“Nigga, whatever. You’re lying—and you suck at it. If you think I’m about to sit here and get played, you've got another thing coming with your big-headed ass. I tiptoe around a lot of shit to be understanding to your preferences, but I ain’t tiptoeing around another bitch. Your ass is autistic, but I see you still a nigga at the end of the day,” she scowled.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean, P? You know what, don’t even answer. I see your ass still tiptoeing around in them dingy-ass white socks I told you not to wear. Fucking psycho—take your ass to bed,” I barked back.
Paris had this bad habit—one that most women did when I revealed I was an autistic adult. They used it against me, as if I should feel honored, they were dealing with me and my exceptionalities. But let’s be honest—autism aside—every living person has preferences, quirks, and a place on the spectrum somewhere. Real love saw past all that.
Now, I never expected someone to give up on themselves to be with me, but I also never wanted to feel like someone was doing me a favor.
When she rolled over, I stared up at the ceiling. I told myself I was defensive because she had started an unnecessary argument, and that I hadn’t told her about my conversation with Mahasin because there was no need to drop a bomb when there was no war.
Both were bullshit.
I was defensive because I felt protective of Mahasin—and I didn’t need Paris speaking on her name, making her out to be some pregnant side chick homewrecker. And I could’ve easily told her about our conversation, but I was being a coward and didn’t feel like dealing with Paris’s reaction.
“Lord, just have that joy you promised waiting for me in the morning,” I prayed, then turned over to get some much-needed sleep.
I woke up way earlier than I normally would.
Paris came into the kitchen still wearing my t-shirt, face freshly washed, looking refreshed and pretty.
“You going into the studio early?” she asked, grabbing a mug. “I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
“Naw. Remember, I said I have something to handle this morning.”
“Something or someone?” she asked, her eyes narrowing over the rim of the cup.
“Don’t start.”
“There wouldn’t be a reason to start if you’d just be honest with me and put an end to my curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, P,” I said low and stern.
“But satisfaction brought him back,” she replied.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Checking for my wallet and phone, I grabbed my keys and headed toward the door.
“Do you love her?” she called out to my back.
“Paris,” I sighed, not in the mood to be annoyed before Mahasin’s appointment.
“What? I just want to know what lane I’m in.”
I turned around and stepped close enough to give her a kiss on her cheek. “Your lane is your lane. You’re the only one in it. I’ll talk to you later.”
She didn’t respond, but I felt her eyes on my back the whole way to the door.
Serenity Women’s Medical Group wasn’t at all what I imagined. The air wasn’t stale, the temperature wasn’t cold, and there weren’t any torn chairs huddled around a coffee table with outdated magazines—including aHighlightscopy just in case some kids were present in the waiting room.
The lobby was huge and luxurious, with refrigerators filled with bottled Fiji waters, exotic plants, fresh roses, and a huge tank that filled an entire back wall, containing all types of colorful fish and turtles. The floors were shiny, the furniture looked comfortable, and it smelled like rainbows and vacation. Mahasin even had the sounds of running water playing—lightly, but loud enough to soothe even the iratest person. This shit felt more like a spa than a birth center.
I didn’t beat Mahasin here, but I arrived thirty minutes earlier than she scheduled. Dollface needed to feel that I was committed—and that I wouldn’t fail her.
I heard a clear voice and turned around to see Amber.
“Well, well, well, I see Producer Papa showed up—and early at that. Good shit, ‘cause I’d hate to have to pop back up on set. This time not as the protective friend but as the deranged godmother who wants all the smoke.”
Taking her into a side hug, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Take it easy on me, Killer,” I chuckled.
“I don’t know no way but the hard way. I had to play chauffeur, security, and Sergeant Slap-A-Hoe all in one day. You gon’ get all these jokes. And I want the best gift at the baby shower,” she laughed, embracing me again.
