“She’s very, very pretty. She also looks smart, too smart for you, Uncle Ro.”
“Damn, it’s like that.”
“Just kidding, when can I meet her?”
“It’s a work in progress. But soon,” he winked, stepping out of the room and pulling the door to a soft close.
Back in the kitchen, Rolani looked at Kennedi's picture on the screen — her smile, those eyes. This had become a nightly habit for him. He'd gladly accept being called infatuated because maybe he was. It hadn't been long, he understood that, but what they’d shared had meant everything to him. Since losing Pearl, everything had felt heavier. Quieter. Color had drained from the world. Then Kennedi showed up and brought back a piece of him he hadn't realized was gone.
She was the one.
Chapter Thirteen
Kennedi wokeup to her stomach staging a full revolt or her child already picking sides… their fathers. She couldn’t call it, but the room spun before she even opened her eyes fully, and the wave of nausea hit so hard she had to grip the edge of the mattress to steady herself. Her body was slick with sweat despite the cool air from her fan. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself upright. She hadn’t felt like this in a month or so and hadn’t missed it all.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Not today. Please not today.”
It was finally Monday, and she’d had her weekend and was supposed to start work in—she squinted at her phone—two hours. And she couldn’t even stand up without feeling like she was going to pass out. Tears welled up in her eyes at her circumstances. Alone and pregnant. Or was today just a bad day?
Another wave hit, stronger this time, and she barely made it to the bathroom before her stomach emptied what little she’d eaten last night. She gripped the porcelain, forehead pressed against her arm, trying to breathe through it.
“Little LA,” she said weakly, one hand moving to her belly. “Baby, come on now. We had a deal. You let me get through this first day, and I’ll eat whatever nasty combination you want for lunch. Please.”
No response. Obviously. But Kennedi liked to think they had an understanding.
She flushed, pushed herself up to the sink to rinse her mouth, and sank down onto the cool tile floor, her back against the tub. The bathroom was the only place that didn’t feel like it was moving, and even that was debatable. Her phone buzzed from the bedroom—probably her alarm going off, reminding her she needed to get in the shower, get dressed, show up looking professional, and put together.
She couldn’t do it. Her body had been patient for weeks — the fatigue, the random nausea, the dizziness — and today it was done. Today, it was saying absolutely not.
She pulled herself up slowly and made her way back to bed. Her phone sat on the nightstand, Rolani’s name at the top of her recent texts.
“Shit.”
She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over his name. The idea of texting him made her cringe; she could hear him now, accusing her of running and avoiding him, but that was far from the case… well, somewhat.
Kennedi: Good morning. I’m really not feeling well and won’t be able to come in today. I have my laptop and can handle anything remotely if needed.
Ro: Sick, huh? Or are you doing the thing you always do?
She tilted her phone and snapped a picture of herself looking like death warmed over—hair wrapped in her bonnet, face bare, eyes barely open, the clear exhaustion written all over her features. Fuck it, she thought. She sent the photo without a caption.
Kennedi:
Three dots appeared before his message took its place.
Ro: Damn, baby. Get some rest, it ain’t no biggie.
Kennedi: Thank you for understanding.
That was too easy, but she decided to let it be. She had bigger shit to focus on, like settling her stomach, showering, and resting so she could show up as her best self.
She turned on her TV and found a Christian R&B mix on YouTube to help her get a little movement. It was her ritual to start the day with gospel. A mix of gospel over R&B beats filled the bedroom as she slowly pulled herself together. She showered first, letting the hot water ease some of the tension in her body. After she moisturized and slipped on her oversized Fancy homebody outfit.
A deep sigh escaped her lips as she grabbed her journal from the nightstand. She didn’t really write in it the way others did—no “Dear Diary” bullshit or stream of consciousness rambling. Her observations always read like an article about her own life, clinical and distant, even when the subject was her.
She settled onto the couch with a sleeve of saltines and ginger ale, journal open on her lap, pen poised. The nausea had settled into a dull queasiness, manageable but present, and her mind kept circling back to the same thing.
She started writing:
