There’s a thickness in the air of this condominium. An energy unwanted, unfavored truly.
Desmond’s mood has been off the past few times he’s come to see me. He’s short when it comes to his responses, but somehow has the energy and excitement needed to screw for hours. It truly perplexes me.
I mean, I don’t know what I’ve done to make him upset? I keep asking and he’s telling me “it’s nothing”, but I feel something is wrong. Could it be the guilt eating away at him for hiding me while my brother’s life has pretty much been in shambles since I left?
I knew he’d be upset, but I didn’t realize he’d be so hurt. He couldn’t finish the season and the team didn’t make it past the first round of the playoffs. The drive was no longer there after the way Tommy just cracked. It’s on me, and it’s on Des.
It’s easier for me to maintain a bit of sanity in that regard, since I can just imagine his hurt and not have to see it. Desmond is in the gym with him, in training, around him at events, and even conducting routine check-ins to make sure Tommy knows he’s not alone.
I hear he has a girlfriend now though, which is good for him. He needs someone around, and me being gone made room for that I sure.
My parents filed a missing persons report after day seven of my being away, so as to give me time to come to my senses and return. I don’t think they believed I would’ve stayed away though. Voluntarily that is, for all they know I could’ve been forced to write that note before being abducted. But it was a huge deal in the media once TMZ picked the story up and from mid-April to early June, my name was mentioned almost every day on ESPN as well as other news outlets, sporadically.
My disappearance has been the excuse that just about every sports commentator has used for why the Sailors couldn’t make it to the conference finals, despite ending the season at the 3rd rank in the Western Conference. My disappearance was “a great distraction”.
Desmond said that Tommy has come to the conclusion that the father of my child is a guy much older than me who “groomed” me. And that I’ve been manipulated into protecting him at all costs. He says that can be the only reason I took things this far.
I’m sure it’s hard on Desmond to hear that, knowing Tommy’s theory isn’t exactly our situation. The reason I’m protecting Desmond is because I’m the problem. I’m the trouble, everywhere I go. Always have been. And I wasn’t groomed into anything.
It has been hard on me as well, being here alone I mean. Boredom tempts me to shake shit up sometimes with not being able to leave. I have no phone, no laptop or tablet. Nothing but TV, and a slowly built collection of books, as my connection to the world outside.
I think I may progressively be starting to lose it, because I now find joy in the little fights we have when he’s here every couple of days. There’s always something for us to bicker about, whether it’s him not flushing the toilet or me cooking more food rather than eating the leftovers in the fridge so they don’t go to waste.
What will we fight about today? The fights never seem to be anything we can’t come back from. He still prefers being here at home with me, than at the house in the city with her. He’s always going on about some new disrespectful shit she said or did to him. His ego is very fragile, and I know he uses me to feed it.
If I’m being honest, I don’t mind doing so either as I have nothing better to do as of late.
“I’m thinking, now that things have gotten a bit more tame regarding my situation and all, we go out. Nothing extravagant, just maybe to the beach or something?” I suggest, dying to finally catch the sight of something other than the ever changing objects in the sky or the changing of the wall color from room to room in this home I call mine for now.
Because that’s all this is, a “solution” for now. I can’t live like this forever, but I can try if he at least entertains the idea of sneaking me out every once in a while.
He ignores me.
I stretch my leg across the dark brown plush sofa to tap his thigh with my foot. He grabs my ankle, moving my foot to continue staring at his phone unbothered. He starts typing and I pull a “him on him”, snatching his phone attempting to be playful.
I snicker as I try to run away with it when my shirt is snatched from behind and I’m yanked back forcefully. He tosses me back on the couch and something about this whole thing just doesn’t feel playful. He gets up, snatching the phone from my hands, hovering in front of me.
“Do you pay my phone bill Amanda?” He asks seriously. I just look at him. He pops the phone onto my forehead and asks his question again.
I shake my head no.
“Exactly, so don’t be grabbing my shit like it belongs to you.”
“I was just playing Desmond. Jesus, you’re so fucking boring it hurts.” It registers to me what he just did. “And you can’t be serious. You just hit me on my forehead? Are you fucking crazy?” I shove him away.
He rubs at his face and folds his arms, staring at me as I straighten myself up on the couch. I grab at my now bulging belly as I support myself on the arm of the chair to sit back up properly.
“I’m crazy? Who’s the missing person that chose to be a missing person, and now wants to go parade on the fucking town?”
He wants to play the blame game I see.
