Zadie

WORKING IN THIS SHITTY nightclub sucks. Plain and simple. It sucks balls—big ‘ol donkey balls.

It’s just temporary, I remind myself. Besides, if it’s so shitty, why do you spend so much of your free time here?

Okay, so the place isn’t all that bad. It’s loud, it’s fun, it’s freeing.

It’s where I kissed Caleb.

Even though it’s putting me through school, working in a bar at twenty-nine years of age has a way of making me feel like an epic failure. That’s on a good day.

Today has not been a good day.

Today was just one more bad day, in a string of very bad days.

“Hey, chica,” my co-worker Larissa yells at me over the blaring music of the club. “You’re not looking so hot.” She frowns. “You feel okay?”

How do I explain to her that not only do I not feel okay, but I may be losing my mind? I know I’m not okay. I’ve been dwelling on all the bad shit, wallowing in my own misery. Pregnancy has my emotions flying all over the place. It sucks.

I’ve wanted to hang out with Chante—to curl up on her couch in my pj’s, like I normally would when feeling crappy. But there’s something strange going on with her. She’s been unusually quiet, making one excuse after another every time I ask her to talk to me. Even though I told her I wasn’t ready to discuss whatever secret it is she’s been keeping, not knowing is way worse. Although I may not be ready, I’ve realized I need to know, for sanity’s sake.

So, I’ve been avoiding my best friend—because really, what kind of best friend holds onto secrets when they don’t have to? I hate the divide growing between us, but I don’t know what to do about it.

I’m still avoiding Sean too. I’ve picked up my phone a few dozen times, convinced I can call him, or shoot him a text. Although, a text probably isn’t the best way to announce his impending fatherhood. Regardless, I’ve chickened out every single time.

If I didn’t have the obligations of work and school to keep me going, I’d probably be hiding out, avoiding the world.

It’s all too much to put into words, and way more than I want to disclose to Larissa. She already knows more about my life than she should. “I’m just tired and cranky,” I tell her, instead.

“Honestly, Zee, I don’t know how you manage with school and working here as much as you do. I’m surprised you’re not a zombie. When do you sleep?”

“Well, I slept in class this afternoon,” I admit, still angry at myself. It frustrates me, knowing how hard it’ll be to catch up on the lesson I missed, while drool collected under my cheek. “Nothing’s more embarrassing than being called out by the professor because your snores are interrupting the class.”

“Oh, ouch. I can imagine that must have sucked. Actually, no, I can’t imagine. I hated school and hardly ever went to class. Guess that’s probably why I’m stuck working here.”

“Well, I like school. Or, at least, what it’s going to do for me. I’m usually focused in class. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I lie. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

Who knew that being pregnant took so much energy? My muscles all ache, my head hurts constantly, and I’ve been beyond tired—freaking exhausted.

“My sister had that flu going around,” Larissa tells me. “I sure hope you don’t have that. She just about died—got so dehydrated she had to go to the hospital.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I do feel like I’m dead on my feet right now, though,” I admit, stifling a yawn.

“Well it hasn’t stopped J.P. from checking you out.” She gives me sly smile, shifting her eyes to the man who’s likely standing at the other end of the bar, behind me.

“Please tell me you’re lying, or at least exaggerating,” I beg.

“Sorry, can’t do that. His eyes are glued to your ass right now.”

My skin crawls. It’s not that I dislike Jean-Paul. He’s a decent guy, I guess. At least, he’s never done anything to show he’s a bad guy. But he’s asked me out at least a dozen times. I’d consider it flattering if he didn’t hit on every female he meets. Unfortunately, he will not be deterred. I’d say it’s the language barrier, since his English is poor and he prefers to speak in French. But I think the communication issue is more about his ego—and his inability to hear anything that might deflate it.

“Maybe he’s waiting for me to leave so he can come chat you up,” I suggest to Larissa.

“Get real, Zadie. He couldn’t handle me. Besides, he’s got a crush on you,” she taunts, when suddenly her eyes go wide and she exclaims, “Incoming!”

Of course he is. We invited his attention by talking about him—like reciting a spell and then wondering why you’re cursed.

“What we talking about over here ladies?” He asks in his stilted English, his shoulder brushing mine as he stands beside me—too close. He’s always too close.

“Zadie’s not feeling well,” Larissa blabs.

“Not good? You need a break?” Jean-Paul suggests, wrapping an around my shoulder.

“I’m fine. Really,” I assert, shooting Larissa a look of annoyance as I try unsuccessfully to shrug out of J.P.’s hold.

“You,” he says, pointing at Larissa. “Back to work. You,” he says, squeezing me into his side. “Come rest.”

My attempts to protest are blocked by backstabbing Larissa. “No problem, boss! You really look bad, Zee, just go sit down.”

Traitor.

Normally, I’d continue fighting them. Letting someone else pick up my slack is not an option. Hell, just the inference that I’d leave any slack to pick up normally pisses me off. I refuse to be anyone else’s burden—refuse—but at this point, with the way that I’m feeling, I really may be dying. I can’t find a single ounce of energy to argue.

Giving in, I allow J.P. to angle me toward the break room, which also doubles as the manager’s office, and the supply closet.

