We all laughed at that one.
As she regained her composure, Jennifer said, “I just so want it to work out. Like, you have no idea. I want Reese and Kelly to be my baby’s moms. More than anything. And I’m afraid it won’t happen because they’re gay and the system will block them. Somehow it feels like having them raise her would make everything all better.”
Chloe dipped her chin. “You have to be clear, hon. A successful open adoption takes work and flexibility and commitment to the long-term, fluctuating relationship between all of you. There will be ups and downs, and through it all, you have to be steadfast in knowing that Reese and Kelly are the moms. No matter what, and I guarantee there will come a day when you disagree with one of their parenting decisions, no matter how perfect you think they are right now. Once you sign that paper, you are not the baby’s mom anymore. Ever.”
Jennifer nodded, her expression solemn.
“How your relationship with the baby will be defined is up to them,” Chloe added firmly. “Not you. Okay?”
“That’s what I want.”
“You’re going through a lot. You have to be sure.”
The set of Jennifer’s chin said she was resolute. “I’m sure. I can’t even keep my St. Patty’s shamrock alive through April each year.”
“Okay, then.” Chloe stooped and retrieved her purse from the ground. She dug through it and extracted a business card. “This is my friend who went through the open adoption. She’ll help as long as she knows you’re serious.”
“I am. Way.”
“When are you due?”
“Christmas.” Jennifer huffed and shook her head sadly. “I know, joke’s on me, right?”
I counted back quickly in my head…nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two—score. The baby had to have been conceived at the end of March, after she and Dylan had broken up for the last time. Mind you, I’m not worried, nor do I doubt what Dylan told me. I was simply double-checking now that I knew her actual due date.
Chloe passed over the card. “Contact her soon, Jennifer, and tell her I sent you. I’ll speak with her, too, but you need to take the initiative before I do that, okay? This is your problem to solve.”
Jennifer nodded.
“What about the baby’s father?”
Jennifer pressed her lips together and shook her head.
Chloe, to her credit, didn’t react one way or the other. “Then this is one hundred percent your responsibility.”
“I know. I swear I’ll contact her ASAP.”
“ASAP means today or tomorrow, not next week or next month.” Chloe raised her eyebrows. “You’re four months along already. These things take time and effort and come with miles of red tape. No dragging your feet.”
Wow, so mom-like, I thought. It gave me uncharacteristic warm fuzzies.
Jennifer studied the card, then beamed up at Chloe through watery eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your willingness to help me with this. I know I royally screwed up and all, but—”
“None of that. What’s done is done. And it’s my pleasure to help. No sense compounding one error in judgment with another.” Chloe scraped her chair back, then paused. “Tell Reese and Kelly I’d be more than happy to speak with them, too, if they have questions. We belong to the White Peaks Downtown Commerce Group together, so they know me.”
“Okay.”
“I hate to run, but Miss Lila here and I need to pick up coffee for my employees and head back to work. Here”—Chloe motioned for the card back—“let me write my phone number on the back. Anytime you need to talk or have a question, you can call me.”
Jennifer hesitated. “Um…Chloe? I still know your phone number.”
My gut dropped. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Just the reminder that Jennifer and Dylan had dated wigged me.
Weak, jealous, stupid.
Dylan was allowed to have a past, for God’s sake. Just because I didn’t have one doesn’t mean he had to be a dateless loser before we hooked up. In fact, I’m well aware he wasn’t a dateless loser pre-Lila. Plus, he and Jennifer hadn’t even really liked each other, which I needed to remember. And they’d never had sex.
“Of course. Sorry. My offer stands.” Chloe stood.
I followed suit, relieved.
“By the way, I like your hair that color,” Chloe said.
“Thanks.” Jennifer reached up and touched her head. “Back to the color God gave me, you know? It sure is easier to maintain. And cheaper.”
I glanced down at the list of coffee orders for the travel agents.
“Lila,” Jennifer said.
I looked up.
“Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without all your help and just…well, you’re being so nice to me and I don’t deserve it.”
“Everyone deserves it,” I snapped, way sharper than intended. “That’s the part you and those snotty so-called friends of yours don’t get.”
The three of us—and people at surrounding tables—froze.
Oops. Emotion-belch. Eh, it happens, but bummer that it happened in front of Chloe. Then again, she was a high school girl way back in the day, so surely she’d understand. In any case, I stuffed Honest-but-Tactless Lila back into her inner jail cell where she belonged, then tried to smile at Jennifer. “But at least you’re starting to get it,” I added, to soften my rather harsh (okay, way harsh, albeit true) previous words. “Don’t sweat it.”
The whole coffee shop seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that a smackdown had not ensued. As if I’d open the whup-ass can on a pregnant teenager—please. Last time I checked, I didn’t have “dirtbag” tattooed on my forehead.
We said our good-byes without incident.
After buying the coffees for the other employees, Chloe and I walked silently back to the office, each lost in our own thoughts.
Mine raced. Questioned. Doubted.
So, okay. You could claim that I’d helped Jennifer “formerly Hellspawn” Hamilton gather info about private / open adoption, when all she’d been was pure, spitting evil to me over the years. I get how weird that is, but things change, you know? And grudges are overrated. Meryl was helping her feel included. Chloe was helping her get things in order. Reese and Kelly—well, they tended to help everyone, what with their metaphysical bent, so it kinda didn’t count. Well, it did, but you know what I mean.
