UnConventional Read online

I suck in a breath. Enough stalling. “I’m pregnant.”

  His eyes fix on mine; he blinks several times. Then he nods, squeezes my hand, rubs his opposite eyebrow with his free fingers.

  “You’re not surprised,” I say flatly, withdrawing my hand.

  “You didn’t call for over a month, then suddenly you want to meet. We didn’t use protection. I put two and two together.” He manages the hint of a tired smile. “When did you find out?”

  “Officially? Today. I came straight from the doctor.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee, nods.

  “I’m not sure if…” God, I feel like such a whore. My cheeks are on fire, and I wish I’d opted for something iced, if only so I could press my cheeks against it. “It might not be yours, but…”

  “It very well could be,” he says simply, finishing my statement. He pulls off a piece of the doughnut, but instead of eating it, he simply crumbles it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the rain of crumbs as they fall down to the plate. He sighs, abandons his task, brushing off his fingers. He looks up at me. “I imagine you have things you want to know about me,” he says sincerely. “More than what my favorite food is. Sushi, by the way.” He smiles, then cringes, shakes his head. “I don’t live far from here. We can go to my place and talk in private. Perfectly innocent, I promise,” he says, offering his hands in surrender.

  I glance around. The café is mostly empty; a couple stray summer-school students bent over books or laptops pepper the room. Still, he’s right. I nod.

  He smiles, more of his normal grin, and pushes himself to his feet. My stomach flips watching him; I don’t think I could ever get tired of seeing that. “Carry my coffee for me?”

  * * * *

  As we exit, Mike calls out a good-bye to both of us. “See ya next time, Diego. And hope to see you around too, Di.” Di and Diego. How did I not realize that before? It’s kind of cute, I think to myself before I come to my senses. What am I, in junior high? I love watching his stride, the smooth way he plants each crutch, that butterfly feeling in my stomach buoying me as we make the short walk to his car.

  A charcoal-gray Porsche Cayenne with handicapped plates. A sexy, fast model, just as I predicted after seeing his chair for the first time. Knowing what I make as an editor, I’m curious how Santiago can afford a car like this.

  “I live right off Hermann Park. So just follow me out this way. Then we’ll get onto Fannin and turn near the museum. It’s not hard to get there.”

  I nod, looking up at him. He’s more than half a foot shorter than Stephen, especially since he’s not perfectly upright, but I’d still have to stand on tiptoes to kiss him. And I want to. God, do I want to. I put a hand on the side of the car, which is warm, but not enough to burn me, considering taking my chance. Perhaps he feels it too, his breathing increasing, leaning lower. We stare into each other’s eyes a moment, and I marvel at how the amber in his irises really does look like tiny little stars in a sea of brown.

  We hover like this, our breath echoing each other, waiting. I blink, shake my head as if breaking the spell, and point beyond us, gesturing with his coffee. “I’m across the street. The white sedan. I’ll try to keep up.”

  He smiles, but the disappointment in his eyes is clear.

  I start to leave, then remember his coffee in my hand and turn around. Forgetting myself, I start to hand it to him, and he laughs.

  “Give me a sec,” he says.

  My breath catches as I watch him. He opens the door, then sits sideways. He slides his arms out of each crutch, holding them with one hand while he uses the other to help pull his legs in. His body pivots, and I realize he must have a cushion that rotates to make it easier for him to get in and out of the car. Once in, he lays his crutches in the passenger’s seat and puts his hand out for the coffee.

  He laughs; perhaps my face betrays how much of a show this was for me. He accepts the cup and takes a few sips before setting it in a cup holder. He looks like he’s debating saying something, his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally, he says, “Thanks.”

  I start to back away as he reaches to pull the door closed, but I press my hand against it at the last minute, stopping him. He looks at me, confused.

  “Santiago?”

  “It’s really not far. I promise I won’t let you get lost,” he assures me with a subtle wink and that warm smile that wraps me up like a comforting embrace.

  I manage a weak chuckle. “No. I’m just… How are you not freaking out right now?” Maybe a question I should have asked in the café instead of standing on the white lines of the handicapped space, the hot Houston afternoon enveloping me.

  He smiles, his eyes soft. “I wanted to see you again.” He reaches toward me, shifting some hair out of my face with just his fingertips. It sends an electric shiver through my body, making me light and dizzy. “And here you are.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The view from Santiago’s apartment is fantastic; overlooking Hermann Park, it’s the first thing I notice when I enter, the wall of windows in the living room immediately gripping me, pulling me in.

  “Nice, huh?” I hear him say from behind me.

  I nod, absorbing the panorama, then force myself to survey the rest of the apartment, or at least what I can see. Everything is clean and modern, a large L-shaped sectional taking up a significant portion of the living area. A flat-screen TV hangs on the wall perpendicular to the windows over a gas fireplace. The left side of the room is dominated by the kitchen and dining area, which I can’t see too well from here. On the right of the living room is a hallway that I presume leads to the bedroom.

