Azmir treks toward me, but not to me. Man, what I would do to have him curl his strong arms around me right now. I’ve been emotionally crazed for weeks now. Instead he goes over to the small table in front of one of the built-in book cases and retrieves his iPad mini.
“Your timeline never includes me or my feelings,” he grates as he stands, towering over me. The coochie-creaming smile that is now most sinister crests his luscious lips shoots straight to my groin. Yes! I’m thinking about sex in the same moment I’m fearing my husband’s wrath. This must be the pregnancy. As I’m fighting to keep my tears at bay, all I can think is he smells delicious. “But this time I have a say. This time I know you’re carrying my baby and you will not be haphazard about it. No more secrets for you. No more incommunicado decisions. The game has changed.”
“Azmir, it’s not like that,” I try again to get him to reason.
“Oh, really?” he snorts, then he cocks his head to the side and pushes his tongue into his molars. “Is that why you inconspicuously inquired about me counting your cycle? Was that to gauge if I was on to you or not?”
I wet my dry lips with my tongue. My eyes squeeze shut. “Yes and no,” I mutter.
“Yes and n…” he repeats, studying my response. His eyes are cold, harsh. “I choked you yesterday! Do you know how fucked up I feel…because you couldn’t tell me that you’re pregnant?”
He then moves behind me and leaves the office. I don’t know what he meant by that statement, but I do know I want to hurl over and bawl my eyes out. I feel slighted and ill-targeted. He didn’t even let me tell him that I wasn’t keeping this from him. My shoulders sag as I make my way to the bathroom to shower. I move without motivation and when I arrive at the bed to turn down, I see Azmir isn’t in his usual spot in the sitting room, working on his next acquisition while watching several sports channels on one screen. I make it all the way to my pillow before the first tear falls.
The following morning, I’m awakened by faint sounds of clanks and banging. I sit up from the bed and can swear I hear voices out in the hall. I shuffle from beneath the covers, disturbing Azna’s sleep, and make my way out the master suite. As my steps progress out of the room, the noise and chatter becomes louder and clearer.
There are several men dressed in coveralls, holding measuring devices and tools that I can’t name, coming in and out of the guest bedroom that closest to the master suite. One nods as we pass each other. I peek inside the room to see what all the ruckus is about to find it nearly empty, the men stripping it bare. I can’t recall Azmir telling me about any repairs being done. Instead of asking the beefy men their business here, I decide to go and look for the man of the house. As I make my way to the front of the apartment, alongside one wall of the corridor, I see at least half dozen shopping bags with Vivienne Westwood London printed across the front in gold. I’m only familiar with the name from Michelle’s baby shower. I shake my head and continue my stride.
I don’t find him until I’m in the antechamber of the great room. His broad back faces me and I can see from his posture that he has one arm wrapped across his abdomen and his other hand pinching his chin. His legs are tall and thick in his stance, clad in basketball shorts and sneakers. I can tell he’s been for a run already. What time is it? I can tell from his stance that he’s conversing with someone considerably shorter than he is.
As if he can sense me, he glances over his shoulder and I can see the mood flip in his eyes the moment he recognizes me. Azmir shifts so that I have clear view of the older mocha skinned woman who’s wearing fancy medical scrubs. She’s somewhat robust and middle-aged. Her smile appears as she registers my presence.
“This must be her,” she states rather than question, and I can see her eyes behind her spectacles zooming in on my belly.
I cross my arms over my abdomen, feeling exposed. I’m still in my pajamas and haven’t even washed my face yet. There are strangers all throughout the apartment that is rarely visited by strangers. I notice Azmir’s gaze goes soft when it lands on my belly, but is hardened once it arrives back at my face. A pang runs through my chest.
“Yes,” Azmir confirms. “Ruby Mae, this is my wife, Rayna Jacobs.” His intonation is more mechanical rather than a gushing newlywed, introducing someone to his bride.
“Hi, Mrs. Jacobs! It’s a pleasure to meet you two.” Her shoulders rise and her upper torso caves in simultaneously, signaling her excitement as she treads towards me and places her hand over my belly.
I flinch and my eyes shoot over to a pensive Azmir who suddenly cannot show me his eyes.
“Azmir, who is this woman?” my tone is curt and I don’t care. I smell something foul in the air.
“This woman, Ruby Mae, is your nurse. She’ll be at your healthcare disposal from now until you deliver to ensure optimal health for you and the baby.” Azmir’s CEO mien appears.