The Better Half(42)
“OH, THANK GOD!” Roan roars in relief as if he miraculously found out he doesn’t have an STD. “I thought you were packing on pity pounds while Leo was off in Sweden or wherever getting ripped. Before you two showed up, I was deliberating how to suggest you order from the lite side of the menu, Nina.” Apparently, my shirtdresses have camouflaged nothing when it comes to Roan keeping tabs on my middle-age spread.
“I wonder who the baby’s going to look like? I hope it gets your big brown eyes and stunning smile, Leo. And all that commanding lawyer charisma you got going on.” Roan is holding up his thumbs and index fingers at Leo as if he is taking in important measurements through a lens.
“Hey, what about me? I’m the one cooking this baby.” Whoa. Leo’s barely back, and I’m starting to sound like I’m keeping this kid.
“Well, the dark skin of course, so that baby will never grow older than thirty-five, but a better sense of humor. Hey, I have an idea. If you guys decide you don’t want the baby since you already have Xandra, can Tate and I adopt it? We both want kids, and yours will be a bona fide looker. It’ll fit perfectly with our family planning.”
“You don’t know, it could come out looking like Elmo, all awkward red fro and freckled. It can happen, not all Black and White combos turn out like Rashida Jones. You should see my childhood friend, Malik.” I debunk the common myth that all mixed-race babies are pretty. Just like any other mash-up, some come out busted.
“I think Tate and I will take our chances. We’d be happy with a Mariah Carey look-alike. Leo, any chance you have a rogue musical gene lying dormant in there?” Roan reaches across the table and pokes his index finger at the same biceps I was ogling earlier. There’s no give, only muscle.
The familiar brunch-time banter with Roan at this baby’s expense is making me crave a Bloody Mary. I raise my hand to signal the waitress, so I can ask her to bring me their best virgin version. I catch a glimpse of Leo not appreciating the jokes about pawning the baby off to Roan and Tate.
“Nina, do you want to have this baby with me?” Leo asks directly, unencumbered by the fact we’re at a table for three in the middle of one of the busiest breakfast spots in all of Pasadena. Roan looks shocked, which is saying something for a guy I’ve never seen flinch.
I knew it. Newbie parents have zero sense of humor when it comes to their first offspring, but sitting here next to Leo again feels so right.
So, I might.
SECOND TRIMESTER
FOURTEEN
It’s been nearly a month since Leo arrived home, and I haven’t laid eyes on Marisol once. Between the exhaustion of leading Royal-Hawkins, when all I want to do is crawl under my mahogany desk and nap, and Leo tracking my every move and morsel, my BFF and I have fallen down on the job of propping each other up. Just this week, I feel like I’ve hit my second trimester stride and am game for an escape from the pregnancy police, but I suspect Marisol may not want to waste a family hall pass on a sober outing. I agree to sneak out of school early, and we move our December nail care date up to 3:00 p.m. at the West Hollywood shop.
Marisol 2:52 PM
Don’t be late. Curious if the Moncler Mamas have been parading this season’s winter wear around Royal-Hawkins like they’re hoping for a freak snowstorm.
Nina 2:52 PM
I can’t stand clothing with poultry for a logo. I’m not late, I’m already here.
“Nice tented cashmere blend,” Marisol says, feeling up my sweater. “Hides that bump while keeping you CEO sharp for winter. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell Winn Hawkins you have an applicant baking.”
“I know, but I want to hold out until the end of January before I tell the board. I don’t want all the memories of my first year as head of school to be of me pregnant. Give me six months to be me before us.”
“Hey, look at it this way, you nailed your legacy just by getting busy. And now that you’re for sure having this baby, I’m out,” Marisol declares, raising her hand to wave the bartender over. He doesn’t come immediately. He must be new, and clueless, and about to get an earful on customer service from the Clean Queen herself.
“I thought you were going to stay sober with me until this baby is born,” I say, incredulous.
“Please, that was only until you got over yourself and decided to push this kid out. I was being supportive in your time of need. Your time is over, and I need a drink.”
Even if Marisol’s patience with me had run dry, I still needed her ear as the first week Leo was home proved tricky. Too often I felt compelled to assure Leo that his responsibility for my situation was minimal and that if what he really wanted was to sling himself back to Singapore, I totally understood, no hard feelings, we could each go our own way. Initially, he listened to my protestations and assured me he was going nowhere. Here, he claimed, was exactly where he wanted to be.
As the days wore on, his patience for my martyrdom grew thin. Walking along Santa Monica Beach, wrapped in sweaters, enjoying a chilly November sunset, I was revving up my I can figure out what to do by myself mantra when Leo shot me down once and for all. “Why don’t you leave me with the baby, and you ride off into the sunset? Or better yet, leave me with summer Nina and spring baby, so whoever this fall woman is who won’t accept I’m all in, she can take a hike.” Leo does love a hike.