  “I can give you the tour, or we can just sit and talk,” he says, and when I turn, I realize he’s standing beside me.

  “This place is amazing.” It looks like something out of an architectural magazine, except that it’s furnished and decorated sparsely. It’s a practical living space, but it feels a little cold. Like something’s missing.

  As I look around, taking it all in, I wonder what the rent on a place like this must be. The apartment is open and spacious, the doors extra-wide, the floor level and smooth, with no rugs or clutter to inhibit his movement. I wander into the kitchen absently and discover half the counters are normal height, half wheelchair height. The entire room seems to have been adapted for a dual lifestyle—sitting and standing.

  I’m touching the cold granite of one of the counters, laughing to myself how the wheelchair-height is almost perfect for me, standing, when I hear him crutching in behind me. My eye is drawn to the roll-under range, which is also wheelchair height. Suddenly it hits me that this place can’t be a rental. What landlord would allow so much customization?

  Passing my hand over the stone, I admire the stainless and black appliances, sexy and minimalistic, realizing this condo—finished in this manner, in this location, with that view—must have cost a solid six, maybe even seven figures. How the hell does a proofreader afford a place like this? Stephen makes a good living, but even together this is beyond our means. I struggle to wipe away my confused, perplexed look as Santiago turns to face me.

  “I like to cook,” he explains. “It’s easier on wheels than on crutches.”

  I smile. That’s hot. Neither Stephen nor I is much help in the kitchen. “My culinary skills are limited to scrambled eggs and TV dinners.”

  He laughs, moves to the fridge, pulling it open, balancing on one crutch while the other dangles from his arm. “Can I get you something to drink? Water?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  I watch him pull two bottles out, gripping them between his fingers by their necks, shutting the door with his elbow. He slips one in his pocket, then adjusts his grip on the second so he can fix his arm back into the crutch enough to turn around, wrapping his thumb around the handle of his right crutch.

  I step forward and accept the bottle, then nod toward the living room. “Can we sit?”

  “Sure, wherever you like.”

 
; I smile. I know I’m here with a purpose, but part of me wishes I could just enjoy Santiago, enjoy this incredible apartment. I open my bottle as I head toward the couch, taking a few greedy gulps before settling myself on one of the cushions toward the bend of the L. The sofa, wrapped in an expensive leather in a deep gray just shy of black, is firm but not hard, deceptively comfortable. My feet don’t touch the ground, but I figure it’d be rude to put them up, so I wait for him.

  I watch him move, surprisingly graceful, almost like a cross-country skier. When he reaches the couch, he touches the side of each knee—does he have braces underneath his pants he has to unlock?—before he sinks down a cushion over from me. I never saw them, but it would make sense for him to wear them. He slips off his crutches, lays them aside, and pulls the water bottle out of his pocket, twisting it open and taking a drink.

  I’m infatuated. That’s all this is. I need to get my answers, see if he’ll agree to give his DNA for the amnio, and then I need to get home. I take another buoying sip of water, hoping it’ll help me find my voice.

  But then he pulls one of his legs up, shifting so he’s turned toward me, one arm along the back of the couch, the other cradling his bottle of water on the edge of his foot. His pant leg has hiked up a bit, and I can just make out the plastic and metal of his brace, my stomach fluttering like I’m on a roller coaster, soaring down a steep incline. I know I’m blushing, so I attempt to cover my face.

  “It’s okay, Di. To ask,” he says, looking at me. “What do you want to know?”

  “Uh,” I say, my tongue refusing to cooperate. “Can I…do you mind if I put my feet up?”

  He looks down, notices my toes pointing a few inches off the ground. Chuckles. “Of course.”

  I slip my feet out of my shoes and tuck my legs into lotus position, gripping my ankles. I look at him. “I need to know more about…you,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, chuckling faintly. “You already know I love sushi. You’ve probably worked out my favorite color—gray—and yes, I know it’s not technically a color. I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon but hope to go some day.” He pauses, his face growing more serious. “And I have BMD.”

  “BMD?” I’m not familiar with the acronym, and my clumsy attempts to figure it out don’t yield anything.

  “Becker’s muscular dystrophy,” he explains, taking a sip of water.

  “Muscular dystrophy. That’s like the telethon thing?” I blush, press the cold bottle to my face, trying to still the heat there.

  “Yup, Jerry’s Kids.” He laughs.

  My eyebrows furrow. I honestly don’t know anything about muscular dystrophy. My mind processes this, my hand goes to my belly, and I force myself to ask what I came to ask. It’s even harder than I imagined. “The baby…will it have…BMD too?”

  He swallows, shakes his head. “To simplify, mothers pass the disease to their sons,” he says. “So even though I have it, I can’t give it to my son. My daughters will have the gene, but they won’t have the disease unless their mother is a carrier.”

  I feel simultaneously relieved and yet more nervous than before. I focus on drinking, concentrating on the feel of the cold water in my mouth.

