Or do I tell her how I feel and make the situation even more complicated than it already is?
I guess it all depends on Remy Jones.
12
REMY
“Them again?”Ariel lowers the book she’s reading and peers at me from her bed.
Three days ago, a package was delivered to college with my name on it. It contained the latest iPhone and a note from the Murray twins:
Remy,
This isn’t a peace offering or a trap.
Whenever you’re ready, we’re here. Our numbers are stored on the phone.
Cash and Bash
Ariel, when she saw it, went all gooey-eyed and maternal on me. She said that I should give them a chance, that I should at least talk to them, and hear what they have to say. “You might be pleasantly surprised,” she said. “At least now you know that they believe you.”
But the problem is they didn’t believe me when I was there. They needed time to think about it and plan their reaction to the pregnancy, a luxury that I didn’t get.
“I’d have believed them if the roles were reversed,” I said to Ariel.
“That’s because you’re too trusting.”
Fair point. But still… “I don’t want their pity. I don’t want them to get involved because they have to.”
“What do you want?” Ariel asked.
The answer is: I wanted to be special. I wanted to see it in their eyes that they felt what I felt. I wanted them to want this too, to get over the shock of being a father and promise me that they would make it work.
But more than anything, I didn’t want to have to choose. I wanted the one thing neither of them could give me.
“I want there to only be one of them.”
They waited twenty-four hours before they called me on the new cell phone.
I didn’t answer.
Cash was first to call. Then Bash. Like they were on a tag team, passing the cell between sprints around the track. They left voicemail messages that I didn’t listen to because it felt like a game to them, one that they’re intent on winning.
I place the cell phone upside down on my desk so that I’m not distracted the next time I see one of their names appear on the call screen. Three days into the new semester, and I don’t recall a thing from any of the lectures I’ve attended. I barelyrecall entering the lecture theater or moving between halls. I’m only convinced that I ate breakfast this morning because Ariel is playing mother hen and feeding me consistently.
“You know you’ll have to speak to them eventually,” Ariel says.
“Before or after the babies are born?”
I’m flippant because I’m not ready to have this conversation. My head is buried in the sand where I can pretend that this isn’t happening to me, and I’m not willing to come back out.
Yet.
My pants are already starting to feel a little tight around the waistband despite my erratic appetite. My breasts will soon be the size of small islands, and I’ll be forced to shop for bras with steel reinforcements to hold them up. Soon, the babies in my womb will no doubt develop a sleeping pattern that will keep me awake at night and make me want to sleep all day.
But until then, I can act like I’m still me. Remy Jones. A single woman who knows what she wants.
Who am I kidding?