“Who’s the grown ass man that had no issue with the idea? And has basically harbored an underage runaway that he’s also been fucking? Since you want to start blaming people for shit. All I asked was that I get a chance to see some different shit. I’m alone in this house all day every day, I’m bored! I want some Mexican food! I want to put my feet in some wet sand and soak up the sun. I’m tired of being in this fucking house!”
He shakes his head, pacing momentarily as he continuously waves me off.
“All you do is fucking complain. And I’m tired of the shit Amanda. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. You think I drive an hour this way to come in here and listen to you bitch and whine the whole time? I come here as a favor to you but I can stay where the fuck I’m at with my wife who does the same exact shit.”
Ah so there it is. He thought I was just going to be an agreeable little house pet that he can come and make do tricks for his own entertainment. I’m not here to play into some fantasy, I’m here because I genuinely fucked my life up by choosing to lay under him out of spite, and he let me.
“Desmond, I don’t know what the hell you think this is, but I’m not a pet or a puppet. You’re not just going to come here and have it your way, this ain’t fucking Burger King. I’m a person, a human being that is currently carrying another one. Girl or boy, I guess I won’t know until I push them out since I can’t even go the fucking doctor. You know, so they can’t ask questions and be all up in our business. I don’t have to be here, I don’t have to continue to sacrifice all the shit I did, for the sake of your safety. Have a little respect.”
He looks at me like I just said the most unbelievable thing. He wears an expression of amazement almost.
“What the hell are you talking about right now? This is my fucking house, where I pay all the bills and buy all the food. Let’s not get this shit twisted Amanda, you might’ve made a “sacrifice” or two but really, where the fuck was your life headed? You called me. You needed me, and still fucking do. Stop throwing that shit in my face about what it is you’ve done when all you did was cause a big fucking mess that I’ve been risking my freedom and my goddamn career to fix! So as far as I’m concerned, you are whatever the hell I want you to be when I come all this way to keep your ass company. And to keep the fridge full of food you let go to waste every goddamn time. You’re my pet, my puppet, my chef, and whatever the hell I tell you to be when we get upstairs in that room. You understand?” He gets closer to me with every word. His eyes beam threatened correction.
If I knew that this is the side of Desmond I’d be dealing with, I would’ve never called him that night.
“So that’s how it is now huh?”
“That’s exactly how it is. And you know what? Good idea. I’m kind of in the mood for some Mexican food too.” He walks into the kitchen, aggressively opening the cabinet.
The jar of white rice is grabbed, alongside a can of black beans he bought the second week I was here. He goes into the pantry to grab an onion.
There’s some chicken breasts thawed in the fridge I was supposed to do something with the night before last, but Desmond had a taste for Spaghetti. He grabs them and sets them on the counter as well, organizing all the ingredients in a neat line.
“Have at it. It’s about that time.” He looks at the clock on the stove that reads 1:34. around 2:00 pm everyday is when he tends to get hungry. It’s his lunch time. He silently makes his way out onto the back patio slamming the door to leave me alone to my assignment.
I’ve found a YouTube tutorial for Adobo Lime Shredded Chicken that I’m going to try and do the best I can with, given I don’t have all the ingredients called for. My dad was always the one good at improvising in the kitchen. Not that we were ever strapped for stuff to cook with, he just didn’t have the patience to follow a recipe.
He might skim over one, but for the most part, he’d get an idea of something he wants to make and come up with his own way of making it.
I miss that man. I miss his hugs, and his long lectures about whatever issue he felt pressed enough to rant about while I sat and watched him work with his pots and pans. At first, I found it annoying because I literally just wanted to watch him cook. Something about it always soothed my nerves if I had anything to stress over from my long day at school.
“See the problem is, no one really knows what they want to do with their life anymore. People just live and work, and then walk around mad because they feel they’ve let their life slip away. When really all they had to do was hold onto enough hope for their dreams to survive.”
“Pops, what actually is hope though? I don’t really have it. I don’t really have anything to dream about either. I’m just me.” I tell him.
He laughs.
“That you are, baby girl. Just keep being you.” He smiles at me as he minces the tiny clove of garlic. “Hope is like… looking forward to Christmas in July. You may even put on a movie or two, to give yourself a little taste of the elevated mood and joyous time to come. Hope is the anticipation of happiness.”
Anticipation of happiness. I don’t think I know what happiness is anymore. I’ve been borderline miserable since the third day I’ve been here, not everyday, but the days I’m alone. That was when shit really set in for me. I’m on a desert island. It’s cold here at night. It’s too quiet. I sleep with the TV on and lock the bedroom door.
It makes Desmond mad sometimes when he comes in late after a game or just when I’m not expecting it, and the bedroom door is locked.
