Holland

I’ve known I’m pregnant for two weeks now, and it still hasn’t sunk in. King is also back in my life, another thing that hasn’t sunk in.

“Holland, honey it’s time to go,” Mama says. She has taken to pretending nothing has happened. She drives me back and forth to STRINGS to practice and to lessons, chatting about the weather, television shows, and any other insignificant bit of small talk she can think of. All the while, I have been watching too many YouTube videos about giving birth and reading What to Expect When You're Expecting every chance I get. That’s how we deal with problems, I guess. She ignores the issue, and I immerse myself into it.

“Coming,” I holler down the stairs. I’ve never considered not playing the violin, but I came close a week ago when I vomited in the trash in my practice room. Kneeling there alone with the stench of puke in my nose, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead and tears streaming down my face, I wanted nothing more than to drop my violin and go home, crawl between crisp, clean sheets, and stay in bed . . . forever. Mama is relentless, though. She’d rather die than see me quit playing. She wants me to have an abortion so I can go to Juilliard this fall as planned. She’s never said the words out loud, but it’s clear that she’s not interested in being a grandma. She’s always wanted me to succeed in the music world, and I’ve never given her any indication that I wouldn’t, because until now, we always wanted the same thing. Now that it may not be a possibility, she’s starting to fray at the edges, like it’s her dream being crushed, not mine—and maybe it is. I’ve started wondering if she has been pushing me all these years because it’s something she wanted. She played all through school and college, and even auditioned for a spot in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, but she wasn’t awarded the spot. She saw my talent and jumped at the chance to live her dreams through me. I can’t believe I never saw it.

I thank God for King’s support every day. When Savannah held up that stick with a pink plus sign on it, I thought my life was over. I didn’t believe her at first. I did another one, and when it was positive too, I made her go to the pharmacy for two more. I guess I thought if I did enough of them, one would finally give me the result I wanted.

Wrong.

All four donned bright pink plusses, like a neon sign in a bar window. I actually broke all of them in half and threw them all over the bathroom, screaming like a lunatic. I’ve come a long way in the past two weeks. I tried to deny the four positive tests, and then the reality of it all set in and I was terrified. I had to tell my parents, and I had to tell them everything. The lies had to stop. The guilt was eating me alive. I’m just not cut out for deceit.

Mama freaked out, to say the least. After a moment of sitting with her jaw in her lap, it was on. I’ve never seen her like that before, screaming and running around, flailing her arms, pointing her finger in my face. Daddy had to take her outside to calm her down. I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next. I went straight across the street to Savannah’s house, where I stayed for two days and two nights crying and blubbering until Daddy came to get me. He hasn’t said much about it at all, but he did want to meet King. I begged him not to get him involved, but he said King has a right to know, and he has a point. I just couldn’t bring myself to call him. One of them must have, though, because I know Savannah wouldn’t. She kinda hates him now for knocking me up and ruining my future.

“You look nice today, honey. Got your violin?” Mama tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear and smiles like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I’ve been playing along for days, but it’s weird.

“Yeah, it’s in the back.”

“Okay, missy, let’s go.”

I’m starting to wonder if we have a history of mental illness in our family, because she’s acting nuts. I raise my eyebrows and loll my head to the window while she backs the car out of the garage and down the driveway. Resting my elbow on the door handle with my chin in my hand, I watch the world go by and wonder what all the people in the cars and on the street are dealing with in their lives. Do any of them have an unexpected baby on the way, a drug lord boyfriend who’s six years older than them, and a ruined career? I’m guessing not.

Mom’s humming along with a pop song playing on the radio and tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel. Yeah, there’s definitely got to be some psychiatric history in our family tree.

When I’ve taken my seat in the orchestra pit, I slip my phone from my pocket and text King. Mama’s sitting back a few rows so she can’t see me. She took my phone the day after I told her I was pregnant, but King slipped me a brand new one yesterday when he stopped by. It’s surreal that he just pops in whenever he wants, and my parents allow it. I spend a lot of time at Savannah’s house. I left her out of my confession story. I knew they wouldn’t want me to see her again if they knew it was all her idea. I blamed a mystery girl instead. I told them I met her at a football game and she convinced me to use fake IDs to get into King’s club.

