Leon's Way (31 page)

I’m a father.

I half sit, half stand next to her bed with no one else around. They let us breathe now, have this moment to ourselves as a new family. Sugared tea and a few hospital-style canapés wait on a tray table that’s pulled up between us. My cup reads “Dad” and hers says “Mom.” Arria cried happy-tears when she first saw them.

Her face….

It’s swollen from pent-up liquid and crying, her lips puffy and red from her worrying them. Arriane’s chest is still flushed from the destruction she went through only twenty minutes ago—

And she has never been more beautiful.

Below her chin rests the tiniest little person. He’s sound asleep, fine, silky hair tickling Arria’s nose and heart-shaped mouth puckering into a small bubble of saliva.

I can’t stop touching him. He doesn’t react to my big, calloused thumb’s repetitive movement over his delicate skin. It’s yellow, like he’s been on the beach already working on his tan.

“We should put the hat back on,” she hums, a smile in her voice. The angry girl from half an hour ago is long gone. In her place is this sweet, loving… mother.

“Yeah, he’ll be cold, huh?” I ask because I’m not sure.

“Probably.” She looks around as if gauging the temperature in the room. It’s warm. Very warm, to be honest.

“What do you think?” I jerk my chin toward him, and the soft trickle of her laughter reaches me again. I’ve asked that stupid question five times already. “We did good, huh? Good stock?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Yep, couldn’t have been better, Dad.”

I’m not happy about his yellow color, though. “You think he’s going to outgrow the liver thing?” The doctor told us he’d be fine, that he’d get a couple of days in a baby tanning bed, and that would take care of the problem.

Arriane’s lip starts trembling. Shit.

“Sorry… One of the nurses said I’d be a bit emotional in the beginning. New mommy problems.” She sniffles.

“He’ll be okay,” I assure her. “And in the meantime? He’ll be a tanned surfer dude. Gotta keep those surfboards away from him.” Through tears, she giggles at my joke.

Arria, my sweetheart, reaches out and pulls my face to hers. I kiss her carefully, loving on plump, salty lips. Even now, in this sacred moment with our son between us, my dick stirs at the sensation.

“I love you,” I whisper. My son grunts in his sleep, like he’s already plotting how to interrupt our intimacy, and we both smile.

“Isn’t it funny?” she whispers back. “Lyric already knows what he wants. Did you see? He latched on to my nipple and suckled so hard I thought he was trying to eat my entire breast!”

“Hey, he likes it rough.” I wink at her.

“Shut up, you freak,” she murmurs sweetly.

This boy. He sleeps so peacefully on his mother’s chest, cocooned in soon-to-be milk-filled pillows and dreaming of a future with wise, loving parents.

Parents who can give him what he needs at every turn and every corner.

Arria’s eyelids sink, maybe at the rhythm of her newborn’s relaxed breath against her chest. Her mouth curls in a small smile, as if the pain she just went through means nothing anymore.

My father. I’ll never be like him. I know this. But I learned something from him today, because I finally listened when he spoke. Money runs out, and it doesn’t mean jack if you lose the ones you love. Practical amenities are just that: amenities.

Love and patience are everything. Children need twenty-four-seven nourishment of their worth. I want to provide it all to my family.

I don’t want to be the loose cannon my girlfriend chose to stay with despite her better judgment. I, Leon, have the resources and the opportunity to ditch this noose that’s been around my neck, nudging me to jump.

So I lean in over the woman I love, the one who came into my life so easily, and rattled me to the marrow. I run my thumbs over her cheeks and watch her smile curve higher before I peck her lips.

Then, I kiss my son’s head.

“I’ll be back, my loves,” I murmur. And when I leave, I send them a last glance before I shut the door.

“I’ll be quiet,” I nighttime-murmur to the nurse at hospice. She nods, letting me pass. In this place where people come to die, the guardians of rules are not so strict. Here, it’s about comfort for the dying and consolation for those about to be left behind.

“Anyone visiting?” I ask, giving her my father’s name and room number.

“No, not now.” She checks the clock on the wall, ticking for one a.m. “His wife will be back early in the morning.” Her pen flicks up and scratches beneath a curl. “And the girlfriend too.”

“He’s not married. My mother is his ex-wife.”

“Ah, I did think that was strange. Just—your mother is the one he talks about when he’s lucid.”

“Yeah…”

His door slides open easily. A small nightlight flickers in a corner, which is all I need tonight. I find a chair by his bed, pull it up quietly, and sit down. My father is on his back with pillows stuffed high under his neck, and with hands above the blanket, he rests peacefully.

I’m full of the joys I came from. Of my decisions, my future—of what I should have caved in to a long time ago. I have no room for anger or resentment, because at the far end of this property, someone I love sleeps peacefully too; a tiny being at the very beginning of his existence, and beneath his soft cheek, a woman at the peak of hers.

