I don’t know whether to slug Leo or hug Leo. “Are you just here because my dad guilted you into it because of the baby?” I ask quietly, internally cringing over what the answer may be.
Leo wraps his right arm around me, pulling me in tight next to him. Though I’m craving his touch, I pull away so I can look him straight in the eyes and see the truth. Please God let him be here for me and not because a bossy old man bullied him.
Interpreting my body language, Leo shifts his posture, readying himself for a debate like the trained lawyer he is. “Nina, I’m here for you. I’ve always wanted to be here with you, we just had to get over the hump of my time in Singapore.” As I’m trying to read Leo’s face for a trace of falsehood, he hits me with, “What I don’t know is if you’re happy that I’m here.”
“Of course, I am!” I can’t believe Leo would think otherwise. “But that’s not the point in all of this.”
“Why not? I’m happy to be here with you, you’re supposedly happy I’m here, we have the best surprise ever on the way, let’s enjoy right now and see what develops.”
Of course, as a guy, it’s that simple. Why get bogged down in the dizzying logistics of what’s beyond this moment? Meanwhile, even with Leo right in front of me, my estrogen-overloaded mind can’t stop questioning, Do we know each other well enough to raise a child together? How is Leo on four hours of sleep? Is history repeating itself and I would yet again become a work widow? And today’s most pressing issue seeing Leo face-to-face, Hey, White baby daddy, you don’t have a clue how to raise a Black child in America.
“Why are you home now instead of Christmas or New Year? It didn’t have to be a surprise. I could have planned our reunion.”
“A planned reunion—that sounds sexy as hell,” Leo says, irritated. “Because,” he starts back in, choosing his words carefully, “Fitzroy hinted in his last few emails that you may not want to have our baby.” Leo pulls a single sheet of paper out of another pocket. “When I did the math, I knew you would have to make a decision soon, and I didn’t want you to make it without me, without being reminded in person how good we are together.” My dad really stuck his nose in it this time. It’s probably best he’s going home tomorrow.
“Nina, is it true? Are you considering not having this baby?” Leo envelops my hands in his, his voice turns empathetic, and his body language invites me into his arms. I drop my head on Leo’s chest, so I don’t have to look at him.
“Yes,” is all I can muster, barely audible.
“Yes, what?” Now Leo’s the one pushing the conversation into uncomfortable territory.
“Yes, I’m conflicted. I don’t know how I feel. I’m nearing the end of raising one child, I don’t know if I have it in me to do it all over again. By the time this baby is grown”—I point to my belly—“I will have been a mom going on forty years. I’ll be sixty-five.”
“I’ll be in my sixties too.”
I briefly look up, sending Leo a whatever vibe. His sixties don’t come with stretch marks.
“And we’ll be old parents together, Nina. I promise you won’t feel like a single parent, I will be with you every step of the way.”
This is not the time to mention that Leo’s enthusiasm speaks to yet another concern I have. This is his first child, and I fear he will be like all first-time parents: too excited, too cautious, too obsessed with all things baby. His first-time father fervor is sure to crawl right up under my skin and drive me nuts.
I look at my watch and realize I have a trapdoor out of this conversation. “I know we have more to talk about, but I’m supposed to meet Roan soon for flowers, french toast, and french tips.” Leo looks at me, confused, and I remember that the men in my life do not always speak the same language. “Roan and I have a date to pick out flowers for his wedding. But first I have to feed him. You want to make Roan’s day and come along?”
“French toast at Russell’s?” Leo asks with interest.
“If that’s where you want to have french toast, then you got it.” I smile and squeeze Leo’s hands. How quickly a man can slip out of adult discontent and back into boyhood happiness over something as simple as bread and syrup. It’s a gender trait every woman exploits at moments like this one. “I better text Roan and let him know you’ll be joining us.”
Nina 10:48 AM
Surprise, Leo’s back. We’ll see you at Russell’s.
“That Peruvian maize has made you all kinds of Latino swarthy,” Roan says, giving Leo a slow body scan. “Ay, caliente!”
“I was actually in Singapore, but thank you.” Leo laughs and pulls Roan in for a chest bumping man hug. Roan turns the opportunity into a full-body squeeze.
“Geography aside, why are you back so soon to see us?” Roan asks as we fall into line following the hostess to our seats.
Leo pulls my chair out for me to sit. “I wanted to come back ASAP so I can be here for Nina and our baby.”
Fuck me. I forgot to tell Leo to keep his mouth shut. See, too much enthusiasm.
“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.