The hand on my back becomes less of an annoyance, and more of a requirement to help hold me up. My feet practically drag as he guides me through the door into the half-lit room and toward the couch. Many employees have eaten, slept, and done who-knows-what-else on this couch. It’s gross. But, right now, it looks incredibly inviting. I let my exhaustion take over. Ignoring the normally scary stains, I plop down ungracefully into its lumpy goodness. It feels pretty damn good too.

Unfortunately, J.P. sits right alongside me.

“The hair looks good,” he compliments.

My hair looks the same as it does every day—messy and untamed. Fuck, this guy is annoying and sitting way too close for comfort.

“J.P., I’m too tired to talk right now.”

“Is that what’s wrong?” he asks innocently. “I thought maybe you’re still upset because you broke-up with the boyfriend. I hear it was nasty.”

How does everyone I work with know about this? I need to stop telling Larissa things.

“Well, it hasn’t been that long.”

“What about that other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The one who bought all your drinks—the kid with the hair. Remember, the night when you were supposed to be working, but got drunk instead?”

“I didn’t know you’d changed the schedule,” I argue, doing my best to avoid the question. “No one told me I was supposed to work. I came in to drink, and that’s exactly what I did. There’s no shame in that.”

“I know it was a mistake. I didn’t fire you, right?”

“You can’t fire me, you’re not in charge.”

It’s true and we all love bothering him about it. Even though he’s the only semblance of a manager we ever see, he has no real power. It drives him crazy. And it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. I realize it the moment the words leave my mouth. The vein in his forehead pops out, his face turning a light shade of crimson.

Everything about him turns me off. His slicked back hair. His manicured mustache. His overpriced clothes. The way he touches me without permission. All of it. But, as creepy as I find him, I don’t want to piss him off—not when I still have to work with him.

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant,” I backtrack.

“It’s fine, Zee,” he says, voice tight. “So, who was that guy?” Damn, I’ve upset him and still didn’t avoid the question.

“Caleb. He’s Chantal’s cousin.” I opt for the easy answer, but just saying his name has me thinking about him again. That gorgeous flow of hair. His easy smile. The rebel vibe he effortlessly mixes with intellect and confidence. His spectacular green eyes. I swear those fantastic emerald orbs looked right into my soul.

Truthfully, I haven’t stopped thinking about him.

When I startled awake in class today, it was from a rather erotic dream about the one and only Caleb Anderson. He’s been the object of my every fantasy. Talking with him, sleeping beside him, kissing him. Reality’s enough to turn me on, but add in the other things I’ve been dreaming up...

I flush hot thinking about it.

“You’re really not feeling well, huh?” J.P. asks, jolting me out of my Caleb musings as he presses his hand to my forehead.

I’d be offended or irritated by him touching me, if I had the energy for that. Right now, I couldn’t care less, as long as it’s just his hand and as long as it doesn’t stray any further.

“I think I must have picked up a virus,” I say, continuing my charade of illness. “Maybe something Chante brought home from the hospital?”

“Blech,” he spits out, his whole body oddly convulsing as he jumps away. “I should get back to work, but you should stay here for now. Rest.”

Leaving no time for me to reply, he practically runs out the door, allowing me to suffer in peace and quiet. At least, as much peace and quiet as a person can get in the back room of a nightclub. If I’d known I could get rid of him so easily, I’d have gone with that as my opening line. Maybe I should have thrown a cough in his direction for good measure.

As much as I hate the idea of letting Larissa and J.P. complete the shift without me, I can’t do much more than fall onto my side. I don’t even have the energy to pick my feet up off the floor.

Energy or not, sick or not, it doesn’t stop my brain from continuing its torturous visions of Caleb. I’m fed snapshot after snapshot of his gorgeousness, right up to the moment everything goes black.

***

Warmth and safety... mixed with the smell of a forest?

Wrapped snugly in my bed, I feel like I’ve been dreaming for days. Or maybe it’s been years of this peaceful sleep. It feels so good. Put me under a glass case—I think I’d be happy this way forever.

“They said she wasn’t feeling well.” I hear his murmur from the living room. “She slept the entire way home... Yeah, okay. Fine.”

Caleb. Here, in my apartment. Talking about me. Worrying about me.

What the hell?

“Caleb,” I croak, calling him to me, since I’ve got no energy or will to get out of my bed.

“Hey,” he says, poking his head through the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Thirsty. Tired and thirsty.”

Time warps as I drift back asleep. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours pass in a blink and then Caleb’s waking me with a hand on my blanketed shoulder.

“Water?” He holds out my sport bottle, filled with water and ice.

Oh, heaven. Ice.

The wonderful, luxurious warmth, suddenly feels like an inferno of uncomfortable swelter. My bed’s no longer cozy, it’s a sweat dungeon.

“Thanks,” I reply, grabbing for the drink as I toss aside the covers.

The minute the cool air of the room hits me I regret losing the blankets. Why is it, both times I’ve seen this man, I’ve been a complete disgusting mess? Right now, my work clothes are plastered to me—wet circles under my arms, under my boobs. Oh God... between my legs. Why does it have to feel like I pissed myself?

“I need a shower.” I try excusing myself, not bothering to ask what happened, why he’s here, or even what day it is.

“Let me help. I can get your shower started.”

“I’m fine,” I protest, rummaging through my dresser for a clean pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt large enough to hide in.

“You don’t seem fine. You were passed out at work. The redhead told me you were sick.”

