The worst thing about getting pregnant in my freshman year wasn’t the leg cramps, or the nausea, it wasn’t the night feeds on top of assignment deadlines. It wasn’t the permanent bird’s nest of matted curls on top of my head, the constant lukewarm meals, or even the lingering smell of baby puke that followed me around everywhere I went.
The worst thing about getting pregnant in my freshman year was the unspoken judgment, the shame, the overwhelming loneliness.
Jazz and I drifted apart as soon as I decided to keep the baby. I guess it was too hard for her to be a character in an alternative life to the one she chose. It was never anything direct, no outward confrontation, but “all party, all the time” didn’t quite vibe with boob feeding a teething tiny parasite going through a growth spurt.
It got worse when I dropped out of the business program. I had to pivot from studying to be a paralegal into photography. Jazz and I drifted even further. As much as I wanted to gointo a legal career, I just couldn’t keep my head in the game enough to make it happen.
Not to mention the fact that I needed to study something that would earn money faster. Becoming a photographer wasn’t my dream, but I’m good at it. I have a good eye, and can capture the mood of a session as easily as breathing.
And when my adviser “kindly” suggested I had missed too much of school to catch up in my original classes, it was both a relief and a gut punch.
Over three years later, I’m freelancing on the side of finishing up my photography course, while raising a tiny human to not be a dick.
It’s harder than you’d think, raising kids to not be dickish. It’s like they’re born with all your worst traits, and you’ve gotta spend your life deprogramming them so they don’t end up in prison.
The real kind.
Ugh. I need a friend. Mom’s great, and we’re close, but sometimes I just want some girl time with someone my own age, y’know?
I’d kill for an hour with a similarly-minded human being. Throw in a Hawaiian pizza, peanut M&Ms, and a nice bottle of Pouilly Fumé, and I’d be in heaven.
I’m not a complicated creature, but I am an exhausted one. A bored one. A lonely one.
There’s a tiny pink-haired fairy sitting about ten feet from me. She’s been coming to Bitches Brew to study for a while now, and I’ve never seen her come in with anyone else. She’s always alone when she arrives, always alone when she leaves.
Is she a loner, or just lonely?
I’m contemplating buying her one of those fancy hot cocoas she seems to be somewhat addicted to when it occurs to me that I’m being a creeper right now. Watching anotherhuman being from a distance, getting to know their processes, their preferences, their habits.
Creeper. With a capital C.
I need to channel Wyatt, my inner toddler, who walks up to damn near anyone—and everyone—and requests, nope, demands they be his friend. I’d say he has a ninety-two percent success rate. But he’s also far cuter than I am.
If he was here, pink-haired fairy girl would absolutely want to hang with us.
Or maybe the fact that I’m a single mom might send her running for the hills.
It’s safer to stay in my lane. To leave her and her hot chocolate the hell alone. You can’t be rejected if you never introduce yourself and put yourself out there. But she seems as sweet as pie.
And I need to get back on the friendship horse. I’m a social being, and while I have friends, I don’t have anyfriends, y’know?
She’s muttering something while chewing on the end of her orange highlighter. Orange highlighters are my favorite too, so that seals our fate. I’m making this woman my bestie. Even if it means gaining thirty-five pounds from drinking hot chocolate just to get to know her.
Challenge accepted.
I dunno why my palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry as I cross the few feet to her table. When the squeak of the chair I pull toward me outs my presence to her, wide, confused eyes meet mine.
Please don’t turn me away. Please?
I’m not a psycho killer. My worst crimes are that I let my toddler have too much screen time, and I love pineapple on pizza.
When she doesn’t speak, I drop onto thechair, offering what I hope is a warm, friendly smile that doesn’t come across as “I ate a burrito for dinner last night and have gas today.”
Her hand twitches as her eyes follow my auburn waves down my shoulders. Not sure if she’s going to touch my hair, or her own short hair, so I keep smiling. Now that I’m up close, I get a better look at her. She has a jagged scar down one side of her face.
It’s pretty badass. And instead of blending into the background, she’s dyed her hair a vibrant pink. If I had that scar, I’d shrink into obscurity.
I barely resist the urge to reach across the table and tuck her hair behind her ear. She’s fucking stunning. Hiding behind hair on her face… I dunno, I get that she’s probably self-conscious, but she has no cause to be.
