Friday
I’m pregnant. My knees are a little bit wobbly, but I’m not sure if that’s because Paul is staring at me or if it’s because I’m scared shitless of the thought of being knocked up. It’s not mine. It’s not mine. It’s not mine, I chant in my head.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asks. He tips my face up, and I grab his wrists to pull his hands down. He tangles his fingers with mine, instead, and pulls my hands behind my back, tugging me until my body is flush against his.
I wiggle my fingers in his grip. He’s not holding me tightly. He’s just loosely gripping my hands, probably to keep me from shoving him away. “Do many of your women find this sexy?”
“Many of my women?” His chuckle rumbles through me. “How many do you think I have?”
“I don’t have enough fingers, toes, or freckles to count that high.”
“Oh, it’s not that many.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have a lot of freckles.” He laughs again. But he’s avoiding my eyes all of a sudden.
“I’ve seen you with the hoochies that come into the shop,” I tell him. It bothered me then; it bothers me now. But I don’t want him to know how much. “You get around.”
“I got around. I don’t get around. Big difference.”
I force a little joviality into my voice. “So you’re telling me that you’re not going to sleep with anyone else ever again.”
“If you commit, I commit,” he says. “I told you, I don’t share. And I don’t expect you to share, either.”
I twist my fingers out of his, and he looks like a three-year-old who just lost his new toy when I step back from him. If I run, he’ll follow and it’ll look like I’m playing with him, when I really just need space. Then no one’s feelings get hurt.
“Come back here,” he says.
I force a laugh and run for the subway. He follows. I can barley hear his running shoes on the pavement, but I know he’s back there. His shadow is following me, almost overwhelming mine, much the way he takes me over.
“If you were a man, I’d stick my foot out and trip you,” he says to my back.
“If you were a man, you’d be able to catch me,” I toss over my shoulder.
He scowls and catches up with me in two long strides. “If I were a man?” he says, dropping his mouth to my ear to growl the words at me. “You doubt it?”
“Prove it, big guy,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
I stop walking and put my hands on my hips. “You’re going to let me pick on your manhood and not try to prove it?” I ask. Take the bait, Paul.
“If you were anywhere near my manhood, I wouldn’t have to prove it.” He grabs for a handle as we step onto the subway car, and he pulls me against him. I kind of like having him hold me like this. It’s intimate and new. And he seems to like it, too, if the evidence of his desire pressing against my hip is any indication.
I lower my hand to rub him through his jeans, but he intercepts my questing fingers.
“Don’t f*cking play with me,” he warns.
“Whoa,” I breathe out. “Where did that come from?”
“Sexual frustration,” he says. “Brings out the best in me.”
I play with a loose string on his sleeve. “So, what if I want to f*cking play with you?”
His arm drops from around my waist. “Then you’re talking to the wrong guy.”
I suddenly feel cold and alone. I cross my arms in front of me and try to glare at him. But it’s hard when I’m feeling this exposed.
“Don’t ever use sex as a way to control me,” he says quietly. Then his arm wraps around me again. This time, it’s me who pulls back. He scowls and follows me when I go to sit in an empty seat. He slides in beside me so I shove myself up against the window. He’s big, though, and he takes up all the seat on his side and some of mine. “Don’t run from me, either,” he says. “I’ll always chase. Until you tell me you don’t want me to.”
I start to tick items off on my fingers. “So, I can’t f*cking play with you. I can’t run from you. And I can’t use sex to control you.” I throw my hands up. “Why don’t you just give me the whole list now?” I ask. “What else can I not do?”
He leans close and pushes my hair back from my nape with gentle fingers. His hand cups the back of my neck, and he talks quietly in my ear. “You can’t use sexy tricks to get away from my questions. I asked you what was wrong when we left the doctor’s office because you looked like something was bothering you. I wanted to know what it was, and you evaded my question with sexy innuendos and grabby little fingers. Don’t get me wrong. I want you to f*cking grab every part of me, particularly my dick grabbed by your p-ssy with you on top.” He smiles when the hair on my arms stands up. “But if you can’t answer a simple question like ‘What’s wrong?’ then we have bigger problems than I thought. So, let’s try again. What’s wrong, Friday?”