“Larissa. She exaggerates, I’m just tired.” Leaning back against my dresser, I try to hide the sweat stains I’m wearing by crossing my arms over my chest. He’s not leaving, and my curiosity’s peaked—or maybe it’s my love of all things self-destructive spurring me on. “What are you doing here? How’d you get me home?”

“Same way I did last time.” His playful smile and quick wink do nothing to ease my anxiety. They also don’t hide the worried pinch of his brow. “I carried you in. No big deal, Zadie.”

“But, why you? I mean, how are you here right now?”

“Your co-workers called Chante because they couldn’t wake you up. You got me instead—Chante’s still at the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck is going on right now? Did you drive all the way from North Bay to pick me up from work? How long was I out?”

His laugh is light, completely unbothered by my rudeness. “I drove from North Bay three days ago. I’m staying at Chante’s place for a while.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I moved in. I’m living with her until I can find a place of my own. I thought she would have told you.” His light expression fades a little.

“Oh, she probably did, I’ve been distracted.” She absolutely did not, but I don’t want to admit to the wall silently building between us.

Maybe Caleb was the big secret she’s been holding from me. But why?

“Well, I’ve been meaning to come see you anyway,” he says. His smile is so bold and enigmatic it erases all my worries about Chante—and everything else.

“How old are you?” I blurt. Fuck it. First impressions, and all other impressions, are already ruined. There’s no point trying for normal.

“Is that really where you want to start this discussion? And do you really want to start it now?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sinking back into the hard edge of my dresser, I immediately regret my lack of filter. “Everything’s already awkward as hell. I just figure, you already know I’m a lot heavier than I look, and that I drool when I sleep. We might as well get all the other uncomfortable stuff out of the way too.”

He laughs at me.

Even though my head hurts and I’d like to curl into a ball of leave me alone to die, I can’t help but be enchanted by him. He’s got such a natural way about him—relaxing and reassuring.

“Alright, I’ll play along,” he says, humor lingering in his tone, as he makes himself comfortable on the edge of my bed. “But let me ask you something first. Why does my age matter?”

“It doesn’t. I mean, it shouldn’t. But it does.” Fuck, I sound like an idiot.

“Zadie, I feel like I need to apologize to you. Can we talk about that first?” he asks, leaning forward, his arms braced on his knees, enhancing the strong line of his shoulders.

Apologize? “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Really? Because I feel like I do. I know I freaked you out when we first met. At least, I assume I did, since you ran out of Chante’s place like it was on fire. I messed up, and I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for that.”

“I was there too.” I hesitate.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I don’t think you should take credit for that. You were wrecked.”

“And you weren’t?”

“No, Zadie.” His smile disappears, sincerity etching a crease between his brows. “I wasn’t. And I want to assure you, absolutely nothing happened between us.”

The lingering heat evaporates, my body starting to shiver as it cools.

Why do I feel so let down? It’s like some stupid part of me was secretly hoping he’d proclaim it the best night of his life. That Chante was wrong and something did happen between us. Something magical.

“Falling asleep in the same bed as you,” he continues. “Well, that was an accident. I think everything that night was a bit of an accident, and I’m sorry I let it happen.”

Of course, he’s sorry. He’s hot—young and hot—and I’m a fool in post-break-up mode with an overactive, hormone-fueled imagination.

“It’s okay,” I reassure. “I won’t lie. I did freak out. But only because I couldn’t remember what happened. When I saw you there, I guess I just assumed...”

“It’s an understandable assumption.” He smiles gently. “Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one?”

“Yeah, I’m twenty-one. Does that bother you?” His gentle smile turns mischievous.

“Why would that bother me? I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. You met me three weeks ago, and it ended in a bit of a disaster, but you’re still curious about me. So, I think you’re thinking the same thing I am.”

“And what exactly is it that you’re thinking?” Despite my damp clothing. Despite my embarrassment. I really want him to say he’s thinking about us naked together, because I am.

He looks so delicious in his ripped jeans and plaid shirt, with the sexy smart man glasses he’s wearing... and damn, his voice—it strokes me with each word—first soft, and then hard, and then soft again. It’s unnerving. Torturous.

And it all makes for one simple equation.

Sex.

“I’m thinking we should go out. On a date,” he says, jarring me out of my sex-filled musings. “Preferably one without any alcohol. Or, at least, very limited quantities.”

I sputter, choking on my water. No fucking way. He can’t be serious. A date? Go figure, the first time I get asked out on a date, and it’s only days after I find out I’m knocked up by a man who never bothered.

“What? Why on earth would you want to do that? Look at me,” I demand. “I’m a wreck.”

His already brilliant smile glows as he breaks into boisterous laughter.

He’s laughing at me and I don’t know if I should be encouraged or insulted. It doesn’t matter; not when the look on his face is so pure, so fucking genuine.

His smile. His laugh.

They melt my insides, making me want to forget the absolute horror of this moment. Watching him, I try to keep the tears at bay. This man—this beautiful, young, vivacious man—has no clue what he’s trying to get himself into.

“Zadie, I’ve only ever seen you a wreck,” he says, his playful smile heating. “You’re not perfect, you’re real—the most gorgeous wreck I’ve ever seen—and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

Why does he have to look so edible, and sound so damn sincere? I want to say yes. Dear lord, how I want to say yes.