And, yes, even I had stepped in—big whoop. If I were in Jennifer’s awful position, I’d sure as hell want support, no matter who gave it. Come the first day of school, there’d be talk, no doubt about it. But frankly, the other kids at WPHS could think and gossip and be as cruel as they wanted about Jennifer and her unfortunate situation. Believe me, they would.
But that didn’t mean I had to play along. That had never been my M.O.
Not even with my boyfriend’s evil ex.
I mean, Phuket, people. Seriously. Just Phuket.
Caressa
Gotta say, the moment I realized Joaquin wasn’t as worldly and out of my league as I’d originally feared? Total relief. He might be an accomplished Broadway dancer, but dude is a regular guy. I mean that in a good way. In fact, he was raised up more “regular” than I was, if you want the truth. He lives with his completely regular family in a regular, smallish apartment (no recording studio, for instance) located in the completely regular Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, a.k.a. not Manhattan. Plus, he has regular chores that he bitches about and a gloriously regular messy bedroom.
Wait, back up.
The bedroom knowledge is only because he and I have been inseparable buds since that first “cuppa” date, week one of my internship, which we’ve made an almost daily ritual. Thomas would kill me if anything else was going on in that bedroom, trust me. And Dad would ship me home in an instant.
But, when ’Quin and I aren’t at work or at the studio where he practices (and I watch), we hang out, listen to music, watch TV, take long walks. He introduces me to the neighborhoods (I like Greenwich Village, Soho, and, of course, Tribeca), plus he even goes to Sephora with me! And he never cares if I hang with my other friends, like a few other young cast members, or Brandon, this dry-witted, snarky screenwriter a couple of years older than I am who lives in the Rosenthal’s building. We met in the elevator. Brandon has great insights about people and always keeps me laughing. We’re not into each other at all, but I dig chillin’ with him.
The way ’Quin isn’t so regular is that he’s a great talker, unlike a lot of guys I’ve known, Brandon notwithstanding. Seriously, Joaquin and I can walk through the streets of New York City for hours at a time and never run out of stuff to talk about. Love that. During one afternoon outing in Central Park, I’d even come clean about my inappropriate crush on the way-too-old Bobby Slade and how embarrassing it had been. That’s how comfortable I feel with him, and he’s totally cool about anything and everything I confide. He’s like a best friend who happens to be male, something I never thought existed.
Plus, he knows all these excellent cheap places to eat. Yeah, yeah, I know I can afford to eat anywhere, but I don’t want to be that girl, you know? It’s super cool that I can just be regular here, too. Anonymous. I’m not the famous Tibby Lee’s daughter, despite the driver / bodyguard aspect. I’m simply Caressa Thibodoux—boring old regular chick, and I love it.
Don’t misunderstand, I adore my family and I appreciate everything Dad provides. But it’s cool to experience how different people live, too, and Joaquin’s home is so filled with warmth and laughter. I feel one hundred percent comfortable enveloped in the Esquibels’ tightly knit circle.
This evening in Park Slope, Joaquin’s mom encouraged Thomas to take a few hours off, swearing she’d watch me like only a Puerto Rican mami (or a vulture) can. Okay, actually, she practically shoved him out the door, but not before he gave me The Look. You know, the one that conveys, “Behave, no sex, no getting in trouble, no leaving Mrs. Esquibel’s sight (as if she’d allow that—please), no anything that can get me in trouble with Tibby.”
I smiled to encourage him, and frankly? I think he was relieved to have some time to himself. Plus, I adore Thomas. He’s like the non-annoying big brother I never had, and I wouldn’t do anything to get him busted by my dad.
So, he left, and here I stood in the small Esquibel kitchen while Joaquin’s mami taught me how to make asopao, which is a lot like the gumbo I’m used to from my New Orleans background. I felt utterly at home. I don’t know how else to explain it. The scents of salt pork, garlic, and chili peppers permeated the room, and Mrs. Esquibel’s favorite Narciso Figueroa CD played in the background. She danced around in her apron and sang off-tune as sunlight streamed through the narrow window at the end of the kitchen.
Joaquin stood shoulder to shoulder with me chopping papaya into cubes to be cooked in sugar and cinnamon for the dessert, tembleque. When his mom stepped out of the kitchen for a moment, he jostled me from the side. “Sorry Mami roped you into cooking.”
“Are you kidding?” I popped a cube of papaya in my mouth. “I love this.”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“And truly. I’m having the best time.” Overcome by the perfection of the moment, by the way our gazes tangled and locked, I impulsively leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t a tongue-down-the-throat kiss, just an I want to be here with you and nowhere else kiss.
But the fireworks inside me? Mindblowing.
Apparantly, the explosions were mutual.
After one frozen moment, Joaquin set down his chef’s knife and pulled me into his arms, then kissed me as though he’d been wanting to do it for his whole life. I know all the stupid romance novels describe the feeling as “melting into each other,” but maybe they’re not so stupid after all, because that’s exactly what we did. I’d never felt so amazingly wanted in my life, and there was none of that high school awkwardness you’d expect.
We broke apart in an instant as we heard Mrs. Esquibel returning, but from that moment on, a subtle change came over our relationship. I was Joaquin’s, and he was mine. Unspoken, true, but there just the same.
After dinner, we went to Joaquin’s room to watch a movie, and for the first few minutes, we actually did. Side by side on our tummies, eyes fixated on the screen. My mind reeled, though, and pretty soon I couldn’t stand it. I had to know.
I swallowed. “’Quin?”
“Yeah?”
“What was that? In the kitchen?”