“You can’t say it, can you?” I demanded, ignoring my mother.
“We think she should, um…”
“Look atme,” I called out. “Talk tome.”
But he didn’t. Instead, he looked directly at my father and said, “We think she should end the pregnancy.” And then he had the audacity to dig into his pocket, pull out a thick wad of cash, and hand it to my father. “It’s my money,” he said. “My parents thought it was important that I pay with money I earned.” He failed to mention that he’d made that money playing in his conservative church’s praise-and-worship band.
“I don’t want an abortion,” I heard myself announce, my voice even and strong, as my father pocketed the cash.
That may have been the truest moment of clarity I had ever had. I knew that even though not a single person in my life wanted it, this pregnancy was meant for me. Also, in this particular case, my choice wasn’t just another ploy to piss off my parents. It was a clearheaded decision to become a mom—a good mom, maybe even an excellent mom—to my own beautiful child.
“Stop talking nonsense,” my mother spat. “You heard the young man. We absolutely will not go running his family name through the mud with your bad decisions.”
“I don’t need him or his family,” I mumbled. “I don’t need any of you.”
“Oh, isn’t that just so rich,” my mom said, a biting tease in her tone. “You, Holly Simmons, are most certainly not capable of raising a child on your own.” She paused to let out a loud huff. “For heaven’s sake, you can’t even keep a job at the pool snack bar.”
She was right. The only job I’d ever had was at the country club snack bar the summer after my sophomore year of high school. It lasted a week. I overslept once after a brutal night of period cramps, rushed in a half hour late, and my asshole boss called me an “irresponsible brat” and fired me on the spot. I told myself I didn’t want the job anyway, and I spent the next twomonths stealing my mother’s vodka, loitering by the pool where I should have been working, and day drinking from a plastic water bottle.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, approaching my father. “I’ll… take care of it.” I made sure to glare right at thenice boystanding, ashamed, in my hallway. “But I want to do it alone.” I held out my hand and waited for my father to give me the cash.
When he did, I turned my back on all of them, went up to my bedroom, and packed. Before dawn the next morning, I was on a bus to Atlanta, carrying three suitcases filled with the expensive clothes and jewelry that I would sell off in the ensuing months, five hundred dollars of praise-and-worship money, and the fetus that would become my Aidan.
This was way back when Midtown was still “transitional,” and I felt so proud to have found a charmingly shabby-chic attic apartment in a chopped-up, sagging old bungalow. And then there was the blessing of Mrs. Babangida. She was a stern and capable Nigerian grandmother who lived in the corner apartment on the first floor, missed her own grandchildren desperately, and generously offered to babysit Aidan after I landed my first job at Dogwood Hills. She lovingly cared for my baby in exchange for occasional assistance navigating the bureaucracy of the U.S. citizenship process and free leftovers from the club. That woman loved a loaded baked potato, God rest her soul.
Unfortunately, Kyle, my smarmy landlord, was anything but a blessing. When rich couples like Joel and Peter moved in and started pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into restoring neighboring homes, he smelled big profit. Shortly after Aidan’s third birthday, Kyle threatened to evict us all so that the old dump could be torn down to build townhouses. But then, Joel and Peter, my knights in shining armor, jumped in to save the day and bought the place out from under him. Joel insisted that the act was far from charitable. He simply couldn’t abide the thought of living adjacent totownhomes. And so, for fifteen years they’ve served as not only my dear friends but also my landlords. They haven’t raised the rent even once.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Peter says, turning his attention to me,“but what in God’s name drove you to drown your sorrows atthe club, of all places?”
“Oh, the usual work nonsense,” I tell him, trying not to sound evasive.
“I heard the head of security was let go,” Joel says. “I’ve lost his name—”
“Reginald,” I say, my voice faltering.
“Another one bites the dust,” Peter adds, matter-of-factly.
Peter, Joel, and Aunt Edna wait for me to say more, but my lips press tight and my head resumes its pounding, as I force myself to remember the last two exemplary Dogwood Hills employees to “bite the dust.” Both women. And, if Janey’s intel can be trusted, also both victims of Griggs Johnson.
I could ask Joel to help me find a lawyer and sue Griggs for harassment—a fool’s errand, since he’ll almost certainly have the judge in his pocket. I could quit and never have to see Griggs’s face again. But over the years, I’ve worked my way up to a level that I could never reach at another club or hotel, not without a diploma—anda fabulous recommendation from the board of directors. Even if another club wanted to hire me despite my lack of a hospitality degree, Griggs knows all the club presidents. He’d have me blackballed, for sure.
My skin crawls as I recall his eyes roving my form hungrily, his hand red-hot on my body. One thing is clear: I will never, ever give him what he wants.
How will I explain to Aidan that his bright future is going dark, fast?
As if my thoughts have summoned him, I hear my phone vibrating and look down to see the face of my sweet boy, his shaggy auburn hair shining in the sun. I step out onto the patio to take his call, but I just can’t seem to pick up. I stare at his image, my knees weak and wobbly. Tears spring to my eyes and a wave of hopelessness washes over me.
But then I look back at Aidan’s precious face, and I recall the desperate moments—the nights holding him as he wailed, burning hot with fever, the mornings I wasn’t sure I could pull together a few dollars for his school field trips, the long afternoonssitting beside him at the kitchen table and trying to figure out how the hell to solve a linear algebra equation. I did it, though. I did it because I had no other alternative, and because I love this boy more than life itself.
I’ve gotten us both through the worst of situations, on my own. And I’ll be damned if I don’t get us through this one, too.
I dash off a quick text to Aidan, saying I’ll call him back in ten. Then I find the new contact that has been added to my phone: Luisa Martín Moreno. Before I can lose my nerve, I press call.
CHAPTER 9Luisa
Must’ve been a helluva day, sweetheart,” Ginny says, uncapping a beer bottle and handing it to the guy sitting two seats down.
“You have no idea,” I sigh, slipping onto my barstool. “Can I get my usual?”
