Lourdes

What the hell just happened? I should have known better than to answer without looking to see who it is. Now I’m meeting Liam tomorrow night, and I don’t know why or how I agreed to that.

“Too much fresh air?” Rachel comes out the back door onto the porch, where we have been watching our kids and her daycare kids play in the yard for over an hour.

“I go inside for five minutes, and when I come back out, you’re looking all stressed out.” She’s teasing me and she’s right, but I’m not stressed because she left me in charge of six kids. I’m stressed because I think I just sort of made a date with a married man.

“I, uh . . . I got a phone call.”

“Yeah, I see that.” She glances at my hand holding the phone with raised eyebrows.

“You gonna tell me why you’re white-knuckling that phone?” Rachel takes her seat next to me in a bright blue Adirondack chair.

“It was Liam, the guy who wants—”

“To meet you at his club?” She says, finishing my sentence.

“What’s the problem? You told him no, right?”

I take a long drink of lemonade to avoid her question, even though my stomach is churning and the acidic drink isn’t going to help matters.

“Please tell me you said no, Lourdes.”

“I said no?” I say, shrugging and wrinkling my nose.

“Oh God, why did you cave so easily? Is there something else going on here that you need to tell me about?”

“No, God, no. Of course not. What kind of person do you think I am? I thought you knew me better than that. I would never fool around with a married man.”

She looks closer at me and narrows her eyes.

“Why is fooling around the first conclusion you jumped to?”

“What else would you mean?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. That he’s trying to bribe you to choose them over the other couples, maybe. Shit, I hadn’t even thought that he might be interested in you like that. He’s married, for God’s sake, and he wants a baby with his wife. You don’t think . . .?”

Saying it out loud makes it sound ludicrous. Now I’m starting to think that maybe he’s not trying to start something with me. Maybe it’s just my own feelings that scare me.

“No. I don’t know what made me say that. I’m sure he’s on the up and up. It’s just that this whole process is so complicated and the pressure is getting to me. Having someone else’s baby is so different from having my own. When I found out I was pregnant with Toby, I knew I would do anything to give him a good future. With this pregnancy, I’ll have to lug the baby around for ten months and pass it off to someone else and never see it again.”

“That’s the control freak in you talking. You’ve always planned everything out to the second. I was proud of you when you found out you were pregnant with Toby. I thought for sure you were going to lose your shit and have a nervous breakdown, but you didn’t. You just took it all in stride.”

“No I didn’t. I flipped my shit. You just didn’t see it happen. And when I finished, I submerged myself into planning every single detail of our future, everything from my birth plan to the color of the paint in our first house after Terrell and I graduated college is categorized and documented in a massive three-ring binder. I still have it.”

She shades her eyes and I watch her lips silently count the kids in the yard. She does this every five or ten minutes, but I can’t figure out why, because the yard is surrounded by a six-foot privacy fence.

“See? Control freak. Just relax, and you’ll make the right decision. I have faith in you,” she says when she’s finished her head count.

“So you think I should go tomorrow night?”

“Hell, I don’t know. You’re going to have to decide that for yourself. If you think he’s being straightforward, then yeah, go. It couldn’t hurt. But if you think he has ulterior motives, then no, definitely not.”

She’s no help at all. I’m right back where I started before this conversation. For the first time in my life, I’m ignoring that little voice in my head that keeps me from doing really stupid things. I’m going. I need to see if I’m just imagining this connection or if it’s real. I have no idea what I’ll do either way, but I’ll go crazy if I don’t find out.

“So what are you going to wear?”

I roll my eyes.

“What makes you so sure I’m going?”

“Sister’s intuition. I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”

I don’t, but I’m going to find out.

* * *

It’s Friday night, and I’m wondering why the hell I didn’t just go to the club last night when he originally asked me to. I assume Thursdays are a quieter night at a dance club. I’ve never done much clubbing. I’m not even sure what to wear. I need fashion advice, and Rachel said she has no idea what people are wearing out dancing anymore, so I called the one person I know who might be able to save me.

Kit Walker is an English major at Berkeley like me, but he couldn’t be more unlike me in every other way. Kit is gay, and he’s fun, friendly, spontaneous, and smart, and he’s got an impeccable eye for fashion. Kit also happens to frequent dance clubs and has agreed to go with me tonight so I don’t feel so awkward walking into a club alone. I know Liam’s meeting me at the door, but Kit has agreed to provide a buffer in case this all gets weird.

I just got home from dropping Toby off at Rachel’s for the night. It’s eight o’clock and Kit will be here in thirty minutes. I’ve scoured my closet and pulled out anything that could remotely be deemed club-worthy. It’s a pathetic array of little black dresses and leggings, one black mini skirt, and a shimmery sleeveless top that I bought on a whim once and never had anyplace to wear.

