Leon's Way (22 page)

She gasps. “No way. Does he know?”

That’s her first question. Great.

“I’ll tell him once I’m back at Smother.”

“Why aren’t you staying with him?” She’s frowning to the point of crinkling that tiny button nose she has. Yeah, she’s not in support of my decision.

“You don’t want to live with me again?” I jest, but she’s not in the mood for jokes.

“Arriane, how can you do this to Leon?”

What?

“Ingela, I—” Wow, where do I even start? She saves me the trouble by moving on while I’m still rummaging for an answer.

“Do you have any idea what you’ll be doing to him? He loves you so much, Arria! He talks about you and the baby all the time. He’s always checking his messages, calling you, running off to you, even when the club is freaking packed with people and we’re crazy busy. And now he’s down in the um, bumps, because of his dad and all, and I swear, Arria—I’m sure you’re the only thing keeping him together!”

Where does she get all this from?

“Ingela, you don’t understand. I need to do right by the baby, and I’m too stressed out in this relationship. I might not even carry the baby full term if I don’t—”

“You love Leon like crazy, remember?” Ingela’s voice is stern. “Don’t even go there about being over him, because you’re stupid obvious. You guys are so fucking full of your feelings for each other, it’s disgusting.”

Disgusting?

“If you love someone, you’ve got to hang in there and not chicken down!”

“Chicken out.”

“Whatever, just don’t do that.”

“You really want to keep living with Kat, don’t you?” I can’t help myself. Everything she says makes sense, and guilt over Leon lurks at my decision.

“Changing the subject, much? Kat’s a great roommate. I loved sharing the apartment with you too, but you can’t stop true love, Arriane. I think what you guys have is pretty damn close. Ha!” she snorts out in the end, and I don’t answer. I’m so stunned by her tirade. Sweet, optimistic, silly Ingela has had it with me and
my
bullshit?

“How great would that be? I’m picturing it now.” She holds her hands up in a square, framing an imaginary future in front of us. “Leon smashed by heartbreak, trying to get through the day at Smother with the love of his life, Arriane, also totally smashed. The only sane one in the house, running the show, would be Christian, because—”

Ingela drills unapologetic eyes into me. “—
Christian’s
going in the natural direction; Shannon has moved in with him!”

Crap.

Ingela rolls her shoulders like she just finished a workout. “Take it or leave it. Just my… um,
musings
on the matter.”

“I’d say.”

“Because you kick ass, and I love you.”

“Thanks, Inga. I guess...”

“No, the Felt Hat Day celebration is different from the regular Hat Day celebration,” I explain to Cameron, who’s chewing on a straw. “The only headgear you can wear are hats made from felt.” Really, it’s self-explanatory, and yet by the vacant glint in Christian’s and Jason’s eyes, Cameron isn’t the only one lost.

“Okay, look. We’re not going to deny people entrance for wearing…” I glance at Cam’s absolutely ginormous sombrero. “
That
, but I want everyone to be aware of what
felt
is!”

I’m getting bossy these days. I think it’s the general discomfort of my huge belly combined with Leon’s free reins. I’m not cut out to be a supervisor, which is obvious to everyone. Leon usually smirks and calls me “the Petite Menace” while the guys at the club lumber around following my micro-managing bidding.

“They don’t understand, Arriane,” Ingela says now, her eyes arched in sympathy with my sufferings. Then, her gaze flows to where I’m lifting the baby away from his position against my bladder.

“Suck it up, Mom. And plus—if we’re not enforcing felt hats, why insist that the gays understand it?” she asks.

I’m working myself up. I wiggle an actual, true felt hat in front of everyone, a green Robin Hood variety. “Christ, but it’s so easy! Does this even slightly resemble anything you guys are wearing? Look. Look!”

Awkward silence ensues while the boys stare at each other. Jason shrugs from inside his British police helmet. Christian’s Roman laurel wreath? I don’t even know what to say, I’m so mad.