“Father,” I begin, not taking his hand. I open my phone and look down at the pictures I’ve snapped. Set a screensaver of my smiling girlfriend with our newborn son. “You’re a grandfather now. His name is Lyric, and he’s the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen. I wish you could meet him.”

As I say it, I realize it is true. I do wish upon him the joy of experiencing this unspoiled miracle. A child he could enjoy and not feel guilt over or need to ask forgiveness from. It would be good.

My father already sleeps the sleep of the dead. A hardly perceptible breath sifts from his lips, so low I wouldn’t hear it unless I leaned in close.

“The delivery was rough. He had his umbilical cord around his neck, obstructing the flow of oxygen. They would have done a C-section if Arriane hadn’t been so open already,” I say.

My hands sort of find his arm. I brush it once before I withdraw. I’ll never mourn his death, become a son left behind when he dies, but Kat is right—this is not the monster of our childhood. What remains of my father, the sperm donor, is just a poor old man.

“In the end,” I tell him, “they snipped Arriane open down there. Two nurses pushed against her belly, helping her press him out. They were afraid for his life, you see. He needed to be born fast.”

“…Okay?” My father’s question curls gossamer-thin through the air. I inhale a swift breath and stare. His gaze meets mine, expectant from within the pillows. The moisture in his eyes makes them glint in the semi-dark.

“Yeah, Dad. They’re both fine. They gave Arriane local anesthesia and sewed her up afterward, and the baby is okay too.” I smile. “He’s got rosy cheeks, only they’re tinted blue from his struggles. The doctor says it’s nothing, that he’ll be fine.”

“Ah…” My father tries to nod, but it’s too much, so I continue.

“He’s a glutton already. The little man knows what to do even though no one told him.”

“You… too,” Dad manages, glossy eyes shining brighter.

I swallow the lump I have in my throat. Clear it before I go on. “I’m heading back there to her. Not sure if they’ll let me in again this late, but I’m giving it a try. Just…”

His eyes are wider, expectant, and I think there’s hope behind the layers of regret.

“Okay.” I inhale deeply before I continue. “At some point in the future my son might watch
me
die. I want him to know how I love him. That I regret every misstep I ever made with him. Because I’ll make them. They won’t be at the level of your mistakes with us, but I won’t be perfect. So I—forgive you, Dad. Yeah. I do.”

Dad cries. It’s a low, relieved sound that comes from deep within his chest. As I get up, I clasp his hand with a strength he can’t reciprocate and hold it tight for a moment, feeling the same relief flow through me.

“Thank you, son” are the last words I ever hear from my tormentor, my personality-former. My father. The morning after, when my sister, my mother, and I return to the hospital together, it is to say goodbye to the physical remains of him, and to hug the new, living, warm opportunity for love that is my son.

I adjust the hat on my head. The yellow tassel indicating my finally completed degree slid in over an eye when I tilted to get a glimpse of my family. Jason and Tom loom one row in front of them, effectively hiding both my crazy baby and my always-love. Mom, I see, though. She peers out on the left side of Jason, her eyes shining with pride.

Even my brother has flown here all the way from New Delhi to be a part of my celebration. I’m touched. Although not as touched by the silent treatment he offers Leon. My boyfriend takes Chahel’s reaction in stride. Being a brother himself, he says he can relate, because he’d beat, and I quote, “the living shit” out of any guy knocking up his own sister.

I’m fidgety; the line to the podium is long, and Lyric isn’t a patient toddler. He’s a mama’s boy. He learned how to
run
—not walk—two weeks ago. Freaking A, what a nightmare my little man is… of the most delicious kind.

I’m jinxing things. There are still dozens of fellow students before me in the line, and now there’s a commotion behind Jason. I glimpse a miniature suit with flailing arms crawling from Leon’s to my mom’s lap then bouncing onto his uncle’s knees.

I suck in a breath, hoping this won’t end in disaster. Before I can fathom how he managed, my tiny, willful bundle of love is free and in the aisle. With eyes trained on the podium, he takes off like a sputnik and propels himself in my general direction. Full throttle, he barges on.

“Ma!” he screams with such force over the solemn quiet of the audience. My cheeks burn as his father launches into the aisle too. Unfazed by the breach of etiquette, the gorgeous blues Leon shares with his son sparkle with humor.

He’s fast, but not as fast as Lyric, who reaches the end of the line of graduates and grabs on to dark gowns, jerking them randomly like they’re curtains he has no patience with.

I’m about to slip from my spot to intervene when Leon narrows in and swipes our offspring up by a suit-clad diaper butt. Next, he tosses him over his shoulder, face down. “Mommy!” my baby objects, kicking and frustrated.

His dad kisses a chubby little hand, soothing him. God, I love these two so much. They’re a handful and a half in oh-so-different ways, but my life is unbelievably rich. Leon moves forward, passing dozens of my fellow students to get to me.

“You want to give Mommy a hug?” he hums to our son.