But where would that leave us? I’ll still be pregnant with a douchebag’s baby. No matter how big the ball gown, or how shiny the glass slippers, my belly will still turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Or in about seven months, whatever.

“I can’t.” That’s all I manage to say, before disappointment closes my throat.

“Why not?”

Why not? I can’t help but laugh.

“Let me count the reasons,” I say, ticking them off my fingers. “You’re my best friend’s cousin. You know nothing about me, except that I’m a cheap drunk.”

He sits back, his fingers steepled at his mouth, looking unconcerned.

“And you’re eight years younger than me,” I emphasize, expecting him to look horrified or to run away. Probably screaming.

His expression doesn’t change. He just keeps looking at me with that sexy little smirk playing on his kissable fucking mouth.

“What? Not enough reasons for you?” I challenge.

“Oh no, that’s quite the list you’ve got there. I just don’t think your reasons are any good.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

“Very serious,” he stresses. “So, let’s pretend things aren’t totally weird and awkward. Let’s pretend I did this right, and I asked you out properly. What would your answer be?”

Contemplating his words, I examine him. The way his eyebrows arch perfectly over his expressive eyes. The way his hair frames his face, emphasizing his jawline. It’s masculine, but not harsh, and looks like it would be smooth to the touch. I’d like to nip at that jaw, I bet he’d taste delicious.

“You know, when you leave a guy hanging like this, it can do terrible things to his ego.” He interrupts my daydream. Again.

“I’ve never been on a real date,” I admit.

“Well then, it’s destiny! I’ve never been on a real date, either. We can be clueless together.”

My body shivers again, but it doesn’t feel like the chill of the air. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I tell him, firmly. The quake of my muscles quickly dying.

“It’s not the age difference, is it? Because it’s really not an issue.”

“No, Caleb, it’s not your age.”

“Ah shit, do you have a new boyfriend? I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask.”

“No, I definitely do not have a new boyfriend.” I search for a way to explain, without giving away the truth. I’m not prepared to discuss this, especially not while I’m standing in a puddle of my own sweat.

“A regrettable tattoo?”

“What?” I laugh. Why does he have to be so damn cute? “No. I don’t have a boyfriend or a tattoo and your age doesn’t bother me. Not really. You’ve just caught me at a bad time, and I don’t really want to talk about it. Not right now.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I’m being impulsive and you’re not feeling well. I’m sorry, I should have given this more thought.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

Caleb tries to talk—to say what, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I can’t stand hearing any more of the regret in his voice, but I certainly can’t entertain the idea of dating him.

“Please, don’t say any more,” I plead, interrupting him before he can speak. “Let’s stop with all the crap about awkward feelings and what we should have done differently. I can’t do anymore regrets—I’m already drowning in them. Can we agree to be friends, and just move forward?”

“Friends?”

“Yes. I don’t have many, and since you’re new in town, I figure you don’t have many here, either. Plus, I’d like drop by your apartment whenever I want. Like I normally would. I don’t want to worry about it being inconvenient or uncomfortable.”

“Okay. I guess I can agree to that.” He nods, his smile still in place, but looking a little less genuine than it did before. “But, if we’re doing no regrets, then you have to agree to a date. We’ll call it a friend date. A friendly date? Dates with friends. Whatever. You pick what you want to call it—just let me take you out.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I argue. “How about we just hang out instead.”

“Hang out?” He laughs.

“Yes, I believe the cool kids call it hangin’—it’s what friends do. Now, go home... to Chante’s place... you know what I mean. I need a shower and another twelve hours of sleep.”

And a mental health check.

Friends? It’s not a mistake to be friends, it’s the right choice. The only choice. But how the hell am I going to hang out with him on a regular basis and not sexually frustrate myself in the process? I don’t know if it’ll be possible, but I need to try. It’s not like I can put this baby on hold while I focus on a boyfriend.

I’m not my mother.

“Alright, I’m going.” He pauses at the doorway on his way out, turning back to look at me. “You sure you’re okay? I was kinda worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “But thank you, you’re already a good friend.”

“Anytime.” He smiles.

I try to smile back but it’s impossible—I’m too sweaty, too turned on, and too disappointed by the bitter irony of life.

The let-down feeling makes me realize, I need to dig a deeper hole for that bitch hope. She keeps clawing her way back out of her grave.

***

Caleb

STANDING AT CHANTAL’S KITCHEN counter, I stare down at the sandwich I’ve made. It’s a fabulous looking roast beef on rye with provolone and tangy dijon, topped with a leafy green mix. It’s the kind of sandwich that makes your mouth water.

Too bad I’m not hungry—I couldn’t stomach it, even if I tried. I just didn’t know what else to do with myself.

It’s been five days since I moved to Montreal, and I’m still trying to adjust. I already miss my meddling family, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to go broke by the end of this month, but I’m dwelling on Zadie. Why the hell did I think asking her out was a good idea?

She’s stuck me in the friend zone. It’s the kiss of death and it’s killed all my stupid fairy tale fantasies about romancing her off her feet.

Instead of pursuing her like a lovesick fool, I’ve backed off entirely. Two days is a long damn time to hide out in a room—especially for me—but it seemed wise to avoid temptation. So, I barricaded myself in there, pretending to unpack my meager belongings.

“Prince Charming! You’re still here!” Chante bursts into the kitchen, where I’m still staring at my too-good-to-eat sandwich.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her in days. She’s been working non-stop, and we’ve barely talked since my failed attempt to date her best friend.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I grumble.

