Pregnancy is stretching me in ways I’ve been avoiding thinking about. Not physically—though that’s real too—but emotionally. Mentally. It’s forcing me to confront the fact that I can’t do everything alone anymore, and that terrifies me more than I want to admit.
I don’t regret keeping Little L.A. That decision is solid, even on days like today when my body reminds me exactly what I signed up for.
I used to thrive in isolation now… that’s not an option.
Being back home is heavy. Not because of the city, but because of what staying here means. Help. Support. The kind Rolani would offer without hesitation if I asked. And that’s what makes this so complicated—I want to ask. I want to beable to rely on him the way he seems to expect me to. But how do you lean on someone when you’re keeping a secret this big? When every conversation is another lie by omission?
Help comes with expectations, spoken or not.
She paused, her hand moving to her stomach under the blanket hoodie.
What if he only stays because of Little LA? What if the man who keeps showing up for me disappears the moment fatherhood becomes an obligation instead of a choice?
Rolani is?—
Her pen stopped.
The sound of her door unlocking cut through the apartment.
Not the doorbell. The actual lock clicking open.
“What the hell?”
She barely had time to close the journal and hide it before Rolani walked in like they were best friends. She quickly spotted the Kroger bag in one hand, a Starbucks medicine ball in the other; his presence immediately filled her small apartment.
Speak of the devil.
“How did you—” She stared at him. “I didn’t give you a key.”
“Your landlord knows me.” He kicked the door shut behind him, set the bags on her coffee table, and turned to look at her. “You look worse than that picture, no cap.”
“Get out.”
“Nah.” He pulled items from the bag—ginger ale, crackers, and stuff to make soup… from scratch. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Rolani, I’m serious?—”
“So am I.” He opened the bag, handing her the drink and oatmeal, and the smell of citrus hit her, and she sighed. “Sit down and eat.”
“This is strike two. You can’t break into my apartment. Just saying in case you were confused about that.”
“I didn’t break in. I walked in. Not the same thing.” He moved into her space, his hand going to her forehead and then neck before she could stop him. “How long you been like this?”
She swatted his hand away. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is now.” He guided her to the couch. “Eat.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“Ken.” His voice dropped lower, that tone that said he was done playing. “Stop being difficult and eat the damn food before I feed it to you myself.”
She glared at him, but her stomach growled traitorously at the smell of the cinnamon. She took the container, spooned some into her mouth, and—fuck—it stayed down.
“That wasn’t hard, was it, doll?” He sat on the edge of her coffee table, watching her like he was making sure she actually ate.
“Don’t trip on today. Your start date’s Wednesday now.”
“You can’t just…”
