“Please.”
He growls in annoyance but pulls me into his arms. For the next thirty minutes, I cry my sorrows against his chest.
I scan the lounge, a knot of discomfort tightening in my chest. These men almost seem normal—eating, laughing, and joking. Not the hardened criminals I know them to be. Sandman sits to my left at the island, scarfing down the food on his plate. Cricket occupies the stool on his other side, making quick work of his own meal.
All kinds of grilled meats, seafood, sides, and desserts stretch across the long tables against the back wall. My stomach churns at the mix of smells assaulting my senses. Between the football game blaring on all eight flatscreens, the cacophony of sounds from the arcade, boisterous conversations, and little God offspringrunning around, I can barely hear myself think. I really just want to go back to bed.
I don’t want to celebrate. I want my grandma.
It all seems so surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life through a television screen. I’m not two and a half months pregnant. My grandmother is still alive and healthy. My brother and I get along. My father isn’t a fugitive. My mother is the perfect housewife with a heart of gold. And my aunt and cousin don’t hate my guts.
I blink back tears and check my cell phone for the millionth time, even though my notifications have been silent. My mother and brother still haven’t responded to the Happy Thanksgivingtexts I sent this morning. I shouldn’t have texted them. But it’s Thanksgiving, and I felt… alone. Stupid, I know.
I throw my phone back into my purse. I’m done. I’m not extending the olive branch again.
“Eat,” Sandman commands, jabbing his fork toward my untouched plate.
I stiffen but hold my ground. “Not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry,” he growls. “I said eat.”
I push the plate away, a quiet rebellion.
He leans in and presses a forkful of pasta against my lips. “Open.”
I turn my head. “I said I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve been losing weight. If you’re not healthy, neither is our baby.”
“Just because I lost a few pounds doesn’t mean I’m not healthy,” I retort.
Sandman grabs a fistful of my long, knotless braids and yanks my head back. “Don’t make me hurt you, Zilphia.”
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” I snap at him. “In one breath you claim to be worried about my health, then in the next you’re threatening to hurt me.”
He drops my hair, his jaw clenched. “I’m going to take a piss.When I get back, a quarter of that food better be gone.” With that edict, he stomps away.
I turn back around in my seat, locking gazes with a smirking Cricket. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Cricket’s smirk melts into a scowl, and he shifts in his seat to face me. “That baby in your belly is the only thing keeping Sandman from putting his foot up your ass,” he states matter-of-factly around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Do yourself a favor and do what you’re told. You won’t be pregnant forever, and you and I both know he has a very long memory.”
I reach for my cup of peach tea, intending to throw it in his face, but familiar arms wrap around me from behind. “Hey girlie, how’s your day going?”
“It could be better,” I answer, relaxing into Meela’s embrace. My baby daddy’s asshole best friend is consigned to the back burner for now. I admire his loyalty, but that doesn’t make him any less of an ass.
Meela hops onto the stool Sandman just vacated. “How about you stay with me tonight? I’ll do your toes and nails, and give you the best full-body massage you’ve ever had. The works, honey. What do you say? I’ll tell Leah and make it a girl’s night.”
I sigh. “I have to ask Sandman.”
As the days pass, his leash around me gets tighter and tighter. It’s been school and then home most days, unless we’re together. I don’t know if it’s concern for me, for our unborn child, or for both of us. On the rare occasion I’m allowed to go out solo, he’s always lurking in the background somewhere.
Meela rolls her eyes. “God, tell him to loosen his grip a little. He’s stricter than a preacher whose daughter likes doing the Lord’s work on her knees.”
If only it were that easy.
“Where’s Tulip?” Our heads snap in the direction of the growled question.
“Oh my God,” Meela mumbles under her breath. “Here we go.”
