet stop moving. I can’t outmaneuver him mentally and walk at the same time. People flow around me like salmon swimming upstream, single-minded in their objective to get to where they’re going.

“Then what is it? Because I remember having a shitload of conversations about your explicit dislike of men that sleep around and this guy fucks anything that moves.”

Lovely. I know he’s upset and his precious male ego is probably a tad bruised, however, I really don’t have it in me to make him feel better about it.

“I really don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“Why not? You called a few months ago and asked to have this baby with me and now you’re having one with him. A guy you hardly know and one that goes against everything you value.”

He’s got me there. Balls.

“Because it’s a contract!” I half shout, a few heads turning to stare. I move closer to a building entrance, huddling under the overhang for a little privacy.

“A contract?”

“An arrangement. We co-parent. Everything is negotiated. We share custody and expenses. Nothing else. He’s nothing else to me.”

“Oh…” An eternity later. “I don’t know what to say.”

That’s a first. One I’m grateful for.

“There’s nothing to say, Jeff. I’m sorry I got you into this but I’ve made my decision. Bye.”

With that, I hang up. One more loose end wrapped up.

* * *

Everything is finally clicking into place, my future forming into a very clear path. Time to face the firing squad.

As soon as I step in the front door of Calvin and Camilla’s house, I hear Cam’s voice drifting from the kitchen and head in that direction.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a felony…no…no, you cannot…I really don’t want to hear…” She chuckles. “No, don’t do that. We’ll come and visit after you move…okay––”

Camilla and I struck up a friendship when she started working for Calvin, our mother’s similar opinions of how we should conduct our personal life serving as common ground.

At the time, Cam was a widow and not looking to ever get hitched again. We bonded pretty quickly over our mutual dissenting opinion of marriage.

Cell phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, Camilla sees me walk in and waves, then points in the direction of the backyard patio. I’m about to step out the French doors, when I hear, “You better be kidding…yeah, listen I have company. Give Ethan a big kiss for me…miss you too. Bye.”

“How are they?”

“Deliriously happy. Moving into their Malibu beach house this weekend.”

I’ve been happy before, but deliriously? That’s a serious amount of happy. The small twinge of envy takes me by surprise. I’ve never envied couples before, never felt like I was the one missing out.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I believe in it. It’s that I don’t believe it lasts. Over time all the little hurts pile up, inflicting damage upon damage until one day nothing is left other than the chalk outline and the stink of decay of a once great love.

Why bother getting married when the end is already written in. Have fun, love each other, move on. Why fight over old hurts that will never heal? Why make lawyers rich over an ugly side table lamp that neither of you really want?

I’m glad for Ethan though. I’m glad he’s deliriously happy. And for the first time in my life, part of me feels like I’m playing a warped version of musical chairs and I’m the last one standing.

On the patio, I find my mother tucked into a chaise lounge overlooking the pool. Paper in hand, she takes a sip of her cappuccino and glances up.

“Look who’s living the dream.”

Over the edge of the glasses that have slipped down her nose, she inspects me with a frown. “It’s Sunday. Why are you in a suit?”

I examine my Armani. “I’m comfortable.”

Why I need to defend my wardrobe is a mystery to me. Probably because it feels like she’s accusing me of something––something unflattering.

Pushing away the subtle jab, I take a seat at the table while Camilla slips into the seat beside me.

“I found him,” I casually announce.

My eyes immediately meet my mother’s across the table. I’m not nearly as cool about telling her as I want to be. Snatching a few grapes from the fruit platter sitting in the middle, I pop one in my mouth and pause for a reaction.

She arches a brow. This is the extent of it. I get a patronizing brow, if a brow can be patronizing, and in this instant it most definitely can be.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you perfectly,” she replies in a quiet voice. Then she takes another sip. Nothing big, only the fate of my life hanging in the balance and my mother’s acting out a coffee commercial. “So…tell me about him.”

I’m surprised this isn’t followed by a yawn. I knew she wasn’t pleased with my plan but she’s taking much longer than I expected to get on board with it. By now I thought she’d be thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild. God knows my brother won’t get around to it anytime soon.

“I’ll give you two some privacy.” Camilla starts to rise out of her chair and I intervene, clasping her forearm.

“Nah huh, you stay put. I need a witness.”

Expression pained, Camilla slinks back into her chair.

“His name is Dane Wylder. He played football––”

“Wait––” Camilla cuts in. “Did you say Dane Wylder?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve met him,” she tells us, tone rife with amusement. “At some charity event––Cal’s friends with him. The man’s a first ballot Hall of Famer.”

I know less than nothing about football.

“That means nothing to me. But you know what does? He played for Notre Dame and graduated at the top of his class. You know what else impresses me? His net worth––which means he won’t be eyeballing mine.”

“Also drop-dead gorgeous.”

I shrug away Cam’s comment. Not my field of interest. “He has good bones.”

“I’d say,” she adds with a smirk.

“And––here’s the big and––a total player. Loud and proud about it too.” I pop another grape in my mouth.

“And that’s a good thing?” Camilla’s expression is one of utter confusion.

The crackle of the newspaper gets my attention. With a huff, my mother turns another page.

“Because he sounds like her father,” she interjects, her eyes fixed on the paper. Leave it to my mother to be three chess moves ahead. I swear the woman was Yoda in a past life.

“Not the part where he’s worth forty million,” I feel the need to point out. “My mother seems to think that I’m biologically wired to develop feelings for the father of my child,” I tell Camilla, explaining my mother’s remark. “I strongly disagree. This is a legal arrangement and nothing more. But––” My mother eyeballs me. “The fact that he wants a relationship less than I do is perfect. There’s absolutely no chance of either of us doing something stupid––and when I say we, I mean him.”

An odd wariness comes over Camilla’s face. “Oooh, be careful. I thought the same way about getting married again and look at me now.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but our situations are entirely different. I’ve never believed in it. I’ve never even entertained the thought. Big difference.”

She shrugs. “Never say never. Trust me.”

“I’m saying it. I’m saying never. Speaking of arrangements––” I turn my attention back to the woman doing a fantastic job of ignoring me. “I want you to come live with me, mamí.”

“No.”

I knew I was facing an uphill battle so I press on. “My place is huge and I’m going to need your help for at least the first few months.”

“I will never live with my children,” she repeats suddenly looking up, eyes narrowed, expression superior.

Even after working a double shift, cleaning homes for five straight hours then going to the supermarket, my mother carried herself like royalty. Back straight, chin held high. I always admired her for that. I still do. When I try it I end up looking like a penguin.

“Camilla needs me.” Her eyes return to her paper.

There’s a frozen look of dread on Cam’s face.

“Please tell her you can survive without her.”

Shaking her head, Camilla murmurs out of the side of her mouth, “Your mother scares me. I can’t do it.”

“Then tell Calvin to do it.”

“Calvin’s scared of her, too.”

“Mamí––”

“No,” she repeats, still looking at that freaking paper. “I will never live with my children.”

I recognize the look on her face for what it is, an exercise in futility. It’s telling me there’s a greater chance of me moving in with her.

She suddenly looks up. “Bring him over. I want to meet this Dane Wylder.”

She goes back to her paper. Discussion over.