Love Games

06||Not So Eazy

Easton ⚡️

"Okay, the results should take no more than 30 minutes," Dr. Jones explained, her voice calm and professional. The sterile air in the small room felt heavy with anticipation.

"Thank you," both Kayla and I replied in unison. I mumbled my gratitude, while Kayla's excitement bubbled over in her response.

"OMG, this is really happening. I could really be pregnant!" she exclaimed, nudging me with unbridled joy. My expression remained stoic, a silent plea for a different outcome.

"So, what if it comes back positive?" she squealed, her eyes wide with anticipation, her hands fluttering with nervous energy.

I stand up, my nerves making me restless, and I walk to the other side of the room. I grab a pamphlet from a nearby table and throw it at her, hoping the gravity of the situation sinks in. She catches it, but her focus remains on our potential future.

"Eazy, do you hear me? Are you even excited?" she implored, her eyes searching mine for reassurance. The sterile white walls seemed to close in.

I didn't know how my demeanor didn't express my sentiments. I had hoped that my silence during the entire car ride and my evasion of her questions would've conveyed my feelings. "Yes, I hear you, and no, I'm not," I finally replied, my voice steady but firm.

She feigned sadness, attempting to mask her disappointment. "So what if it's positive?"

I nodded towards the abortion pamphlet I had thrown at her earlier. She read it, her eyes flicking between the paper and my face. "You're serious?"

"As a damn heart attack, I don't want any kids," I asserted

She's about to speak, but the doctor comes back, knocking on the door and walking in.

"Okay, Ms. Sims and Mr. King, the results are in. Would you like them read to you or read them together privately?"

I quickly blurt out, "Can you read it, please?" I want the professionalism to ensure no mistakes are made.

"Well, according to the chart, there is no baby," the doctor says, her expression tightening. "You may be late for a number of reasons—stress, lack of sleep, or even just your body going through changes. Just get in contact with your physician and do a follow-up."

"Any questions for me?" she adds.

Kayla shakes her head no, and I can see the disappointment in her demeanor.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Jones," I say as she leaves the room.

"Guess you're happy," Kayla mutters, disappointed, getting down from the hospital bed. The weight in the room lifts, but the emotional tension lingers.

I offer her no response; she was already sad, and I wasn't trying to hear crying during the entire drive back home.

We make it to my car, and I think I'm in the clear from all her questions, but that proves wrong when she starts them immediately as we enter the car, "Is it that you don't want kids, or you don't want them with me?" she asks.

"Both," I say nonchalantly as I pull out of the hospital.

"Then why are you fucking me every other night?" she snaps.

"You're convenient," I mutter.

She scoffs, "You're a piece of shit and so damn rude," turning to look out the window.

"Look, don't ask questions you're not ready to hear the honest answers for," I shrug. A minute goes by, and then I hear her soft sniffles, exactly what I didn't have time for or didn't want to deal with, so I turn the radio up to drown her out.

••••

🦋Amina

Stepping into the familiar embrace of home for our weekend catch-up with Mom feels like entering a sanctuary of comfort. The inviting scent of simmering meals, the timeworn creak of wooden floors, and the soft glow of familiar lights create an ambiance that cocoons us in cherished nostalgia.

As we settle into our weekend ritual, the rich tones of red wine fill our glasses, and we find ourselves before canvases, ready to let the colors dance under the gentle strokes of our brushes.

Amid shared laughter and recollections, Mom's demeanor undergoes a subtle shift, her eyes betraying a depth of concern that prompts a thoughtful sip of her beer. "There's this case," she begins, her voice adopting a measured cadence that commands attention. "He goes by 'Eazy,' but nothing is easy about catching this fucker." Her uncensored use of profanity always has a way of catching me off guard, the way she cusses like a two-year-old learning words never failing to crack me up.

Once I manage to suppress my laughter, I shoot her a look to let her know I'm listening intently. It's clear that this case is more than just another file; it's getting to her, and she vents passionately about the challenges they face.

"He's a cunning, smart little weasel. Every move feels calculated, as if he's toying with us," she reveals, her hands moving with a grace that contrasts with the frustration in her words. "We trace digital footprints, but it's as if he anticipates every move we make, leading us nowhere."

"Like I said He goes by 'Eazy,' but catching this fucker is far from easy," she repeats, her tone laced with exasperated irony. "He's from your side of town, the area you're staying in. Have you heard of him?"

I look at her with a serious expression. "Mom, there are hundreds of dudes named Eazy. I went to high school with at least four of them. And even if I did, I can't help you solve your case."

"Calm your horses. I've been in law for 17 years; I know the rules," she rolls her eyes playfully. "I was just asking; your answer would let me know if you're hanging in the right crowds or not."

Amid shared laughter and recollections, my mother's demeanor subtly shifts, her eyes revealing a depth of concern. Taking a thoughtful sip of her beer, I sense it's time to share a slice of my world. "I've been good, I promise. I'm contemplating a move; my lease is almost up," I confess, hoping to alleviate the tension etched in her eyes.

"Hopefully back to this side of town," she says, a trace of hope in her voice.

"No," I respond firmly, my gaze meeting hers as I continue to paint. I emphasize the life I've cultivated on the east side – a vibrant community, cherished friends, and a job I love.

"But Amina, it's getting dangerous over there," she expresses, her concern surfacing once again.

Assuring her, I elaborate, "I like my friends, my job, the life I've built for myself. Plus, I'm situated on the 'good part' of the city. I don't want to endure a 45-minute drive every day for work."

"So, are you seeing anyone?" my mom randomly asks, steering the conversation into personal territory, her curiosity evident.

"Ma," I say, playfully protesting her invasion of privacy, but she looks at me, unfazed, waiting for my response.

I pause, my brush momentarily suspended above the canvas. "I'm not dating anyone," I admit, curious about where this inquiry is heading.

Unexpectedly, Mom unveils a surprising twist. "Well, I've been seeing someone. I met them online," she reveals with a mischievous smile, catching me off guard and prompting genuine laughter. "Online really Ma?"

"What? Momma's gotta have a life too, right?" she counters, defending her unconventional choice.

I surrender, raising my hands in mock defeat. "Alright, you got me there."

As she delves into the details of her dating life, we continue to paint, creating a harmonious blend of shared laughter, personal revelations, and the comforting rhythm of our weekend catch-up.