My text is answered immediately, and as always, he wants to know how I am, how I feel, and if I’m okay. God, the man asks me if I’m okay a million times a day, but I love it.

I feel like he’s the only person totally in my corner. I can see myself loving him. There’s no doubt about it. I felt it the night I met him, but the way he earns his living scares me. After a long day and night of talking it all through, he told me that he had been ready to give it all up until he found out I was nineteen. With everything out in the open, we were free to make some serious decisions about the baby and his business and Juilliard. Having the baby wasn’t debatable for me. I’d never be able to have an abortion. I can’t imagine purposely taking the life of a helpless baby, but even more than that, I’d never be able to hurt something that was part of King. The baby is due in February, and I’m delaying Juilliard a year if they will still take me. King assured me that it wouldn’t be a problem, but I made him promise to let me do it on my own, with no bribes or special favors. He agreed, but I’m not sure he wouldn’t secretly do it anyway if they refused me. He’s used to getting what he wants. In fact, I think I may have been the first thing he wanted that he couldn’t have.

Our problems are still as real as they were when we met. I’m still young and he’s still a drug lord, but the baby brings a responsibility to the table that can’t be ignored. He could have paid me off or done the minimal visitation and child support required if he hadn’t cared for me. It would have been much easier for him.

I told him how crazy my mama is acting and how Daddy won’t even look at me. He wanted me to come live with him, but I wanted to see if my parents would calm down. Part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Other than the severe nausea, angry parents and delay at Juilliard, things aren’t as bad as I had expected, and I owe that all to King.

He’s been in contact with the dean of admissions at Juilliard about my delay and offered to pay my tuition when I go back. He dotes on me and spoils me. Even Savannah is starting to come around . . . a little.

My phone vibrates in my lap, and I turn it over quickly before the conductor reaches his podium.

I’m missing you. I’ll be over to see you later, and if you feel up to it, we can go for dinner, or maybe just to my place to relax and get away for a while.

I shoot him a quick reply.

Mama might not like that.

Don’t worry about your mother. I’ll handle her. Pick you up at six. -Your King

The signature means he’s done, finished, no discussion, whatever he’s said is law, and the subject has been dismissed.

Okay, see you then. H

I turn the phone off and tuck it under my leg just as the conductor approaches. I sneak a peek out into the auditorium to check on my mother. She’s still looking at her phone. Good.

After a long, grueling practice, I slip out, surrounded by a dozen members of the string section, to the bathroom before Mama can snag me. I’ve swallowed back the nausea so long that my mouth is watering. I’m clammy, and I need some relief.

Thankfully, I make into the tiny, dark, two-stalled bathroom and vomit before anyone else enters. I wash my hands and brush my teeth with the toothbrush I’ve taken to carrying around in my bag before I exit and look down the hall to my right for my mother. When I turn left, I step right into a solid wall of muscle.

I don’t even get a chance to see who it is before King has swept me off my feet and into his arms.

“Oh.” I giggle when I realize who it is.

“You should really be more careful, Holland. I could have been a dangerous drug lord.”

“Uh, yeah. Next time, I’ll make sure to have my drug lord radar turned on.” I play along with the lighthearted moment, but I can’t help wondering if he realizes that he really is a dangerous drug lord that I should by all rights be afraid of. There is something about him though, something genuine and light that tells me he wasn’t meant for this lifestyle.

King was thrust into his illegal career after the murder of his father, and I worry every second of every day that he might suffer the same fate. What if he can’t get out? What if he does get out and somebody tries to kill him for leaving? There’s no one left in his family to take his place. Everyone else is dead, so who would even take his place?

“Are you hungry now that you’re empty again?” We’re walking down the hall toward the auditorium. King is walking. I’m being carried.

“How do you know I’m empty?” He looks down at me and lifts one corner of his mouth in a smirk.

“Holland, you just came from the bathroom after a two-hour practice. I think you set a record for hours without vomiting.” I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. He’s right. I puke a lot, and it sucks.

“Sorry, it’s not the most attractive way to start a relationship.”

“Hush, you’re beautiful all the time . . . even with your head in the toilet.” He laughs and I play slap his cheek.

“Your idea of beautiful is very different from mine then.”

