Dunkin and Donuts (18 page)

Chapter Fifty-Four

Marlene looks even smaller than usual. Her tiny frame is dwarfed by the immense hospital bed, her body enveloped by sheets and blankets.

“You must be Shayla!” A very slim, very beautiful woman who I’ve never met but recognize from the first time I saw her through the ICU window envelops me in her embrace. “I’m Desiree.” She kisses me—on both cheeks—and then hugs me to her again. “Marlene has told me wonderful things about you.”

“Hey girl,” Marlene says weakly from her hospital bed. Her head is wrapped in gauze and she looks pale, shrunken, diminished by a few days without consciousness. Clumps of blue and purple streaked hair stick out wildly beneath the gauze.

“Hey, beautiful.” I lean down and kiss her softly on the cheek. “You look like shit,” I whisper, low so that her parents can’t hear me. They wouldn’t approve. But, Marlene laughs, her throat hoarse from inactivity.

“Hi Mrs. Wilks, Mr. Wilks,” I say cheerily. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I wouldn’t call these circumstances good dear,” Mrs. Wilks corrects me.

“Oh of course not,” I backpedal. “I just meant… Hello.”

“You’re looking well,” Dunkin’s dad tells me. “Less flustered than usual.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You certainly took your time getting here,” Mrs. Wilks comments rudely.

“Mom, I told Shayla not to come,” Dunkin says. “She’s been tremendously supportive and wanted to come a lot sooner. Some women respect boundaries.”

I take his hand. The combination of lack of sleep and worry has diminished his usually endless supply of patience.

Mrs. Wilks changes tactics. “Speaking of supportive, Marlene, dear, Bethany sends her love.”

Exasperatedly, Dunkin walks over to his mother, looks her in the eyes and says, “Mom,
this
is the woman I love. I am in love with her. If you learn nothing else from Marlene almost dying, maybe you could learn to stop being such a bitter bitch and be nicer to your kids. Any one of us could drop dead tomorrow. So stop being so critical and just be happy we’re happy.”

Mrs. Wilks is taken aback. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it again, then finally just walks out, her husband trailing after her.

“Shit!” Marlene says. “You sure I didn’t die? Or, maybe, I’m hallucinating. I never thought I’d live to see the day when my momma’s-boy brother would tell that woman off.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have made a scene,” Dunkin apologizes.

“Don’t be. I’d give anything to be able to replay that moment. It was priceless.”

“She won’t change,” Dunkin says.

“No,” I agree. “But, you won’t put up with it anymore.”

As the daughter of a hypercritical mother myself, I know all too well the dynamic of perpetrator and victim. Even my mother, who I am coming to realize loves me unconditionally and who has begun to call on me for support, can’t get through a conversation without ridiculing me for the circumference of my thighs or my choice of attire. Old habits die hard.

When Mrs. Wilks returns, husband in tow, she surprises us all. The woman is all apologies. I know it won’t last, but I am gracious and smiling. We’re both faking it. Well, I only have to fake it at the hospital because, when Dunkin and I get home that night, we “make up” two more times just for the hell of it and everything about that feels incredibly real.

Chapter Fifty-Five

When the little boy asks me if I’m pregnant, I want to cry. But I don’t.

I am in line at the grocery store, buying cereal and milk, fruit, cheese, and other necessities and he comes up to me, pats my belly, and says “Do you have a baby inside?”

I do not have anything inside except the remnants of today’s lunch. Damn it, I’d been having a good body image day, feeling confident, even downright sexy. Granted, I am wearing an empire-waisted top and those can sometimes create the illusion of a baby on board. But, the kid’s comments rattle me.

When his mother approaches, coming to stand behind me in line, her precious offspring says, “Mommy, this lady is gonna have a baby,” and points again at my apparently protuberant belly.

I cringe.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. When are you due?”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m not pregnant.”

She appears to be at a loss for words. And then she begins the torrent of apologies. I tune her out as she babbles on about how she’s so very sorry, how of course I don’t
look
pregnant, I’m just so radiantly beautiful and…

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Really.”

But, it isn’t. Suddenly, I feel obese and unacceptable. I want to call Dunkin but don’t really want to tell him that a stranger thinks his girlfriend looks like she’s about to give birth. Why would I want to call his attention to my bulbous belly?

Instead, as soon as I get to my car, I text Brice
Help! Someone thought I was pregnant. I feel fat.

He texts me back immediately.
Screw ‘em. You’re gorgeous.

I don’t feel gorgeous. I feel horrible about myself.

Don’t let someone else make you hate your body. That’s what your mother does.

I send him a smiley face emoji. But, Brice knows me well enough to know that I am far from smiling on the inside. So he calls me.

“Okay, girlfriend, let it out,” he says even before I’ve had a chance to say hello.

I start to cry. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. I’m emotional, maybe even a little hormonal. Okay, a lot hormonal. I’m PMS-ing like crazy. Maybe, I’m bloated. Maybe, that’s why that boy and his mother thought I looked pregnant.

