"Where'd you go when you found out I was pregnant?"
It's a question that's been buzzing around in your mind for days, and you find it's often there to bug you when you have nothing else to focus on. When N'Jadaka left you that day you hadn't heard him screaming or destroying things (or crying), so you can only wonder in amusement what he did.
Besides, it's the only thing that you can use as a distraction as you sit in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying your hardest not to succumb to your anxiety. Your knee won't stop bouncing and your hands are shaking as they grip the handles of your purse, and N'Jadaka just sits like he could care less.
No, that's a lie, because he seems very rigid now that you actually think about it, flexing his hands on the armrests rhythmically. Open, shut,open, shut, over and over again. He's nervous, or something, but not more than you because you feel like you're going to puke again.
"Answer me," you whisper, grabbing hold of his denim-covered arm. "Say something, please. Distract me, oh God, I hate doctor's offices."
"Parking lot," he says, finally answering your question. "Sat in my car, did some laps, thought about some shit.... told T I wasn't goin' on no more long ass missions for a while."
The fact that he called T'Challa is really funny to you, especially with what follows.
"That nigga said he knew why I was callin'. I should break his damn ankles for keepin' that shit a secret. Said it was 'obvious.'"
"It kind of was," you say, smiling. "Apparently. I didn't know either, so don't feel bad."
The both of you share a chuckle, surprisingly, before tapering off into silence again. The ticking of the clock and the smell of copy paper and coffee are all that accompanies you in the small grey room. Normally you find office settings strangely relaxing, but there's something about the underlying scent of alcohol, sterility, that make you want to take off running.
After a bit, you press your cheek into his arm, staring at your nails restlessly. "I know it's not really you to be all you know, and I'm not asking you to be 'corny' but I do want you to be real with me. Can you do that?"
"I stay real wit' you, though."
"You stay quiet with me," you shoot back, peeking over to see if your makeup has rubbed off on his jacket. "I get you, I think. Not everyone talks about every single thing that passes through their minds, but sometimes I gotta hear you say shit. You're stuck with me now, you may as well. Even if it's one-word answers."
He just huffs, sinking down farther down into his chair before opening his mouth to speak once more. "I don't know what else you want me to say, girl, damn. I got you, with or without them. I mean, I ain't want no kids at first but at the end of the day imma take care of mines and imma take care of you. MY kids growin' up with a father. Period."
"Periodt?"
"Shut up," he goes, rolling his eyes. "You talk too much."
"You shut up. My therapist said I should communicate more."
"That 'therapist' ain't shit if she think yo problem is not talking enough."
Just as you suck your teeth at him the door opens and Ramirez comes out, seeming less rigid and nervous around you and more excited. You're relieved that she isn't afraid of losing her license anymore because her energy was stressing you out. Punching her ex receptionist was enough of a cathartic release to you and you have no desire to do anything else.