“Maybe so, but you should be happy I dig a pukey girl.”

“Stop. You’re not going to start with that stupid nickname too, are you?”

“What nickname?” he asks, feigning innocence with raised eyebrows and batting eyelashes.

“I’m serious, King. Please, Savannah’s bad enough.”

“Okay, okay, you win.” His lips tenderly press against my forehead while he continues down the long hall.

“Where are you taking me? Mama’s going to be waiting. She’s probably already freaking out.”

“Don’t worry about your mother. I told her I’m taking you for the rest of the day.” His voice is calm and cool, and I wonder how the hell he pulled that off.

“She just let you take me?”

“Yes.”

“Without a fight or an argument? She just walked out and left me here?” I don’t believe it.

“You sound like you don’t want to spend time with me.” We’ve reached the door. He turns around to push through with his backside. Everyone has cleared out of the auditorium, and the lights are turned down.

“I didn’t say that. I’m just really surprised. She has been acting so weird lately.”

“Weird how?”

“She acts like nothing’s going on, like I’m not pregnant and I’m still going to Juilliard.” His arms tighten around me, and I feel tension roll through his body.

“What? You know why she’s being psycho, don’t you?” I curl my fingers around the lapel of his suit coat, and he turns his face so that we are nose to nose again. Deep frown lines pucker between his eyes, I don’t like this, not one bit.

“Where do you want to eat?” he says.

“Where do I want . . . wait . . . King, don’t try to change the subject. You know something. Tell me.”

“Talk later, eat now, so where?”

“I’m not hungry, you pick.” I cross my arms over my chest and pout. Why won’t he just tell me?

“Okay, good. I was hoping you would say that—not the part about not being hungry, of course, but I’ve got this afternoon all planned out.

“Oh you do, huh?” So this wasn’t an impromptu visit. He has plans . . . after dinner at the club in a fairytale land, I know King can make just about anything happen in an instant.

We’ve made it into the parking lot, and King hasn’t even broken a sweat. He isn’t short of breath at all, but I feel a little guilty letting him carry me like a baby.

“You know I can walk, right?”

“Yes, I know. I’ve missed holding you. You’re not going to deprive me of that, now are you?” He looks into my eyes with a ‘you wouldn’t dare’ look and I surrender. I’m all his. He can baby me, spoil me, whatever. I’m okay with it all. I’m just happy I can see him without sneaking around.

“No, never.” I reach up and trail my fingers along his scruffy jaw, where he’s grown a little more than a five o’clock shadow. His dark eyes flit to mine and back to where he’s buckling me into the Rover. His hand lingers, gently pressing against my belly. A hot gust of dusty air rushes in around us before he closes the door. I watch him run around the front of the truck with his suit coat flapping and his carefully styled hair swirling in the wind. He’s breathtaking. The confident way he moves makes my heart swell when he slides in next to me, disheveled and smiling his model perfect smile . . . or is it? For the first time, I notice an imperfection in this beautiful man, a bottom tooth that looks like it’s been knocked out of the tidy row of pearly whites just a smidgen. I like it. It makes him seem . . . more human.

“Ready?”

“Yep.” He’s excited, and it’s adorable.

“You’re sweet; have I told you that?”

“Hmm . . . not lately,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips and shaking my head back and forth.

“Well, you are. Don’t forget that, okay?”

I nod and close my eyes. Sometimes this seems like a dream instead of a nightmare, and this is one of those times when I have to actually pinch myself to be sure.

After ten minutes, he pulls into the garage of Ecstasy and I glance over at him.

“We just have to stop here for a couple of minutes.”

“That’s what you said the last time. What are you cooking up?” I ask.

“You’ll see, come on.” I love this playful side of King. In the midst of all of our problems, he can still act like a kid.

When the elevator doors slide shut in front of us, King presses a button I’ve never noticed before.

“What does the R stand for?”

“Roof.” He winks and sidesteps next to me, slinking his arm around my waist.

“And I want you to know that I’ve checked with your obstetrician, and she assures me this is okay.”

“What’s okay?” I ask just as the elevator opens and I’m twenty feet from a helicopter. Its blades whir and chop, and I instinctively cover my eyes and turn into King’s side. He holds me tighter and speaks directly into my ear.