“Huh!” baby squeals, searching and not locating me in the crowd. When they’re close enough, I lift a hand and wiggle my fingers. Not unexpectedly, he displays his father’s level of intensity. I’m happy that the dean uses a microphone to announce the diploma-takers, because if he weren’t, the ensuing cheers from my miniature troublemaker would have drowned him out.

I duck my head and grab him as discretely as I can. Around me, some girls
awww
and snicker at the fervor of the embrace I’m receiving.

After the ceremony, Leon bankrolls my graduation party at Shisha Gardens, although I suspect his uncle Hank sponsors a big portion himself. Lyric is the only baby in the family, and both Hank and Mary, Leon’s aunt, are putty in his dimpled fists.

“Ew, Cameron, that’s not even true. Who the hell eats elephant testicles? Right, you don’t?” Ingela squints at Mary, who hasn’t been subjected to her too-genuine interest before. “
He
says it’s a delicacy for Japanese people.” She juts her chin at Cameron, who never learns, I swear. His ears are pink with suppressed laughter and embarrassment.

“Idiot,” he mouths to Ingela. Out loud, he attempts an “I’m sorry ma’am—I didn’t say that,” although there’s no way his partner-in-embarrassment would’ve come up with it herself.

“So the back gardens, you said?” Christian smoothens over as usual while Shannon mumbles something about Scandinavians being unreal.

“Yes, we’re installing a playground. Nothing big, but we need something up here for the little ones,” Hank explains, lowering his voice on the last syllables. His slanted gaze moves to the little one in question.

Lyric is getting grumpy. It’s been a big day for him. He’s had his fill of dumplings and rice, and now he slaps his dad with raw octopus he’s ripped off a piece of sushi. My mother hoists him out of his seat and plops the squirming baby on her lap. Loud smooches follow, but he’s not having it. My fast little man bounces off, the cutest grin in place when he thinks he has a fair chance at escaping.

He’s got too many handlers, though. My brother narrows in on the opposite side of the decorative bridge at the midst of the restaurant while Leon’s sister hunches down, arms open, on our side. “Come-come-come!” she sings, light-pitched. Lyric stands in the middle, unsure.

“He’s so hosed,” Cameron laughs.

Beside me, my boyfriend observes the bridge drama and lets out a contented sigh. He’s been hell-bent on me finishing up my degree, to the point of not allowing me to work a single shift at Smother while studying over the last year. Full-time mother and full-time student is “all” he’s allowed me to be. Yeah. My love is still controlling, still bossy.

Leon intertwines our fingers, lifts them, and kisses my fingertips one by one. “You did good today, Arriane,” he murmurs against them. “You’ve got your degree. Now you can do whatever you want.”

My mother averts her gaze, giving us privacy in the midst of the party—although not before I catch the small smile shaping her lips. Fourteen months of flawless boyfriend behavior must have finally convinced her.

“Does Smother need an event planner by any chance?” I tease.

Eyes so bright they’re crystalline spark at my question. “Can’t recommend the boss there,” he warns. “He’s a bit of a control freak.”

“And crazy sexy,” I murmur low, causing him to chuckle. “Maybe such a job would come with… benefits?” I continue.

“For you? I have a feeling it would. Dude’s a sucker for chicks with renegade babies and a nice rack.”

She sinks down and stretches out on top of me. Wraps her arms tight, fingers into the muscles at the back of my neck. These hips—they’re fucking addictive. I grab them and push downward, making sure she’s hooked deep on me, the way we so easily find nirvana together.

“You’re my always-love,” she sighs against my ear. “You’re amazing. Thank you for today.” My woman is warm. Soft. Slick around me. I hold her down so I can regulate our pace, rock up into her and make her sing.

“I love you,” I whisper because I know not to disturb the tiny terror next door. He had a great time at the Gardens, but he became bossier than me toward the end.

When my girl hits the notes that drive me insane, I let it flood me again: in a rush, my brain tracks the road to this bliss. I took a chance, crashed through my obstacles. Chest first, I barged past denial, demolished my fear of the past—of what it would do to me if I stared the beast in the eye.

These days, I leave the door to the Bag Room unlocked. It’s still my sanctuary, where I find release, but most of the time, I simply go there to stay in shape.

Sometimes, my woman gets a wicked streak when she sees me work out, and in the most fortunate of such instances, Lyric is napping. She slinks in, then, and assaults me, teasing out pleasures I only ever used on broken-dolls. Delights that used to feel wrong on her.

There are still hard limits neither of us would want her subjected to. But when she submits to my crazies out of love, playfulness, of undiluted lust at seeing me lose my shit over her, then I am the luckiest man on Earth.

Since I was sixteen, I’ve followed my own rules. I didn’t give a damn what people thought. I fought hard for what I wanted, and I fought dirty. But who I’ve become—this person with this love, this family, the one who secretly carries around a solitaire in his pocket—is not all my doing.

No.

See, my life is full of wise, willful women. Without them, I might not have realized that there was a better way than mine.