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“Not in my world.” She stretches and yawns, as if to prove her point. “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t even been here a full week, are you sick of me already?”

“Not yet. I’m sure, if you keep your bedroom door closed this time, things will be fine.” She might not have a problem with her exhibitionism, but I do. Seeing my cousin’s naked ass was not the highlight of my last trip here. “Seriously Chante, are you sure you don’t mind me crashing with you? I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Nah, I like having you as my indebted slave. You can be my servant—keep the place clean and sparkly for me. Oh! You can be my bouncer too. I need someone to keep all the riff-raff out.”

Living with Chante obviously won’t be dull. Still, I don’t like the idea of her needing a bodyguard. Even if she is just joking around. “Are you expecting some sort of trouble?”

“Oh, you know me...” I don’t really, but I wonder at times if Chante knows herself. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.” She motions toward my food. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

“I’m not really hungry —” And before I can offer it to her, she sweeps in, stealing my sandwich off the plate.

“Do you think I’ve made a mistake moving here?” I ask, catching us both off guard.

“That’s a dumb question,” She scoffs, with her mouth full of sandwich. “You made the decision for a reason. You wanted to be here, right?”

“Yeah, I did. I still do. But I’m starting to wonder if flying by the seat of my pants and living in the moment is good. Maybe I’m setting myself up for a disappointing future.”

“Please tell me this isn’t about Zadie.”

I don’t reply, because really, what the hell am I going to say?

“Ah, Charming, don’t worry about it. Timing’s just bad, that’s all. I probably should have told her you were coming.”

“You didn’t tell her?” I thought Zadie’s reaction had been odd. Now I know why.

“I didn’t figure it was that big a deal.” She shrugs. “Of course, I didn’t know you were going to go all stalker-boy and ask her out the second you got into town. What were you thinking anyway?”

What was I thinking? “I don’t know... I didn’t see any point to waiting. I guess I didn’t expect her to say no.”

“Would it help if I reiterate that it’s just bad timing?”

Nope, doesn’t help a bit. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cry on your shoulder or anything. I’m good with being friends. Besides, there’s a lot I want to do. Which reminds me—I wanted to ask if you’d set me up with the volunteer coordinator at your hospital.”

“Hello?” Zadie calls from the foyer.

I need to have a talk with these two about locking doors. Neither of them seems to understand the function of the deadbolt. They come and go as they please, leaving their doors unlocked, even when they’re not home. I’m all for empowerment and equality, but Montreal doesn’t exactly have the lowest crime rate.

“Hey, babe!” Chante calls back. “What are you doing here?”

Zadie peeks her head into the kitchen, her eyes falling quickly from mine when she sees me there. “I thought you were giving me a ride,” she replies. “You offered. Yesterday.”

“I did?” Chante asks. “Sorry, hon, I must have messed up my schedule. Not sure what I was thinking, but I’m not ready to go anywhere, I haven’t even showered.”

“Fine.” Zadie huffs.

“You need a ride?” I offer, feeling the need to make her happy.

“No, thank you, I’ll take the Metro.” Even when speaking to me, she still refuses to look at me. With her hands planted on her hips, giving Chante the evil eye, she seems ready to take on the world.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Her ponytail’s messy, she’s wearing baggy sweats, and dark circles rim her eyes, hinting at a lack of sleep. That doesn’t stop her from being spectacularly stubborn and feisty. Even the scowl on her face is a thing of beauty.

“Take the ride, Zadie!” Chante sternly commands, dusting sandwich crumbs from her shirt.

Zadie reluctantly gives in, throwing Chante one final dirty look as we head out the door.

As soon as we leave the apartment, we fall into silence. Our short walk down the hallway, our slow ride in the elevator, our trek through the parking garage—all of it—silent.

I hate it. It’s not tranquil, and it’s not relaxing. The quiet is edged with anxiety and unease. Silence bothers me on the best of days, but this... well, it doesn’t feel very friendly.

“So, where are we going?” I ask once in the driver’s seat.

“McGill,” she replies softly. She stares at her hands. Folding and unfolding. Wringing around each other in a nervous gesture. I wish I could talk to her about her anxiety—is it being around me that has her so uptight?

This is going to be the longest ten-minute drive of my life. I search my mind for a way to make things less awkward, while Zadie seems to go out of her way to avoid looking at me. What little ego I do have left is being slowly destroyed with each passing minute of being ignored.

“The hospital? Do you work there too?” I hate feeling like I’m forcing her to talk to me, but dammit, I can’t stand the uneasy silence.

“No,” she answers boldly. “Not the hospital, the university. I’m a student. The club is my only job, and it’s only until I graduate. I hope.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were in school.”

“Yes. Shocker, I know,” she replies. “I do realize that I’m too old to be in university, and no, I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.”

“Why would your age matter?” And how, I wonder, can I convince her it makes no difference to me. “I think learning’s a fundamental right everyone should have. I don’t think it should be restricted by age, economics or any other factor. If you want to go to school when you’re one hundred, I think you should.”

With a small smile tugging her lips she nods. “I agree with you. I just wish everyone else did. People look at me funny when I tell them I’m in university, but I just couldn’t afford it when I was younger.”