This all feels too much like a date. Why should I care what I look like? I’m meeting a guy who wants me to carry a baby for him and his wife. It’s not exactly the premise for a fun-filled, drunken night of dancing. Kit will make it fun, though. Everything with Kit is fun.

The doorbell rings, and I pull my robe tight around my waist. I don’t know why. Kit has no interest in women other than dressing them up like dolls. Force of habit, I guess.

I open the door, and as soon as I see Kit, my hand flies to my mouth and I gasp.

“You look amazing,” I say.

“Duh,” he says, eyeing me up and down.

“You, however, need a lot of work.”

“Hey, be nice, Kit. I’m a mommy. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“No worries, girl. I’ve gotcha. Where’s your closet?”

I point toward the back of the house. Kit’s been here before, but only briefly, and not to give me a makeover. He moves me aside by my shoulder and struts through my house, straight into my bedroom.

“Oh, good Lord. Shut up. This isn’t all you have, is it?” he yells.

When I catch up to him, he’s standing next to my bed with the back of his hand on his forehead and his other on his hip. His eyes are closed and his mouth is hanging open like this is the worst situation he’s ever been subjected to.

“Am I hopeless?” I ask, and I’m seriously considering that I am. Kit is the picture of perfection in his immaculately ironed chinos and pink fitted t-shirt that hugs every defined muscle of his chest. He rocks his loafers with no socks like no other man I’ve ever known, and his skin, nails and hair are better cared for than most women’s. My favorite part of Kit’s look is his hair color. I wish I were brave enough to pull off silver hair with purple streaks. It’s amazing, and so is Kit.

“Nobody’s hopeless, Lovey. I’ll make you gorgeous.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as he walks in a circle around me, inspecting and clucking his tongue.

“Hair. Come.” He shoots his one-word instructions and waves for me to follow him into the bathroom, where he goes straight to work smoothing out my short hair and forming perfect silky waves close to my head. When he’s finished, it’s elegant and stylish and I love it. He can indeed perform miracles. Then he begins to apply my makeup until I hardly recognize myself. I don’t wear much makeup. I have it for special occasions, and even then, I keep it simple, so these smoky eyes and false eyelashes feel heavy and foreign. He gives my lips a splash of color, and afterward, he gushes, Ooh, you’re everything! and Oh, Lovey! I can’t, I just can’t. He turns me toward the mirror so I can see myself.

I instinctively lift my hand to touch my face, and he slaps it away.

“Ah, ah, ah, don’t go messin’ with my work now. We need to figure out your clothes. Come,” he says, taking my hand to drag me back to the bedroom.

“You sure are a project. What am I supposed to do with this?” He holds up my favorite little black dress with two fingers like it’s a hideous old rag.

“That’s my favorite dress.” I stick out my bottom lip and he laughs.

“There’s nothing here. This closet is dead to me. We must shop. Hurry.” He leaves me hanging in the middle of my bedroom. I’m in my robe with full makeup and hair, with no clothes. Shit. I guess I’d better throw something on, because apparently, we must shop.

After forty-five minutes in a little shop that Kit says only he knows about, I am trying to gracefully get into his car in higher heels than I’ve ever worn, higher than any woman should wear. The dress he chose for me is a sparkly pink, skin tight, sleeveless little number with a zipper all the way down the back. It’s tight but it’s got some spandex in it, and it flexes and moves with me so it’s not uncomfortable. Kit says I’m living this dress, and I’m not sure what that means, but it’s good, because he’s smiling and proud like a daddy dressing his daughter for her first daddy-daughter dance.

He claps his hands together and pays with a black American Express card.

“I thought you were a poor college student.”

“I am, but my boyfriend isn’t, and he pays for my clothes and whatever else I may desire.”

I roll my eyes and he bats his lashes. I love Kit. I think Kit has just become my best friend.

“Wait, wait,” he says to the cashier, holding up his hand.

“Jewelry.”

“Oh no, Kit. I can’t let your boyfriend pay for my jewelry. I’m already going to have to get a loan to pay him back for this dress and these shoes.”

“Oh, nonsense. He’ll never even notice the charges. He never checks his statements, and I have permission to spend whatever I want. Now let’s see . . .” He leans over the glass counter that holds a case of costume jewelry—at least, I think its costume jewelry. Shit, it had better be costume jewelry.

“We need that and oh . . . those. Those are absolutely everything,” he says.

The cashier opens the cabinet with a key and pulls out a ring with an enormous pink square cushion stone held in place by four claws that resemble actual animal claws. He takes my left hand and slips it onto my ring finger with a gasp. The cashier nods her head in approval.

