You were almost nine-months-old when he asked me out to dinner. Ben; our downstairs neighbor who was always kind and caring. The one who would watch you when the babysitter couldn’t. Ben; who would buy me diapers and groceries when I need to pay rent, or who would help me pay rent when I needed to buy groceries.
He’d brought me takeout, and you ate what you could off of my plate, that day he came over. He brought cream-filled dumplings, which you enjoyed greatly. For all I was concerned, you thought Ben was your daddy. Your real daddy came to visit you once when you were a few days old, then mama scared him away. He hasn’t tried to contact me or be in your life since then. That was fine though, I didn’t know my daddy either.
You fell asleep soon after we ate. Ben was watching TV with his feet perched atop the coffee table. I pick you in my arms, your breath warming the crook of my neck. You were always warm, and you kept me warm at night.
I laid you gently on my bed. I refused to have sleep without me since the first night I brought you home and you had been crying all night and I hadn’t heard you. I pulled your purple blanket up to your chin and you sighed contently in your sleep, your rosy cheeks puffing out. I kissed your forehead and walked back out into the living room.
Ben had one arm draped across the back of the couch when I returned. I had to admit that he was very handsome. He was a few years older than me. Twenty or twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two. I would be eighteen next month. Although he was older, he didn’t take it for granted. He was usually quiet. Maybe that was one of the characteristics I liked most about him.
He had green eyes. I’ve always heard that green eyes are one of the rarest eye colors. Something about that intrigued me. He had a strong jaw that almost always had stubble on it.I think I may have seen him two or three times completely shaven. His skin wasn’t pale, but it wasn’t tan either. He had high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and very pink lips. And he had shaggy dark hair that framed his face nicely but hid his high cheekbones unless he pushed it out of his face.
He sported a black leather jacket and a graphic T-shirt that I couldn’t read. Besides that he wore sneakers and plain ripped jeans. He was very good-looking. Sometimes I couldn’t help the heat that rushed to my face whenever I saw him. But there was another part of me that just . . .
“Are you thirsty?” I asked him, stepping inside the small, apartment kitchen.
“What do you have?” he asked.
“Water and . . . “ I checked the fridge. “Water.”
“Got any beer?” he asked, coming over to sit at the kitchen island.
“I’m not old enough,” I say.
“Ah, right.” He pauses. “Water’s fine.”
I smile, pour him a glass, and hand it to him.
I start picking up and cleaning the plated we ate our food on. I’m not OCD or anything about a messy house but cleaning gets my mind off things. It helped when you were first born and I thought I had postpartum depression and my mama wasn’t a big help. So I cleaned.
“Let me help,” Ben says, standing up from his seat.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re my guest.”
“I brought the food,” he argues.
I place my hand on his arm. “It’s fine, really.” I quickly pull my hand away, feeling the heat creep up my neck.
“Remi?”
I place the dishes in the sick. “Yeah?”
He stands and wipes his hands on his pants. Then he clasps them together. He’s . . . nervous? He’s always been a mellow guy. He never showed much emotions, but he showed enough. Why was he nervous?