Her mention of money has me cringing. It’s embarrassing to admit how much of my parent’s money I wasted on my failed attempt at college. Knowing how easy it was to walk away from my own education, without concern for the expense, makes me feel like an ass. It also reminds me that I need to find a job and start acting like the responsible adult I’ve claimed to be.

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of younger people wasting money on an education they aren’t sure of. So, maybe it’s better that you waited. I mean, look at me...” I wish I really could get her to look my way, but her eyes don’t shift from the horizon. Redirecting, I ask, “What are you studying?”

“Kinesiology. I’m in second year.” She pauses, her hands still nervously fidgeting. When she continues, she sounds choked. “It’s a three-year program.”

“Sports medicine. I get it. You want to work with all the athletes,” I try to keep the conversation going, as I wonder about the expression on her face, the pained waiver of her voice, and what it is I’m missing.

“No, definitely not.” Her tone shifts, turning hard and determined. “Sean—my ex—he tried to talk me into that, but I want to focus on using sports and play as therapy. There’s a ton of research showing the benefits for kids with autism. Dementia and Alzheimer’s patients too. Not that there’s anything wrong with helping athletes with their performance. It just doesn’t seem as important to me as helping someone gain function in their day to day life.”

Ah, hell. She’s smart and compassionate too. Hearing her conviction and her desire to help others, sparks an odd feeling in my chest. The fantastic way her lips move and the enchanting tone of her voice, spark a very different feeling. A very familiar feeling. One below my belt.

The idea I’ve been toying with these past few days—the idea of staying away from her—seems silly and arbitrary. Why wouldn’t I pursue this girl with everything I’ve got?

Her return to pensive silence reminds me—she’s not interested in anything more than friendship. Even that feels like a stretch right now.

Pulling into the crammed student parking lot, I’m suddenly anxious about being away from her. I hate leaving things uncomfortable and unsure between us. I hate the thought that if I don’t fix things somehow, I’ll never get to kiss her again.

“Zadie, listen...”

“I know,” she says with a sad looking smile. “I suck at this friend thing, don’t I? My life’s kind of mixed up right now. I promise we can hang out, and I’ll tell you all about it. I just need some time, okay?”

Not sure exactly how to respond, I find myself nodding in agreement. How can I argue with her logic? Time’s always good—isn’t it?

Fuck, no. What’s time going to do? Make things more awkward, more difficult to approach. I’ve given her two days—two days feels like it’s already been too long. I’m not programed to wait and see.

“Let me walk you to class,” I suggest. “I’ll fend off anyone who looks at you funny, and maybe I’ll check out the library while I’m here.”

Without giving her an option, I park the car and quickly get out, running around to open the door for her.

“Thanks.” She smiles. Her lips curl softly upward, but she still looks unhappy. “The library is on the other side of campus, but this is really sweet of you.”

Sweet. Maybe that’s the sober-girl version of masculine and sexy?

“Don’t tell anyone,” she confides. “I do feel a little lonely walking around here on my own sometimes. It’s nice to have you with me.”

The weird feeling in my chest spreads. One tiny compliment from her and I’m ready to throw away reason. One sad smile, and my resolve to back away crumbles. If she wasn’t so beautiful and vulnerable, would I still have this crazy reaction?

I don’t know. And in this moment, I don’t care.

I’m tempted to reach out and touch her—to hold her hand or throw my arm around her slender shoulders—but I resist the urge. Walking by her side is enough.

This time, as we walk without words, the sound of our footfalls seems to speak for us. They remind me of a heartbeat. There’s a cadence, a rhythm, a strong and steady pulse. It’s not loud, it’s not dramatic, but it’s the kind of sound that holds promise.

***

Zadie

IT’S THE FIRST DAY of October. I discovered, after my first visit to my doctor, it’s also about my sixth week of pregnancy.

Who knew you’re supposed to start counting the week before you get pregnant? Not me, I find it super confusing. But, whatever. I’m not a doctor, and since I’ve not spent a ton of time with my best friend who is, I haven’t had the chance to ask these types of questions.

Today we’re supposed to be going shopping. All I really want to do is eat. When I’m not busy throwing up, I’m ravenous. I’ve been told this is normal and that the sickness should die down in the next couple of weeks. Of course, this information is coming from my mother—she’s not exactly the most reliable source.

Chante meets me at her door, still wearing her nightgown. It seems reliability may be in short supply these days.

“Hey babe, is it time to go already?” she greets.

“Yeah, did you wake up late?”

“No, I was just busy. Come on in, I’ll only take a minute.”

I wish I knew what was going on with her. She’s been flaking out on me more and more—like when she offered me the ride and then made Caleb do it instead. She didn’t even tell me he was moving in.

The fact that a man has moved in with my best friend shouldn’t be an issue. It’s really not a big deal. The fact that she knew about it for days and didn’t tell me, also shouldn’t bother me. It’s her apartment, he’s her cousin. She has a right to let whoever she wants to move in with her.

Except, Caleb isn’t just any man.

He’s a man, eight years my junior, who I’ve developed a very unhealthy obsession with. He may be Chante’s cousin, and I may hardly know him, but that hasn’t stopped me from forming a serious infatuation. From the moment he kissed me—or maybe it was the moment I drunkenly decided to kiss him—he’s been on my mind.