“You okay with heights?” he half shouts, and I pull away to give him a leery wide-eyed stare. I hate heights.

“Ah, so you’re not okay with heights?” he says, shaking his head back and forth.

“Not really.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re with me. You can cover your eyes, and we’ll sit in the back.” He’s rubbing my arms up and down, trying to reassure me. I can’t believe I’ve got goose bumps in ninety-five-degree weather.

“You’re shaking, baby.” He steps back and bends his knees to look up at me through the veil of hair covering my face.

“I pinky swear you will be perfectly fine.” He offers me his pinky. I giggle at his juvenile comforting tactic and link my pinky finger with his. After a quick shake, he tucks me under his arm and hustles me across the helipad before I have time to change my mind.

My hair is whipping around my face as we crouch and hustle toward the chopper door. King lifts me into the fuselage, and when we are seated, he moves my hair out of my face and places his large hands on either side of my head.

“I’m going to help strap you in, and we will be in the air in a couple of minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

He sets about clicking and tugging on straps while the blades begin to whirl faster and faster and the whup whup whup begins to match the pace of my pulse pounding in my ears. I try not to think about being thousands of feet off the ground in this tin can, but my body and mind betray me. I’m going to faint, or puke, or faint and then puke.

I look over at King, and he must see the panic in my eyes.

“Breathe, baby, in and out.” He inhales through his nose and gestures for me to do the same. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your breath flowing into your lungs and back out.” He blows out his breath, and I do the same.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doing great. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll be in South Padre in forty-five minutes, on the beach, having dinner. Just breathe . . .” His voice is so soothing and calm. He continues talking to me, encouraging me to take deep, cleansing breaths while we take off, and by the time we’re at the correct altitude, my nerves have settled, but not my stomach.

“Thanks. You’re gonna make a great birthing coach,” I say, and he winks at me from across the aisle.

“It’s all about the breathing. Do you meditate?”

“No, but playing the violin is sort of like meditation, I guess.”

“Then next time, we’ll bring it and you can play while we fly.”

“Next time? Can’t we just take a plane? It’s much quieter.” He doesn’t respond, so I know there will be a next time.

Being a pregnant party pooper sucks. I can’t even bring myself to look out the window. The constant queasy feeling is so bad that I’m afraid I may vomit all over King’s expensive loafers.

“Almost there,” he says.

“Did you say South Padre?”

“Yeah, the water’s beautiful there. We can eat and go for a swim if you’re up to it.”

“I might feel better when my feet are on solid ground.” My hands are folded over my belly, and I’m sure my skin is a lovely shade of green.

“I’m sorry. You really don’t like flying, do you?”

“What gave it away? My reaction to seeing the helicopter, or the fact that I can’t look anywhere but directly at you?” I hear him chuckle through the headset, and I swear to get him back for this somehow.

A little while later, when my feet hit the sand outside a hotel that King owns, I couldn’t be more grateful. In fact, I’d rather drive the six hours back home than ride in that thing again.

We stroll hand in hand along the beach, listening to the seagulls and the softly rolling waves of the ocean. I feel better physically. I’m not nearly as nauseous, and emotionally, I’m calm and content just being with King. He’s unusually quiet, and he’s been glancing at me periodically.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

King looks down at his bare feet in the sand, and a thick curl falls against his forehead.

“I’m thinking how fucking lucky I am to have found you, that I can’t believe you’re nineteen and you’re carrying my child. I’m thinking that I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother, and what’s crazier is that I’m going to be a father. I’m thinking it’s insane how badly I want to touch you every time I see you, and that I never knew I could love someone this hard.”

I stop walking and turn to face him. He cups my cheek with his hand and I lean into it, savoring the warmth of his skin and the deep sincerity of his words. He loves me. This amazing, multifaceted man loves me. Out of the billions of women on the planet, it’s me he wants to be with. Me.

“Now you—what are you thinking?” He tries to push my fluttering hair away from my face, but the breeze is strong here and it won’t stay put.

“I’m thinking that I can’t believe you love me.” I turn and look away from him, down the long stretch of beach. He places one finger against my chin and moves my head until we’re eye to eye again.