I ask him, hoping that I’ll use his quirky slang appropriately, “Am I living it?” I must be, because his eyes light up and he nods his head up and down enthusiastically.

“Earrings,” he says, and the cashier pulls out matching drop earrings with smaller stones. He removes them from the padded display and slides them into my ears.

“Mirror,” he says to the cashier. He’s so bossy, but she’s happy to comply and hands him a mirror. I look at myself and agree that these items have completed my look for the evening.

“Ring it up, Lovey,” he tells the cashier, and I pout. He catches the lip and dramatically takes me by the shoulders.

“What? What is it? You don’t like the earrings?”

Now I feel really stupid. He’s being so generous and kind by dressing me up, paying for it, and accompanying me to the club tonight, and I’m acting like a complete baby.

“No, I love them. Thank you so much, Kit.”

“What’s with this then?” He flicks my full bottom lip down with his middle finger.

“You called her Lovey.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Is that all? I’m sorry. I’ll reserve that one just for you from now on. Better, Lovey?” I nod, and he kisses me on both cheeks in a very proper English manner.

I don’t dare look at the total on the register or the receipt, and neither does Kit. How cool would it be to not have to worry about money like that?

Outside, Kit helps me into the car and I grip my seat all the way to Fiction. Kit drives like a maniac.

When we pull up, he gets out and walks around the car with the confidence of a matador and opens my door. He takes my hand and dramatically helps me out. People are looking—gawking is a better way to put it—and it’s embarrassing. Kit smiles and takes a step away, as if to show me off to the crowds and photographers who are standing in line waiting to get inside. Oh God, this is mortifying. I am not cut out to be the center of attention, and we are without a doubt the center of attention right now, with cameras flashing and people whooping.

“Smile, Lovey, or I’ll give one of these people your nickname,” he says through his teeth with a broad smile.

I gather the extra self-confidence that Kit’s makeover has given me and smile as he leads me right past the line to two suited men who open the doors for us.

I remember Liam saying that he would leave my name at the door, but I hadn’t originally planned on bringing Kit, so I didn’t ask for a plus one. It doesn’t seem to matter. Both doormen call him by name.

“You’ve been here before?” I ask, but I’m not able to hear his answer because when the doors open, our voices are reduced to nothing by the music inside.

He takes my hand and leads me through the tightly packed crowd to a set of stairs that leads to a DJ booth. I went to a couple of bars with my friends after I had Toby, but they were nothing like this place. The light show is dizzying, and everyone is moving. The people by the bar and around the dance floor are bobbing their heads and shuffling from side to side. The people on the crowded dance floor seem to be moving in slow motion, choppy little segments. Beams of red and blue make the smoke billowing from somewhere below more intricate and almost palpable. The strobe lights pause, and the three-dimensional effect is lost when the dancers’ true movements are revealed. Every single body is moving in unison to the heavy beat of the music. When it speeds up, they bounce up and down. When it slows, they do their own thing. A few people appear boneless, their bodies moving like liquid to the slow rhythm. It’s hypnotizing. I can’t stop staring, but they don’t seem to see me. I don’t think anyone out there has left the dance floor in a long time. They’re all soaking wet with sweat. It’s a sexy sweat, though, not like the people on the treadmill at the gym. This is sensual and . . . hot.

“Lovey, we need to go up stairs to get to your man,” Kit yells in my ear, jerking me from my trance.

“He’s not my man, Kit. He’s married. I told you why I’m here.”

“Ok, honey, but if a man is trying to prove he’s daddy material, he wouldn’t be inviting you to witness all the craziness that goes down in this club.” Kit waves his finger around the room, pointing at various groups of people in different levels of consciousness, some with glassy eyes, others laughing, and others slouching against tables and pillars.

“I happen to know Liam. I didn’t tell you because you were so cute playing like you don’t know he’s all about you. Lovey, he hates his wifey. She’s a bitch on wheels, and she tricked him into marrying him six months ago. I have no idea what all this baby nonsense is about, but girl, there’s no way he wants a kid with that woman. No way.” He shakes his head emphatically.

“He is one fine specimen, I’ll admit. Talented, too. This is all him,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “That man changed the world of electronic music and made it what it is today. He’s a legend. So are we going up or what?”

I can’t speak. I can’t even nod. He hates his wife? He doesn’t want a baby? She tricked him into their marriage? What the hell am I doing here?

You know why you’re here, Lourdes. You’re into him. It’s time to stop lying to yourself.

“I gotta go.” I drop Kit’s hand and start toward the door, but halfway there, I’m concentrating so hard on the people in my way that I don’t notice the hand that reaches out and takes ahold of my wrist from the side.

“Hey, I’m glad you made it. You weren’t at the door at ten. I just went to check again.”