Chante’s incessant teasing hasn’t helped, either. My infamous ‘morning after’ call has given her far more ammunition than needed. It may only be playful teasing, but the truth is, I was crushing.

Okay, so I still am.

Hard.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she says, sauntering back into the living room wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt.

Now I know something’s wrong. Chante does not wear jeans. It’s not like she’s stuck up or anything, but when she’s not wearing her scrubs she’s always in a dress or a skirt. Occasionally, she might put on a fancy pair of pants but never—and I mean literally never—have I seen her in jeans. I didn’t even know she owned a pair.

“You’re going like that?” I challenge.

“Well, I thought maybe we’d skip the shopping. You don’t really need all that stuff yet anyways. Do you?”

“No, I guess not. Although, I don’t think it’ll hurt to start getting prepared. You know... for stuff.” I look past her into the living room, not wanting to say too much, in case Caleb can overhear us.

“Relax, he’s not here.” She rolls her eyes at me. “I think we should go for a walk. The weather’s still nice and I’m not getting nearly enough exercise. Want to go to the park?”

“I guess so,” I hesitantly agree, still curious what’s gotten into her.

Once outside, I feel better, my unease over Chante’s behavior easily forgotten. The sun’s shining brilliantly, it’s warm, and the fall colors are starting to show.

“Wow, what a gorgeous day,” I sigh. “Thanks for dragging me out.”

“Sure, babe. Anything for you.”

“Good. I’m starved, let’s hit up the street vendor on the corner. I want one of those giant pretzels.”

She readily agrees. Which should concern me, since I’ve heard her opinion on street carts. It involves hygiene, temperatures, bacteria, and a bunch of other stuff. Honestly, I can’t always understand her half-French ranting, but I know she’s not a fan.

I ignore the warning bells. Instead, I happily inhale my junk food. I promise myself and the bean growing inside me that I’ll start eating healthier, tomorrow. Taking the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine, I stretch my legs and I crack stupid jokes with my best friend as we stroll down the walkway of our local park.

Until we make our way to the skate ramps.

I see him, even before Chante grabs my arm, bringing our steps to a slow stop. He’s impossible to miss.

His lean muscles ripple, his strong jaw’s set with confidence, and his wild hair flows freely around him. Caleb maneuvers himself on a skateboard. He flies down a ramp at breakneck speed, flips the board under his feet when he hits the top, and then sails back down the other side.

His movements are agile and fluid, making the board look like an extension of his body. Each trick, effortless. Each push, powerful.

He’s magnificent.

I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. He’s built a tiny fan club. Kids of various ages have gathered around. Some stand motionless watching. Some jump around imitating the movements they see. Others try in vain to keep up. All are in awe—you can see it on their faces. Even the teenager. He’s a good challenger, but he still shakes his head in amazement when Caleb lands an impossible looking trick. The little kids clap their appreciation.

So do I.

I clap, hoot, and holler like an idiot, bringing his attention our way.

When his eyes land on mine he breaks into a huge grin. With one last kick, he sends the skateboard into the air. He spins both it and his body in a wild arch before hopping onto the top of the ramp and catching the board in his hand.

Some of the kids crowd him, asking for tips, begging him to show them how it’s done. He just smiles down and tells them, “Practice. Every single day. And don’t give up.” He bumps fists with the teenager before jogging over to where Chante and I stand.

“You’re a show off,” Chante declares. “I thought you’d given that up.”

A cloud passes overhead, casting a shadow over his beautiful face, and for a moment, I see a look that’s less than vibrant. It’s a look that’s pained, almost haunted. “Yeah, well it’s not as easy as it used to be, but I still enjoy it from time to time.”

“You’re amazing,” I gush, still in awe of his mastery over a strip of wood on wheels.

“Thanks, but that was nothing, really.” The fleeting look of sadness drops away, replaced with his usual beam of exuberance. “I was just goofing around for the kids.”

“That was nothing?” I ask skeptically. “It looked pretty impressive to me.”

“It’s not too hard. I could teach you a couple of easy tricks.”

“I wouldn’t even be able to stand on that thing without landing on my ass,” I laugh.

“I wouldn’t let you fall.” His eyes dance over my face. “Trust me, I’d hold on to you, very tightly.”

His words are innocent, but his tone is devious, and my entire body reacts to the suggestion. For a minute—as my pulse pounds in my ears, in my chest, and between my legs—I consider it. I imagine his hands on me, gripping my hips, holding me firmly, pulling me closer. I can practically feel his breath on my neck.

“I don’t think so,” I stammer. My physical reaction is too wild. I’m too thirsty for his attention. Too eager to feel his touch. He’s just too tempting—a mistake waiting to fucking happen. “I wouldn’t want to make any of the kids jealous.”

“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Chante interrupts. “Zadie, you should stay, let Caleb teach you a few things. The kids can have turns later.”

“Where are you off to?” I ask.

“I’ve got a date.” Her gaze travels out over the park as she avoids looking at us.

“A date?” How could she have a date when we were supposed to be spending the day together? I can’t even remember the last time Chante had a date—she’s so dedicated to her job—but a date in the middle of the afternoon?

Fuck. This was a set up. My best friend is the goddamn devil.

“Come on, Zadie, it could be fun,” Caleb urges.

“I can’t. I have to go.” I turn abruptly, escaping toward home.

It feels like my emotions are going to spiral out of control. I feel paranoid, depressed, and turned on all at the same time. But it’s simmering anger that threatens to overflow and consume me.