Brice talks me down off a ledge. “Shayla, you are beautiful. You’re sexy as hell. Your boyfriend is an Adonis among men and he’s so into you it makes me want to puke. Let this go, girl. Own how sexy you are.”

Then, in typical Brice fashion, he tells me a joke:

“What is the most common pregnancy craving?” Brice asks.

“I dunno,” I say. “What?”
“For men to be the ones who get pregnant.”

By the time we hang up, I’m laughing. I’ve forgotten, okay, not quite forgotten, but let go of—somewhat, the whole incident in the grocery store. I get home, unpack my groceries, shower and change out of what I decide is an unflattering shirt, then go downstairs to start cooking dinner.

Dunkin is coming over tonight and I’m making spaghetti. Yes, despite my lack of culinary expertise, I boil a mean pot of water. Simple is good. Dunkin and I are looking forward to our low-key pasta night. He arrives just as the water begins boiling.

“Hey gorgeous.”

“Howdy handsome.”

We kiss. He helps himself to a glass of orange juice while I head back to the stove to watch and stir and season.

“Smells great.”

“Thanks. Hopefully, it’ll taste great too.”

Just as I am straining the spaghetti, my phone bleeps, alerting me to the presence of a text message.

“Can you check that?” I ask Dunkin. “See who texted me and what they want.”

He picks up my phone off of the kitchen table, looks at it, and frowns. Visibly disturbed, he sets the phone down.

“It’s from Brice. Want me to read it to you?”

“Oh no,” I say. “Brice can wait. I was just hoping one of my teacher friends texted me back about a possible job opening for the fall.”

Dunkin is pensive. I dip my spoon in the sauce, taste the meaty, tomatoey deliciousness, then add a pinch more salt.

“I’m starving,” I tell him.

“Smells delicious,” he says, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere.

I wonder what he’s thinking about. He’s probably just worrying about a patient. Sometimes, he gets preoccupied with troubling cases and I know he just needs time to think.

“Shayla, is there something you need to tell me?” Dunkin asks after a moment.

“No,” I say clueless. “Like what?”

“Like about us, about our future. Is that why you wanted to make us dinner tonight?”

“No. I wanted to make dinner because I guess I had the urge to be… domestic.”

“You want to be domestic,” he is looking at me, the love in his eyes comingled with something else—apprehension, maybe.

“Yeah. You make me want to cook and clean and stuff. I guess it’s biological.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, you make me want to be domestic too. I wasn’t quite ready to be
this
domestic, but I’m not disappointed. I guess I’m just surprised is all. Obviously, we’ll go through with it. Well, I should say that I hope we’ll go through with it although, ultimately, the decision is yours.”

I’m not sure exactly what he means about going through with it, about it being my decision. I don’t ask. I’m hungry and not really in the mood for a deep conversation tonight, so I serve the spaghetti and dole out bowls of salad then excuse myself to use the bathroom. Damn! I guess I was suffering from PMS earlier because I got my period. I insert a tampon and return to dinner feeling a bit miffed. There go my plans for romance.

“Hey,” I say. “I have to tell you something.”

Dunkin takes my hands in his. “I know sweetie. And I’m here for you. We’ll get through this. So the timing sucks, but I love you.”

“The timing does suck,” I agree. “I wanted tonight to be special. I wanted to make you dinner then make love to you. But, I guess that’s off the table now.”

“Why? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. But, I just got my period.”

He blinks rapidly. “What do you mean you got your period? What about the pregnancy? Was it just a false alarm?”

“What pregnancy?”

“You were pregnant.”

“No, I wasn’t. Why does everyone think I’m fucking pregnant? Have I gotten fat?”

Dunkin looks incredibly confused. He opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and then hands me my phone, which is still open to my text messages.

Brice has sent me the following text:
Hey, there, Ms. Pregnant, enjoy dinner with your man and don’t worry about that kid. You’re okay. Love ya.

I spend the next fifteen minutes explaining the situation and, by the time we finish dinner, the miscommunication is long forgotten. Only, late at night, when I lay down next to Dunkin, I can’t help remembering the fact that he’d seemed pretty okay with the idea of having knocked me up. I nestle closer into the crook of his arm and fall into a blissful sleep.

Chapter Fifty-Six

It is a beautiful summer’s day, the sort of day where, rather than turn on the air conditioner, you want to open all the windows wide and let the fresh air waft in.

I’ve done that. The breeze feels good on my skin, wafting and gentle. It’d be a nice day to be outside, but I’ve opted to stay indoors to get things done around the house. I am scrubbing my house from top to bottom while listening to music. With my broom as my dance partner, I twirl and swirl around the living room, sweeping and swaying, turning my cleaning project into something fun. I’m trying not to think about my joblessness, trying to get my life in order, beginning with my apartment. It’s certainly not messy. It’s tidy. But, I’m not the most fastidious of cleaners and today I’ve decided to dust every crevice, scrub the baseboards and even wash the walls. What else is there to do? It’s the first days of summer vacation and all of my non-teacher friends have gone to work as usual. Me, I’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to be.