“What makes you think something is wrong?” I ask, my voice quaky.
“Because I know you. I f*cking know you, and I know when something is wrong.”
“What’s my tell?” I ask. Because now I’m curious.
“Stop it,” he growls. “I’m not going to let you change the subject.”
I want to say the words out loud. I want to say them so badly. But they get stuck in my throat. “Nothing is wrong,” I say. I shove his hand from where it’s still clasping the back of my neck.
“Don’t lie to me.” He doesn’t look angry. He looks…hurt? What the f*ck is that about?
“I don’t know what you want me to say!” I cry. People turn and look at us, and I bring my voice down to a level that won’t call dogs from all areas. “I don’t know what you want,” I hiss.
“Are you happy that you’re pregnant?” he asks, sitting back and crossing his arms so he can stare me down.
“Of course, I’m happy,” I scoff.
“Not happy for Garrett and Cody. Are you happy to be pregnant? You, Friday. Just you.”
Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them furiously, trying to prevent the warm puddles from falling down my cheeks. If they fall, I’ve failed. I’ve shown weakness. I can’t allow that.
“F*cking hormones,” I say.
He chuckles. “You’ve been pregnant for all of a week,” he says. “You had better get used to it.”
“I don’t cry,” I say quietly. “I never, ever cry. Ever.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t let people get close enough to make me weak. “Because I don’t want to.”
“You don’t do anything you don’t want to do, right?” he asks. His eyes narrow.
“Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you did?”
I suck in a breath. My stomach is roiling.
“Friday,” he sings.
“Why the interrogation, Paul?”
“Stop doing that.”
“F*ck you.”
He laughs. “F*ck you.”
A grin tugs at my lips. I turn and stare out the window at the graffiti going by. The last time I cried was over him. It was over the baby I gave away. And I swore I would never let anyone else make me that vulnerable ever again. But I can’t tell Paul that.
“I like being pregnant,” I say. I smile at him and force out a giggle.
“Great, now you’re going to pretend to be f*cking Pollyanna.” He throws up his hands.
“Stop prying,” I warn. I frown at him. “Stop f*cking trying to dig into my psyche. It doesn’t like visitors. It likes its solitude. It likes the cobwebs in the f*cking attic, so stop trying to clean them up.”
“Tell me something true,” he urges. “One thing.” He holds up a single finger. “Just one.”
“That was the truth.” I lay a hand on my stomach, and Paul looks down at it. “I f*cking love being pregnant. I love that a life is growing inside me. I love that Cody and Garrett are going to be parents and that I get to cook their baby for nine months. It makes me so happy I could spin around and make rainbows from Skittles and shit. Shake the f*cking Skittle tree and a rainbow will fall out, that’s how happy I am.”
“Thank you.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just crosses his feet in front of him and stares down at them.
“F*ck you, Paul.”
“F*ck you, Friday.”
“I’m not lying about that,” I whisper-shout at him. “I do love being pregnant. I love it this time, and I loved it the last time. I loved it all the way up until I f*cking gave him away. Is that what you wanted to f*cking hear? Is that what you want to hear, Paul?” I stand up as the subway car slows down. “I love being pregnant,” I hiss in his ear. He flinches. “I get to give birth to another baby that isn’t mine. Only this time, I can check up on him to be sure he’s all right.”
Finally, a tear tumbles over my lashes and down my cheek. I swipe it away with the back of my hand. I scoot around him and walk toward the exit. He steps out, and I hesitate. I wait until the very last minute, and when he spins around to see where I’ve gone, the subway doors close, and I’m still inside. I close my eyes as I pull away because I can hear him calling my name.