“Not a single one of you!” I pant through the sting in my side where the baby stretches out a sleepy leg.

Leon’s arm comes around me from behind. He leans his chin on my head for a moment. No surprise that I didn’t hear him duck out from his office—my love is always silent. With his chest steady against my back, Leon’s clear, quiet command contrasts starkly with my own impatient outbursts. “Let’s get her paraphernalia up on the walls.”

He points at the heap of tiny felt hats in different colors and felt-hat-shaped strings of lights. The flower-bouquet-style decorations with felt hats mounted on tall florist sticks. I’ve prepped this for weeks, and they’re ruining it!

“Ingela, you know where they go, right?” he asks.

“Yup, where we put all celebratory stuff,” Ingela replies.

“No! We’re half an hour from doors opening, and nothing’s done yet!” I turn in his arms. “Let me—”

“Right, I’m taking your petite menace butt upstairs so they can work and you can have a nap before showtime,” he explains to me.

I’m getting mad at him too, for being overbearing, and in front of the others no less. My back’s aching. I’ve been on my feet down here, pushing against the molasses-slow responses of these seriously challenged men the entire time while Leon’s been on the phone with suppliers. Ingela arrived thirty minutes ago, sixty minutes later than scheduled, and she’s wearing—wearing—

“Ingela, are you
serious
?” Those jeans, they’re so worn out I swear I can see pink underwear all the way across her bottom. A tiny voice in my head wonders, though:
when did I start worrying about this stuff? I’m not the owner of Smother.

I used to laugh at Inga’s antics, and yet now I open my mouth to berate her.

Leon cuts me off, arms still folded around my livid, mountainous self. “The supplier dropped off a batch of complimentary dandelion leaves for what he’s sure is ‘our pet rabbit.’ Let’s head upstairs and test them out, okay? All will be done in time for doors. After your siesta, you’ll be ready for the crowd.”

As he guides me away from the counter and toward the apartment stairs, he swings at the waist to address Ingela. “Uniform slacks before doors.” I turn to shoot my whimsical friend a lethal glare, but she waves the mislaid pants at us like a black flag.

“Duh, was gonna change.”

Smartass.

Leon’s in the Bag Room. From the sound, he’s kicking the living shit out of the biggest of his punching bags. He hasn’t even taken the time to turn on his hell-wrenching music. Suppressed growls filter out for every blow. Leon returned from visiting his dad, blustered through the door tornado-style, pushed a rough kiss to my teeth, and locked himself in.

Ingela’s choice words at the hospital made an impact on me. I’ve been home at Leon’s place for a week, and I don’t mention to him that I teeter on backing out of our agreement and swapping living spaces with Kat again. He works hard to keep his darkness from upsetting me, so it’s reasonable that I do the same with my fears.

His sister follows up with me every day, keeping a close eye on my state of mind. It would have disturbed me if she weren’t so nice. She comes by, asks how I feel—how Leon feels too—because he’s not divulging much to her. She offers encouragement and the sort of advice you’d expect from an old, wise woman even though she’s only twenty. Going through a lot in your life and consciously assimilating after the blows must be what makes her special.

Katsu and I, we’re different, but we click on a variety of levels, besides our love for Leon. She’s taught me to meditate. I’m trying now, with Leon’s rage a couple of rooms over. The music I turn on is of the soothing, instrumental variety. I crisscross my legs at the far end of the couch before I close my eyes.

I’m not good at this thinking-of-only-one-word thing, but my strength lies in dogged dedication. Within a minute or two, my heart slows down, which is what the baby and I need.

When Leon’s hate rock suddenly booms through the room, I interrupt what I’m doing to shut the door to the hallway. Now, I have to start over again, because the noise launches my stress into overdrive.

Before I can force my mind to obey, I race through all of my worries at once: Leon is unnaturally perceptive. Are his visits at his father’s helping, or is he accepting the punishment so I won’t consider moving out?

