Tilt (71 page)

He leads me into a bedroom and . . . 

Lucas

Lead Her into the Bedroom

Barely get her onto the bed

when her lights snuff out.

If I happened to be

a gentleman,

or maybe a little less drunk

myself, the sight of her lying

there, skirt pulled up over

her thighs, panties teasing

a major throbbing boner,

would

maybe not tempt me to take

her this way. But she’s a sweet

little piece of virgin meat, and

I’ve waited patiently. The first

turn

belongs to me, and this is a

prime chance to take it. I climb

up beside her, tug off the baby

blue lace, fling it

away.

Her breath is hot and her skin

is hot, and between her legs

it is wet and hot and the resistance

lasts only a moment.

Mikayla

I Have Resisted

Thinking about the possibility

of a new relationship. For almost

a year, Dylan was the only guy

on my mind. He was an obsession.

After I got pregnant, I believed

he was a necessity, even after he turned

his back, walked (no, ran) away.

Once it became diamond clear

that he wasn’t coming back, I was

sure no one would want me. Not yet

eighteen, I felt used, and used up.

Worthless. Contemptible. Hollow.

Suddenly, there is a flicker—a single

candle—of hope that I can love

and be loved beyond Dylan. Why

Ty would choose to shine for me

now is a total mystery. It’s not like

he can’t get another girl—prettier,

more popular, and a whole lot less

preggo than me. Yet, here he is.

I’ve Known Him

For a long time. Since elementary

school. We’ve hung out together, dated

each other’s friends. Best friends, even.

We’ve stood up for each other. Worried

about each other. Obviously cared very

much for each other. But we’ve never

hooked up. Timing, I guess. Or maybe

on some level we felt like our friendship

might not survive a romance. So, why now?

When I asked, he said simply,

Because you need me now.
And

when I asked if he wouldn’t be

afraid of what people thought,

he said,
If I was, what kind of person

would that make me?
I kissed him

then. I couldn’t help it. And he

kissed me back, so sweetly I knew

he meant it when he said,
I love you.

It Was a Surreal Moment

Because in that candid declaration,

there was no promise. But there

was limitless possibility, and that

is better because promises fuel

heartbreak. All around me, I see

tattered commitments. Vows in shreds.

And yet, this “maybe,” when I need

it most, means everything to me.

I have a future without Dylan.

What’s less certain is whether or not

a baby belongs there. This baby, anyway.

What can I hope to give her?

Christmas is coming and everywhere

there are advertisements for toys

and games and clothes and holiday

things for children. Pseudo Santa

surprises. Memories in the making.

But how would she remember me

if all I could give her were hand-

me-downs beneath a Charlie Brown

Christmas tree? She deserves more.

Why is it so hard to admit that?

Pride? Conceit? Selfishness?

I’d like to think it has everything

to do with watching Mom struggle

with not knowing where she came from.

The pain of searching for the connection

most people take for granted. When

I talked to Ty about it, he asked,

Is she happier now that she knows?

When I said I think maybe, he asked,

Would her life really have been better

if her birth mother had kept her,

and tried to raise her all on her own?

Tougher question. One I keep trying

to answer. For Mom. And for my baby.

One Thing I Do Know

Is that I’m currently eating for two.

And both of us are hungry right now.

Thanksgiving leftovers are calling.

As I pass by Mom’s room on my way

to the kitchen, I notice the door isn’t all

the way closed. She is talking on the phone.

Vegas sounds really fun, but I can’t get

away till after Christmas. It will probably

be our last one together. I’m not looking

forward to splitting holidays with Jace.

Why do I have to hear these things?

It’s not like I try to tune into conversations

not meant for my ears. The last time,

I happened to hear Mom and Andrea talking

about me, and about poor Mrs. Trask,

trying to replace little Shelby via in-vitro

fertilization. That must have been what

she was doing at Dr. Ortega’s that day.

God, she looked so sad, and yet she tried

to be happy for me and. . . 

I am reaching for the mayonnaise

when the proverbial lightbulb switches

all the way to bright. Would she. . . ?

Could I. . . ? If. . .  Wow. Bread. Mayo.

Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Making a sandwich

is logical. Making a giant decision is emotional.

Relief. Fear. Sadness. Joy. Not that anything,

really, has been decided. But this is a possible

answer. Possibilities, again. Chew, chew, swallow.

Chew, chew, swallow. My stomach fills with food

and butterflies. I finish the sandwich. Wash it

down with water. Go knock on Mom’s door.

It’s Such an Adult Idea

Mom can hardly believe it came

from me. But after all the initial

“are you sure’s” (no) and “have you

really thought about this’s” (not

exactly), her relief is obvious.

Her
relief. Which is weird, but

whatever. Guess she thought

a grandchild would put a crimp

in her lifestyle. The one she’s

planning on after the holidays.

It just might work out, Mikki.

Should we talk to your dad first?

“What for? He doesn’t want a baby

around here any more than you do.”

It’s not about not wanting her.

It’s about what’s best for her.

This could really be win-win, I think.

But there would be legalities.

“If we get that far, of course.

But let’s talk to Mrs. Trask first.”

Mom calls her friend, Andrea, who

happens to have a sister who lost

a little girl and wanted another and may

jump at the chance to adopt the one

growing inside me. Still a part of me.

While we wait for the phone calls

that will relay my offer, I go do some

online research about open adoption.

Had I done so first, I might not have

considered it a viable option. So many

stories, not all of them positive! Most

of the negative ones regard jealousy.

On both sides. Birth parents changing

their minds. Court battles. Back child

support. Yikes! Better get Dad involved.

But there are good stories, too. Adopted

kids who know the important details—

who and where they came from, and

why. Birth moms who see their children

grow. Healthy. Cared for. Loved.

The Call Comes

Sooner than I expected.

Mrs. Trask—Marissa, she says

to call her—can barely hold in

all the questions. One by one,

out they pop, incrementally

harder to answer.