I crouch down on my hands and knees and begin scrubbing the baseboards with a sponge. This was an ambitious undertaking. My pants are dusty, I smell like pine sol, the kitchen floor is wet with lemony freshness and, when I walk across it to get myself a diet coke from the refrigerator, my socks get soaked. I decide that I’m in need of a break from scouring my apartment, pop the top on my Coke, and plop down on the couch for thirty minutes of mindless TV watching during which I will reset myself before returning to my cleaning.

The doorbell rings, but before I’ve even had a chance to get up off of the couch, I hear the distinctive click of Dunkin’s key turning in the lock.

“Hey, Baby,” he shouts.

“Hey!”

I turn off the TV, stand, and wipe the grime off of my face with the back of my sleeve. I must look a mess, my hair swept up in a rat’s-nest ponytail and covered with a bandana, my body clad in a ripped t-shirt and pair of oversized men’s basketball shorts. I am covered in dirt and smell like a combination of dust and detergent.

“I look awful. What’re you doing here?”

“I had my last few patients reschedule suddenly and decided that you could use some company. I wanted to come over here and hang out with you. I thought you might be feeling down about work. Wow! Your place looks…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. I look around and notice my surroundings. In all my furious cleaning, I’ve moved furniture into the middle of the floor, taken books off my bookshelf and piled them haphazardly on surfaces so I can dust, and have piled heaps of dirty rags all around the living room and dining area and haven’t gotten around to throwing them in the wash.

“I’m cleaning,” I explain.

“I can see that,” he says. “Want some help?”

I’ve never been in a relationship with anyone who would scrub a toilet for me. But, Dunkin and I wash and wax and polish and scour every inch of my apartment together. He even helps me make the bed with hospital corners. It’s not the first time we’ve cleaned together. Back when we were just friends, I helped Dunkin furnish his house and we dusted and cleaned every piece of furniture that the Ikea delivery men brought through his door. But, this is different. We didn’t actually clean his home to within an inch of its life as we’re doing now, with my place. Besides, we were really just friends back then. Nothing more. Now, there is unmistakable sexual tension between us. Even cleaning acts as an aphrodisiac.

“You are so incredibly sexy,” he tells me.

“Well, I don’t feel sexy. I feel dirty.”

“Then let’s clean you up,” he says, leading me toward the shower.

The first time Dunkin and I ever had sex was in a shower—his shower—and I was covered in cake. This time, I’m covered in grime. And we don’t actually have sex in my shower. It’s much too small. We simply lather and rinse until our bodies are as clean as the bedroom that he leads me into. Screw hospital corners! We’re going to mess up my clean sheets.

Dunkin and I barely bother with foreplay. I am so hot for him, so incredibly turned on, that I pull his body into mine immediately. It is mind-blowing, bed-rocking, orgasm-inducing, scream-worthy sex. I find myself letting go of all inhibitions, moaning wildly, yelling at the top of my lungs, as my boyfriend pounds his pelvis into mine relentlessly. It’s animalistic. It’s fucking—a welcome, if unusual, diversion from our usual lovemaking. We are on fire.

I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loudly in my entire life. Afterwards, we lay together, spent, holding on tightly to one another’s bodies. That’s when the doorbell rings.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Dunkin asks me.

“No. Maybe, it’s a delivery. Let’s just ignore it.”

But, the bell rings again and this time it’s followed by an instant knocking.

“Open up, ma’am. It’s the police.”

“Be right there!” I shout.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt without bothering with a bra or underpants. The cops seem to be hell bent on getting me to open the door—now.

When I fling open my front door, I recognize officers Heddy and Logue immediately.

“Oh, hi, officers,” I say. “Did you find the hit-and-run driver? You know insurance paid to have my car fixed, but I really appreciate your coming by.”

“Is there a man in this house?” Officer Logue demands.

“Sure. Why?”

Before he can answer, Dunkin, shirtless in sweatpants, descends the stairs.

“Hi, officers,” he says. “What seems to be the problem?”

Officer Heddy turns to me, “Ma’am are you safe? Do you want to file a report? Want us to take this man into custody?”

“Custody?” I am dumbfounded. “What for?”

“We’ve had some complaints about abuse. A neighbor heard screaming and called 9-1-1.”

“Let me guess…” I groan. “Ms. Peg.”

“Yes. She said she was concerned for your wellbeing.”

“Well, that’s awfully nice of her,” I say sarcastically. “But, I was fine. We were fine—great, actually. And she should mind her own business and not worry about what I’m doing.”

“What
were
you doing?” Officer Logue interjects suspiciously.

Then, I remember the open windows. Not only did the gentle summer breeze waft in, but, apparently, my sexually satisfied screams drifted out.

“Oh,” I blush. “Well, we were just…”

Dunkin steps forward, clears his throat, and finishes my sentence. “We were just making love.”

“Really?” Officer Logue raises an eyebrow. “Must’ve been some sex.”

“Actually, it was,” Dunkin says, taking my hand. “And if you gentlemen will excuse us, we’d like to get back to it—this time with the windows closed.”