Liam is standing dangerously close to me, and the crowds aren’t making it easy to keep a decent distance. It feels like the walls are closing in and Liam and I are being smashed together. I thought I couldn’t breathe a minute ago, but right now, I actually can’t take a breath. Now I know the true meaning of breathtaking. Liam is literally taking my breath. He is so beautiful. I love the way the lights pulse in his lapis blue eyes, how his shirt strains over the muscles of his chest and shoulders, and the heat of his hand on my skin. This is wrong, so wrong. I have to break free of his hold on me, but I can’t. I can’t even fucking breathe, let alone run.

“Liam, dahling.” Kit’s voice comes from behind me, and I feel him reach over my head and shake Liam’s free hand.

“Kit, how are ya? How’s Devin?” Liam asks.

Kit releases Liam’s hand and places his hand on my hip. He squeezes, as if he is telling me not to move.

“Perfect as always—a gorgeous, intricately cut diamond, a rose petal—”

“Ah, ok, ok, Kit.” Liam laughs. “I get it. You love him.”

“That I do. So I hear you’ve met my friend, Lourdes?”

I’m standing here watching these two banter back and forth over my head like a couple of old women when I begin to breathe again and remember that I’m trying to get the hell out of here.

His eyes fall to mine, and something clicks into place like a key sliding into the right lock. I’m stuck, and less and less of me wants to be unstuck. I like it here in the warm adoration of his eyes. It feels so good, so right . . . until I see a flash of Amira, and the feeling of bliss is swiped clean off the table.

“I’m leaving. I shouldn’t have come.” I try to move, but Kit has both of his hands on my hips now, and he’s not letting me go. Liam’s eyes fill with confusion. A tiny, adorable crease forms between his eyebrows, but he never breaks the gaze.

“Why? Wait. No, don’t answer that. Let’s go somewhere quieter so we can talk.”

I shake my head no, but an influx of people in our area suddenly has me pressed up against his chest. His arm slides protectively around my waist as he yells at the group crowding us.

I have never felt so at home, in the right place, simpatico or whatever. Being in his arms is unequaled. No place I’ve ever been has felt more comfortable.

When the crowd eases up a bit, he doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he pulls me closer and leans his head down to speak directly into my ear. God, he’s so close I can feel his heart beating, his warm, minty breath against my skin, and his lips skimming my ear.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

I nod yes and he releases me. Being without his arms is equally as uncomfortable as it was comfortable. I’ve never felt quite so abandoned with the warmth of his body gone and the noise of the club pulsing through my brain.

He motions to Kit over my head. Both men are over six feet tall. I feel tiny between them. Before I can protest again, Kit is moving me forward and I’m following Liam. I turn to Kit and scowl. He knows this is wrong. He’s known far longer than I have that Liam is interested in me, not a baby. I’m going to kill him. He is definitely not my best friend anymore.

Back at the stairs that lead to what I assume is the DJ booth, a muscular guard dressed all in black moves aside to allow Liam to pass. He says something into the guard’s ear, and Kit and I are allowed to follow him.

As wrong as all of this is, I can’t pry my eyes from Liam’s backside, especially since it’s directly in front of my face as we climb the steps. Why am I still here again? What the hell is wrong with Kit? He knows I’m not this kind of girl, doesn’t he? Maybe not. It’s not like we hang out all the time. I mean, we have a few classes together and we’ve studied together, but we haven’t exactly discussed morals or ethics. He knows I have a son, though, and that I’m a single mother trying to make my way through college. That should say enough.

When we emerge in the booth, I’m taken aback by the vast view of the huge club. It’s as if Fiction is the kingdom and this booth is King Liam’s throne. Everything that was going on downstairs is magnified one hundred times up here. I can see it all—people drinking, kissing, touching, dancing, and on the far side, there are platforms where people take turns performing light shows with glow sticks on strings and LED hula-hoops.

I feel Liam’s eyes on me as I stare out over the crowd with my mouth hanging open. Whoever was manning the booth while he was gone has abandoned ship, and Liam has taken command. He is standing in front of an enormous deck of knobs and buttons, with laptops suspended above them all. He has put on headphones, and he’s smiling at me with immense pride. He’s in his element, and he wants to show me what he does. Kit nudges me forward a step so that I’m standing right next to Liam. He should be watching what he’s doing, but he’s looking at me instead. The song’s tempo is rising, adding different layers as it goes. When it’s at a point where you can feel the climax coming, he tears his eyes from mine and begins manipulating the music.

I watch in awe as he bounces to the beat, mixing the sounds together in a smooth transition that has my heart pounding and the crowd screaming. He lifts his lean, muscular arm in the air and pushes one side of his headphones behind his ear. The people love him, and I can see why: DJ Freedom is mesmerizing.