If the preeclampsia doesn’t go haywire, our baby will be born in four weeks. It’s a long wait with my body not being mine anymore. I’m heavy, filled to the brim with water in every joint, and because of my blood pressure, I’m taking pills to keep from retaining more. I can’t even imagine what I’d feel like without the pills.

I inhale deeply, preparing myself for the meditation session again. Of course, my mind strays to breathing techniques for people giving birth. I’ve learned them, even practiced them. For the life of me, I don’t get how they make a difference when a girl is supposed to push out something this huge.

Breathe.

I look up to catch my reflection in the mirror. It wobbles with each rattle of Leon’s “music” against the walls. At the center, my eyes stare back at me. Heck darn—I’ve got to take control of myself. What was the mantra again, the one Kat told me to meditate on? A single word, when there are so many galloping through my head.

Ooooooohm.

My belly. Is anyone supposed to balloon this much? It’s normal, they say, but—God Almighty, I have four freaking weeks to go! This is when my baby starts putting on weight in earnest, supposedly. Wouldn’t surprise me if I split down the middle.

Four. Weeks. I let the time frame wash in over me. I can push away the thought of the delivery—I’ll freak out soon enough. But what has to happen much sooner, like tomorrow, is something I can’t keep avoiding: baby shopping.

So far it’s been minimal. I just can’t own up to where I’ll be living once he’s born. I haven’t bought the stroller, the changing table, heck, even the car seat. It goes against my intense nesting instinct to postpone this, which might be the reason why I obsess more than ever over Smother’s special days’ celebrations.

Tomorrow.

I’m so torn.

No. For the little one, I know what my choice has to be.

She tells me she needs to buy baby stuff. I was wondering about that, how long couples postpone buying cribs and shit.

She pushes a forkful of lettuce, no dressing, into her mouth. Even for breakfast, it’s the preferred meal nowadays. At least she combines it with bread. My girl sighs. There’s a glimmer in her eyes that worries me. She’s about to say something I won’t like.

“Sweetie…”

“Baby, think twice,” I snap out.

Arriane swallows, surprised. A hand goes to the top of her stomach, which is almost reaching her breasts now. “Leon, I—”

“Are you firing me?” I stare at her, daring her to continue.

She lets out a small sob before her hands shoot up to her face, covering it. I’m right. The plan is to pink-slip me. Let me go, if not as the father of our baby, at least as her man. There must be a gash inside my chest because I’m so sore the pain extends from the center in under both arms.

“Leon, I have to be smart.” Arria’s pitch is so high. Her voice quivers through the tears. She’s crying. I can’t take that she’s crying.

I sink down from the chair and to my knees next to her. “What brought this on?” I ask her. “Haven’t I been good to you?”

“Yes!” she chokes out. “But I need to decide where the baby stuff goes. It’s got to go to my apartment.” I stroke her hair, the tear in my chest deepening.

“No, it doesn’t. What, are you moving out now, sending Kat back to me?”

Arria sniffs and looks up. “No, not yet, I… was going to stay here for the last month. Or maybe that’ll be too hard…” She trails off, unsure.

“You’re confused,” I break in.

“No, this is not confusion. I love you, and I’m grateful for how you are with me—I wish we could keep what we have.”

“Then don’t destroy it.”

She sinks in against me even though she tells me that she wants to leave. I’m relieved that she’s not beyond craving my embrace. “I want nothing more than to be with the two of you,” I whisper, arms around her lush body.

“Me too! But—” Her tears wet my neck as she burrows into me. She’s devastated, and I can’t fathom why. From what I understand, I’m getting an “A” so far. Why does she want to leave me in the dust?

“It’s the Bag Room, huh?” I say.

My Arria pulls in a deep breath through her nose, trying to compose herself. For a moment, she draws back to look at me. Those gorgeous, violet eyes sparkle with grief at her own decision. “Yeah. If it were just for exercise, I’d be excited about the Bag Room, you letting out a bit of pent-up energy… But you
need
the Bag Room to remain sane, Leon. What you really need is professional help. Have you ever considered that?”