I look around the gym. Courtney must be here witnessing this.
“I told you, Nina, I’m your dream maker. In the classroom and on the floor. Gotta go bring this game home.” Jared pounds his chest over his heart and winks. Maybe at me, maybe at Roan. “See ya, Roan.” Jared glides back down the bleachers to rejoin his team. A couple of moms gaze in rapture. So does Roan.
Returning to the pots and pans on his phone, Roan admits, “I bet these would be lining my cupboards by now if Tate and I were having a big wedding.”
“Hey, chin up. Bright side, you can flirt with Jared all you want. It’s not cheating when a guy’s straight, right?” I’m not up to speed on gay monogamy, but I’m pretty sure ogling a hetero hunk is meaningless.
“It may not be cheating on the home front, but I’m pretty sure it’s foul play according to the Royal-Hawkins employee handbook. Have you read that tome, Headmistress Clarke? It’ll put you right to sleep.” I bite my tongue. With Roan, I sometimes forget we’re at school. “But you’ll let me flirt with Leo whenever I want, right? You know, just to keep my skills sharp?”
“If he sticks around, he’s all yours.”
“I was craving burritos.” I hold the bag up next to my head, smile, and wonder if I’m as transparent as I feel. “I got your favorite, carne asada.” My gut’s hoping the thirty-minute drive and impromptu meal offering will be well received. Dinner will be served with a side of begging Leo to come to New York with me.
“Did we have an appointment today and I missed it?” Leo asks, flustered, searching for his phone to check his calendar. I stand frozen on the front landing like a delivery boy waiting for his tip.
“No appointment. It’s just no fun eating a burrito alone. You have to have someone to complain to when you’re stuffed after polishing off a pound of meat, cheese, and rice.”
“Did you remember extra cilantro? I have to have extra cilantro.”
“I did,” I offer, hopeful to be let inside.
Leo opens his door wide enough for me to walk through. “Get in here then.” I duck under his arm into a living room I haven’t seen in far too long. Maybe the past couple of weeks I should have been inviting myself to Leo’s home instead of him into mine to keep our relationship on the rails.
Leaning back into the couch, Leo stretches his arms above his head, full after his final bite. In truth, I was the one who polished off my burrito, then asked if I could have the last quarter he left sitting on the coffee table.
“Why’d you come all the way over here tonight, Nina? I know something’s up.”
Really? He does? I thought my stream of extraneous chatter through dinner was endearing, but I guess it was a dead giveaway. I shift to get more comfortable on the couch for the big ask. Leo pats his lap, signaling me to kick up my feet. OH MY GOD, his thumb bearing down into my arch is a third trimester orgasm. I look around the room, trying to gather the right words to ask Leo to come with me to Xandra’s play and maybe if I can spend the night. On the seat of the chair to my right I spy an open binder with a couple of loose-leaf papers resting on top, Leo’s handwriting scrawled across them. I can tell these aren’t legal briefs, they look more like a question-and-answer type situation. I shift onto my side to get a better look and see my name in the righthand corner of one of the pages.
“What’s this, Leo?” I roll off the couch and crawl over to the chair, reaching for the paperwork. Leo swigs his last sip of beer.
“That’s the coursework for a parenting class I’ve been taking. Careful, your burrito fingers are greasing up my notes.”
“You’re taking a birthing class at the hospital, alone?” I had assured Leo over the holidays that after fifty-six hours laboring with Xandra, I was a pro. The tips and tricks haven’t changed that much, and we didn’t need to go to the multi-evening class full of first-time parents asking novice questions. Yes, it really is exhausting, and yes, it really feels like being turned inside out, and no, there’s no app to make it go faster or hurt less. What else do people need to know?
“It’s not a birthing class. Don’t go looking to spoil my fun.”
Refusing to register for a hospital birthing class was one of many times in the past few months I now realize I crushed Leo’s new dad spirit as the seasoned know-it-all. The fact Leo is now taking a birthing class solo kills me. I didn’t understand it was so important to him. Or maybe I did, but what I wanted, which was nights at home, was more important to me. I would do anything to take back my dismissal of Leo’s interest in learning how to be a good partner in the delivery room. I can feel Marisol’s disappointment in me, again, without her even knowing this latest infraction.
I put the paper I’m holding down, vigorously wipe my fingers on my dress, and pick it back up. In six steps, complete with pictures, are directions on how to create playground-perfect ponytails. No graphic pictures of an alien pushing out a vagina, just a Black dad smiling at me as he deftly brushes, twists, and clips a perfect hairdo. At the bottom, in Leo’s lawyer scrawl, he’s written, “How do I brush my child’s hair without hurting them?”
I pick up a stapled stack of papers titled, “What You Need to Know Today Before Bringing a Black Child into the World Tomorrow.” Leo has notes written all along the margins, top and bottom. Highlights and arrows direct the eye to different bullet points. In someone else’s scrawl it says, “Don’t ask your kid if they want watermelon. JK!”
I flip the binder on its edge so I can read the spine. In a big, bold font is the acronym BTBP, and in longhand, Black to Basics Parenting. I put the binder and papers back down on the chair and keep my back to Leo, I don’t want him to see the mix of nosiness and sorrow on my face. Xandra’s first three years of life, I begged Graham to sign up for a parenting group with me so we could meet other couples with newborns. When he scoffed at the idea, I signed up anyway and made excuses for Graham’s absence over cheese and crackers and sharing teething nightmares. Now I’ve done to Leo exactly what Graham did to me.
“If this isn’t a birthing class, what type of class is it?”
“Well, under normal circumstances we would have known each other for a lot longer, gotten to know each other’s families better before having a child.”
I drop my head; this is where Leo finally comes down to earth and admits he’s overwhelmed by the responsibility of me, the baby, his skyrocketing career.
“Nina, turn around.” I don’t. “I’m not continuing until you turn around, this isn’t high school. We’re adults here, and there’s no ignoring that we have a baby coming soon.” Calling out adolescent behavior on an educator is a nervy move. I turn around. “But that’s not how we did it. And so, what? We did it our way, and I couldn’t be happier I get to be a dad, something I didn’t think was in the cards for me. We’re just doing it at super speed.”
“If we’re using school analogies, we skipped a couple of grades.”
“Yes, we have. And all my buddies who are dads, their kids are already well into school. They’ve lost their excitement over babies, kind of like you have, because it’s been ten years since they were in my shoes.”