“Holland, believe it. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t, but just know that no matter what ever happens between us,”—His hand slides down to my belly—“all three of us, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear,” I say, and for the second time today, we shake on it and I jump into his arms. Tears fill my eyes, and I choke back a sob. He folds me into his strong, protective arms, cradling me against his chest.

“Now that we’ve expressed our undying love, can we go eat?” I sniffle and smile against his previously crisp blue shirt.

“Yeah. I can’t believe it, but I’m actually hungry.”

“Hallelujah. Let’s hurry before that passes and you throw up on my new shoes.”

“Very funny.” I gently swat at him, and we continue down the edge of the water to a beachfront café, where we sit outside and talk and eat. Being with King is as natural as playing the violin for me. I’m at ease and relaxed. Our conversations flow effortlessly, and the sound of his voice permeates my soul the same way music does.

Now that our secrets are out in the open, we can really get to know each other, and despite the age gap, we have a lot in common.

“Do you believe in God?” he asks.

“Well yeah, of course.”

“I mean, like, do you believe there is a God or a higher power.”

“I believe in God. I’m Catholic,” I say.

“Me too.”

“Really? You’re Catholic? Do you go to church?” I ask.

“Does the Pope wear white?”

“Well yeah, I just didn’t think, ya know, because you’re . . .”

“A drug dealer?”

“Yeah, sorry.” It doesn’t seem possible that this open, loving, kind man is a criminal. I mean, yeah, at times he’s bossy, but he’s never abrasive or cruel like the characters I’ve seen on TV or in the books I’ve read.

“Don’t apologize. I know it’s hard for you to imagine the life I lead. I never want you to. I’m getting closer to making an uneventful exit. I want us to live comfortably, but more importantly, I want us to be safe. You’re my top priority now, you and the jelly bean.”

King moved his chair next to mine as soon as we sat down. He has been touching me all day, and now his hand is resting on my tummy. The café is quiet. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard another customer come in or out.

“Jelly bean, huh?”

“Yep, he’s probably a little bigger than a jelly bean though. I’ve been reading up on fetal development.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh when he pulls me into his lap.

“He? Do you know something I don’t?”

“No I just hate calling my baby an ‘it’.”

“This is a public place, you know. I shouldn’t be sitting on your lap.”

“I had them close down for lunch so we could be alone. It’s easier to concentrate on you when I don’t have to be paranoid about the crowd.”

That explains the quiet.

“Don’t they lose a lot of money closing down on a beautiful day like this?” I ask.

“I paid them three times what they bring in during lunch on their best day. Don’t worry about the restaurant. They’ll be fine.”

Three times their best day? This is a popular place. That must be a ridiculous amount of money.

“You have that kind of money? Like throw it out the window of a tall building kind of money?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Yeah, throw it out the window kind of money.”

“That reminds me. I need to talk to you about something,” he says as he moves me off of his lap and back into my own chair.

“Throwing money out of a window reminds you of something that has to do with me?” I ask.

“Well not exactly. It is about money, though, and your mother.” King leans forward with his elbows on his knees and takes both of my hands in his.

“Okay . . . I’m not so sure I want to hear this, but go ahead.”

He looks out at the ocean and sighs.

“When your mother found out you were pregnant, she went a little . . . over the edge. She called Sebastián, threatening to turn me into the police if I didn’t agree to her demands.”

“My mama blackmailed you?”

“She tried, and I may have given her the impression that she was getting what she wanted.”

I’m afraid to ask, but I know I have to.

“What did she want?”

He leans forward with his elbows still on his knees to take my hands. I don’t like this.

“The reason your mom is acting so chipper is because she thinks I’m going to persuade you to have an abortion and pay your tuition to Juilliard.”

“What? No, no, no, she did not ask you to do that! She wouldn’t.” I snatch my hands from his and push my chair back hard. It crashes into the table behind ours, and King is on his feet.

“I know she’s disappointed in me and she’s angry that I have to wait to go to Juilliard, but she wouldn’t . . .”

Maybe she would.

The seagulls circling overhead are so damn loud. I’m watching King’s lips move, but I can’t hear what the hell he’s saying, and I’m having some serious tunnel vision . . . shit, I think I’m gonna pass out . . .