While I look for something comfier to change into—because I’ll be damned if I’m sleeping in these stupid jeans—she makes a phone call. Just as I find a couple of my favorite pieces from her closet, she sets down her phone and asks me, “Hey, I just called my doctor. They can get me in tomorrow, since they just had a cancellation. Do you think you’ll be able to come to my appointment with me? I want you to hear all my options too, in case I’m not totally with it.”
I nod while shedding my pants in front of her. She doesn’t care, of course. We change in front of each other all the time. Have for years. “I meant what I said; I’ll be there for you no matter what.”
As I make my way towards her bathroom, her tongue quickly darts out past her lips, moistening them. Her eyes fall to the quilt once again. “Thank you. I love you, Marco.”
“Love you too, Polo.”
By the time we’re on our way back from her appointment the following day—riding in utter silence, both of us too swept up in a maelstrom of emotions to have a rational conversation—I’m quite certain my parents are going to have a meltdown over the news. Lauren is with child and wants to keep the baby… and what did I do? I made good on my promise that I would stay by her side no matter what. I lied and told the doctor that I was the father, and now we’re about to attempt to sell that same story to my parents.
“Marcus,” Lo huffs, breaking the silence. “You don’t have to do this. My parents, they aren’t like yours. They’ll be stunned at first, I’m sure, but they’ll get over it. Look at my brothers, after all…”
I shake my head. “I told you already, you’re not going through this alone.”
“You know your fascist parents are going to go ape-shit on you and tell you that we need to get married or something. They’re old-school like that.”
She’s not wrong there, they really are. Super hardcore traditionalists, both of them. Always, and I meanalways, with too-high standards set for me. Growing up as an only child, I’ve always felt this ridiculous sort of pressure to live up to their principles, never daring to fall out of line.
I shrug. “Maybe we should, if it gets the old man sniffing in the opposite direction of me being gay.”
He’s had his suspicions, I know, but there’s forever been this distinct “don’t ask, don’t tell” cloud hanging between us. I feel like he’s under the impression that I’m caught up in some sort ofphase, and that by ignoring anything remotely having to do with it, I’ll eventually “straighten up”—pun intended. Sorry, Pops. Definitelynota phase.
She offers me a sardonic look from the passenger seat. “Yeah, excellent idea. Right up until we get to the part where youaregay. I wanted to be a lot of things when I grew up, butabeardwas never one of them.”
I scowl at her, briefly taking my eyes off the road. “That’s not fair, Lo. You wouldn’t be my beard. You know you’re essentially the platonic love of my life. Since the day we moved to PA, you’ve been my bestie. The ‘Lo’ in our Marco Polo Show. I wouldn’t have just signed myself up to raise this child with you if I didn’t care deeply about you, babe. I love you in a way that goes much deeper than who I’m attracted to sexually, youknowthis. Soulmates that transcend orientation… or whatever.”
She studies her hands on her lap, picking at the black paint coating her fingernails, ever the goth princess that she is. “So you’re really going forward with this lie? For me and the baby?”
I laid awake all night, with her tucked into my chest, thinking about it. I weighed out all my options, and came to the conclusion that I truly do not have any direction in my life at the moment. Iwantthis. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that Lauren would want to keep the baby, and I feel this overwhelming—borderline instinctual—need to stick with her through this. I love herthatmuch…
“Yes, I am. If you trust me enough to, that is. I don’t want you going through this alone. It’s time for me to grow up and get out of the house anyway. Let’s do thistogether. I know what I’m getting myself into, and I have zero regrets.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t expand upon that token of appreciation, nor does she need to, because I know her well enough to know there’s so much that was left unspoken behind those two words. I let my open palm rest on the center console, and after a tense beat of more silence, she presses her own on top of mine, interlacing our fingers. I pull her hand up and press a kiss to her knuckles.
In an attempt to lift her spirits, I lightly croon, “Just thethreeof us…”
Her lips twitch. “We can make it if we try?” she sings back in question.
I nod. “You, little bean, and I…”
Chapter One
Present day
My fingers toggle the light-switch just outside Brody’s room off-and-on. My son’s head snaps up quickly. “My C-I, lost. Where?” his frantic ten-year-old hands sign in ASL.
I waggle my hand to gain his attention back as he tosses his pillows askew on his bed. “I found it on your floor when I came to tuck you in last night. Your processor is stuck to the fridge,” I sign back, using SEE, Signed Exact English, for his benefit.
I oftentimes will sign that way when conversing with Brody while he doesn't have his cochlear on because it helps him with his syntax when he's speaking English with his peers. I know it’s frowned upon, breaking away from Deaf culture by not signing intrueASL—which is its own language entirely, not just signed English—but as a mom, my main concern is helping my son assimilate as much as possible in an area where English is the primary spoken language. Besides, as a hearing person, it wouldn’t sit right with me to try to teach him aboutDeaf culture—that’s best done by someone whoisdeaf or hard of hearing.
He audibly groans, tossing his hands in the air as he scoots out his doorway past me. Once I see him attach it, and it blinks signifying it’s connected, I tell him, “Your bus is going to be here soon, do you have everything in your backpack? Your permission slip and everything?”
He whines, “Awh, Mum! Do I hafta ride the bus?! It’s the last day of school! Besides, I hate takin’ the bus; Ryder’s always bein’ ajerk.”
“I can take you, Brode. I’ll be going right by there on my way to work anyways,” his father offers. “Go load up in my truck.”
Brody pumps his fist in the air, kisses me goodbye, and shoots out the door—excited for his field trip. Marcus steps out of our bedroom all done up for work. It’s the end of his second week at this new job, and I think he already hates this one too. I'm certain the biggest part of his loathing for this job is the uniform though. He says the all-brown outfit makes him look like a giant turd who delivers packages.