And that really pisses me off.

Maybe pregnancy’s like grief—it feels like there are definite stages. First it was denial, and then regret. I thought I’d already reached acceptance, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe one of the necessary stages is huge angry bitch.

Chante quickly catches up to me, her stride purposeful and determined.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she accuses, stepping in front of me, forcing me to stop.

“Me? I should be asking you that question. How dare you set me up like that. Do you enjoy making me miserable? It’s bad enough he’s moved here without you bothering to warn me... But this? What were you thinking?”

I think I might like being a raging bitch.

“You need to chill the fuck out.” Her demanding doctor tone is in full force. “All I was trying to do was get you to loosen up and have some fun. It’s skateboarding! I wasn’t asking you to get married.” She huffs a frustrated breath and my ultra-bitch ego deflates. “I understand you’re going through a pretty big upheaval. Honestly, it’s the only reason I’ve let you talk this shit to begin with. But your life isn’t ending, and we both know Caleb isn’t the reason you’re acting this way.”

She’s right, at least partially. Most of my reaction is about us, the secrets she’s holding, and my fear of losing my best friend. The other part is fear of losing myself—fear that having a baby is going to mess up all my newly formed and hard-won plans.

“Why do you have to be right all the time?” I cry.

“Because I’m older and wiser,” she soothes.

“Two years hardly counts.”

“But those are doctor years. You know that’s like the equivalent of two decades.”

Oh God, this argument again. I can’t help but giggle as I reply, “All right, you want to be twenty years my senior? No problem. I’ll stick with my tiny twenty-nine-year-old brain, thank you very much.”

“Ha. Ha,” she mocks. “I said it was the equivalent—that doesn’t actually add years to my life. Besides, I still have the body of a twenty-year-old. I’m the best of both worlds, sugar-tits.”

Her laughter lets me know, despite my giant tantrum, things are still okay. At least, for now. But I can’t bring myself to laugh along with her. It’s just not funny. Right now, it feels like nothing will ever be funny again.

Groaning in despair, I wail, “Chante! Why did you have to bring up your fabulous body? I’m going to get fat! My body’s short and compact to begin with, and my ass is already stretching my favorite jeans.”

Giving me a look generally reserved for toddlers, she corrects, “You’re growing another human being, not getting fat. Besides, you’re young, the weight will come right back off. And your ass?” She smirks. “Your ass is perfectly slap-able, trust me. But if you don’t want to take my word for it, we can always go back and ask Caleb what he thinks. I bet he wouldn’t mind giving you a spank or two.”

“Don’t even joke,” I warn her as she breaks into an evil grin.

“Why not? You know you want him.”

“Please, like that makes any difference now. What I want doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” she tells me calmly. “You still have choices. You always have choices. Don’t set aside your own happiness. Not yet.”

“Chante, I’ve already decided. I’m keeping the baby.”

“Okay. Well that’s great, babe. Doesn’t mean you need to become a nun.” Wrapping her arm around my shoulders, she clears her throat. “Here’s the thing. You’re a weirdo, you like Caleb. Well, newsflash, he likes you too. Don’t shut that down.”

“I already did,” I confess. “He asked me to go out with him. On a date. I said no.”

“You said no?” I nod my head in confusion. “Okay, I can fix this. I’ll just explain to him that what you really meant was yes.”

“What? No! Don’t you dare!”

“Why not?”

“Because, I can’t go out with him! I can’t do another relationship. It would be a mistake,” I confess my fears.

“Who said anything about a serious relationship? I’m talking about bumping uglies. Zadie, have some filthy, dirty sex with my cousin, will you?”

“Please stop,” I groan. “I swear, you’re like a teenage boy trapped in a grown woman’s body.”

“Look,” she says with no hint of humor, dropping her arm back to her side. “You won’t have the guts to do it yourself, and I don’t want to hear you crying when you realize I’m right.”

Why do I bother arguing with her? I know the more I try to dispute it, the more she’ll be convinced she’s right.

“Fine, Chante,” I concede. “Do whatever you want. I mean, my life’s already a disaster, might as well bring Caleb into it. I’m sure he won’t mind having his cousin set him up with a pre-made family. What young guy doesn’t dream of taking on eighteen years of someone else’s responsibility?”

My harsh tone and cruel intention doesn’t even make her flinch. “There’s a lot about him you don’t know,” she says, cryptically. “If you knew, you’d realize how totally wrong you are.”

Without giving me time to respond she adds, “You are right about one thing, though. I don’t think I should fix any more of your problems. I love you, Zadie, but you need to pull your head out of your ass.” My shocked expression doesn’t stop her from laying it all out. “You’re not the first woman in the world to have an unplanned pregnancy. Not everyone would consider it a disaster. Some might even think of it as a blessing.”

She walks away, leaving me alone with my pregnancy grief. But not before I catch the sharp line across her brow and a wobble of her chin.

Was she going to cry?

Either I really am a horrible, raging bitch, or I don’t know my best friend the way I thought I did. She sure has a good handle on me, though.

The selfishness, the pity, the negative cycle of doubt and despair—all of it ends now. I don’t need those reckless feelings anyway. They sure aren’t going to solve any of my problems for me. And apparently, neither is anyone else.

How many more mistakes is it going to take to get this right?