We have somewhat of a schedule. I have no way to contact him when he leaves. Only in the event of emergencies am I allowed to go ask a stranger for a phone to call him, and only him. So the pattern we have helps me to know what’s going on.
At first he was only coming on home game nights when he had two days off afterward. He’d spend one day with me, and then the other with his girls after an early morning training session. Now, since it’s the off season, he’s here once a week and alternates between Sunday and Monday or Wednesday and Thursday.
Today is Wednesday meaning he won’t be leaving until early Friday morning. I don’t want to see his face right now let alone be his damn maid. I miss my dad. He’d never make my momma post up in the kitchen like this.
And it’s not that I don’t like cooking, I just don’t like cooking when I have to do the cleaning as well. I get that this is his vacation spot I’ve crammed myself into, but I’m his pregnant girlfriend. The least he can do is be a little considerate.
I take a seat on the floor in front of the stove with the spoon in my hand just staring at it. If a spoon could choose to be anything else, what would it be?
I laugh at my random thought, starting to cry. If I could be anything else, what would I want to be?
“I’m sorry.” I climb onto Desmond’s lap and wrap my arms around his neck. I touch my forehead to his.
“For what?” He smiles, he looks confused. “You good baby. I’m not mad at you, or upset any. You know you my girl.”
I smile happy to hear that we’re alright. It scares me thinking he may walk out of that door one day and just never come back for me. I don’t want to make him that mad. It would break me if I had to do this alone. I don’t want to be without him. I like waking up next to him, being the first person he talks to in the morning and wraps his arm around.
And it never fails. He’ll wake me up by grabbing onto me and pulling my body to fold into his own. His warm breath tickles my neck and excites a bit of laughter. Every time. I think it’s why he does it, he wants to hear that I’m happy around him. I don’t think he hears it enough when he’s with her.
“Desmond, can I ask you a question.”
“What’s up?” He doesn’t fail to keep eye contact.
“Why won’t you leave her? I love you, and I thought you loved me too…”
“You know I do.” He kisses my lips.
“Then leave. I’m tired of sharing you. I don’t want to be alone. I need you when our little king gets here.”
He laughs, touching my belly.
“King huh? You think it’s a boy? You think God finally answered my prayers?” His face lights up at the thought.
He quickly looks as though he’s apologetic about his statement.
“I mean, I love my girls. But I want a little version of me. I want a boy I can raise into a better man than I am. I know I’m not the man God made me to be. I’m trying my hardest to get close to him, but I’m struggling. I feel, having a son who’d want so badly to be like me, would push me harder to be my best. My girls have seen me treat their mom like shit. Not saying I didn’t initially have my reasons, but that’s none of their business. They just shouldn’t see it. I don’t want my boy to see me hurt you. Let me work something out okay? I hear everything you’re saying, I want to make it work for you. I will. This is just a delicate situation, baby.” He kisses my cheek and then my neck.
I want to be patient with him. I do. But I’m challenged in that regard. I know how men tend to lie about things like this. But I don’t think he’s lying.
“I love you Amanda. No matter what this turns into, or what comes of it once shit hits the fan, know that I never lied about this, right here. Us. I come here to be with you.”
“I know.” The kiss I lead with is a passionate one. “I know his name… well, if it’s in fact a boy. If it’s a girl, I have no idea. But, I like the name Declan. It means “messenger”. It was in that book you bought me. That’s important to me. I want him to tell his story, always. I want him to speak his truth in ways I’ve never been able to. And it starts with a d and e like your name. Or what about Denzel?” I completely disregard everything I just said.
He howls loudly and I’m amused yet startled at the same time.
“I love Denzel. That’s a strong black man’s name right there. I want a Denzel.” He kisses my lips again and then my neck twice. “Declan could be his middle name though. Denzel Declan Chisel. I like that. That’s his name.” He just stares at my stomach with a hopeful look. ‘To be honest, you give me my baby boy and you can name him whatever you want. I’ll be happy forever either way.”
And I love the sentiment behind his statement, I do. But how realistic is this? There’s only one way I see this working in both our favors, we’ll both have to truly give up everything. We’ll leave a lot of grief in our wake which will eventually be felt by us too.
“Desmond, if for whatever reason people find out about us, particularly my family… you know you’re going to prison right?” I hate to be this person but we have to have this conversation.
“What is this all supposed to mean Amanda?”
“We need an escape plan. We have time to make one but I’m not sure how much. You have to promise me you’ll follow it if something happens. No matter what.”
“I got you.”
Does he though?
Engagement