  Santiago sets his bottle aside, lowers his foot, shifts his weight not unlike I saw him do on the plane, hands braced on the cushion, using his arms to manipulate his body. I have an urge to draw closer to him, lay my head on his chest, and let him wrap those same arms around me, but I resist.

  “So you were born like this?” I blush crimson, my stomach turning. “I mean…”

  He smiles. “I told you to ask. It’s okay. Yes and no.” He rubs his heel on his thigh absently. “BMD is one of the rarer muscular dystrophies. Maybe you’ve heard of Duchenne’s? They’re related, but Becker’s is milder and slower progressing.”

  I shake my head. The name seems familiar, but that’s about it.

  “The simplest way to explain it is my muscles get damaged easily. And once they’re damaged, they don’t…that’s it.” He gestures with one hand on his body as he speaks. “So I have weakness in my butt, hips, thighs, knees. A little in my upper arms and shoulders.” He rubs his neck nervously as he says this.

  I remember how he mentioned his disease was “degenerative” back in New Orleans. “It gets worse?” I ask, my voice soft.

  He drops his hand, nods. “It’s progressive,” he says. Offers the hint of a smile, but he’s nibbling his lip, so it comes out distorted. “Sounds like a political party.” He sighs, his face is serious, but there’s a glimmer of gold in his eyes. “I won’t lie to you, Di.” He brushes a hand over his face, then sweeps it back to his neck, cradling it there. “I used to be able to walk unaided, and eventually…” His voice trails off. He dips his head, picks at his pants. I can almost see his veneer chipping away, reminding me of the paint in my old house in New Orleans. A piece would break off and you could see all the layers of color, laid down, one on top of the other over the years. Santiago lifts his head again, looking at me, his eyes like two dark pools, inviting. “I prefer to focus on the present, what I can do now,” he adds.

  “Well, you did one thing,” I say, a hand on my belly, laughing, hoping to do for him what he so easily does for me: making him comfortable, relaxed, like it’s okay to just be.

  His eyes dim, his brows furrowing, and for a moment, I think my joking may have backfired. “Have you told your husband yet?”

  I can’t read his expression.

  I shake my head. “You’re the only one who knows,” I say, feeling my resolve crumbling. The tears overtake me suddenly, and soon I’m outright sobbing.

  I feel the couch shift, and when I look up, he’s got his arms extended for me to fall into, which I do, gratefully. He holds me tightly, so naturally, his head resting on top of mine. Even though I’m still crying, I feel safe, complete, as if everything will somehow be okay as long as I let him hold me like this.

  I love the feel of his chest as it rises and falls with every breath, carrying me with it. The subtle smell of his cologne, mixed with the faint scent of coffee and sweat. Under other circumstances, I could easily fall asleep in this embrace.

  He shifts his hand so his palm rests on my belly. I flinch instinctively, and he starts to pull away, but I place my hand on his, keeping it there. I love the warmth of his touch, the way his body can say so much to mine without words.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says in a whisper, barely audible.

  I sniffle, reply into his chest. “For what?”

  He laughs. A hand reaches up to smooth my hair. Such a sweet, tender gesture, one I realize I love. “Ay, linda,” he says, his voice light. He sighs. A short, relaxed exhalation. After a pause, he tries again. “You should be happy about this. Not crying. Sharing it with your husband. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, my voice heavy with tears although my eyes have dried. Right now, I want to stay here, with him, blissful, forgetting. “I know I can’t tell Stephen. At least not yet.”

  “Anything you need, I’m here,” he says without hesitation.

  “Why?” I say, the word a whisper off my lips, pulling away so I can see him.

  “Why not?” His face is sincere.

  “Most guys in this situation wouldn’t be consoling me; they’d be running in the opposite direction. Sorry.”

  He chuckles softly. “You can say running.” He pets my hair again. “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, so I won’t. I’m not like other guys. In more ways than one.” His right cheek tips up in the hint of a smile, his eyes sparkling subtly, soft and honest. “Just because something is unexpected doesn’t mean it’s unwanted,” he says, his fingertips grazing my belly.

  I study him, knowing I should go but desperately wanting to stay.

  He reaches out, takes each of my hands in his. “I liked you from that first moment on the plane,” he says. “I felt like we connected.”

  “Love at first sight is a myth,” I say, pulling away, in on myself,
like a flower closing for the night.

  He leans toward me, and I watch without making an effort to help close the distance between us. He lays one hand gently on my hip, then, with the other cradling my cheek, kisses me. Soft, passionately. I try to resist at first, but soon I’m melting into it, knowing there’s no place I’d rather be, no one I’d rather be kissing than him. Right now. Just like this.

  He pulls back. My lips are reluctant to leave his. “Tell me you didn’t like that. That you don’t want more.”

  I can’t. “Lust and love aren’t the same thing,” I say weakly even though all I want is for him to kiss me again.

  He frowns but leans forward, stopping just before my lips. His breath is hot against me. “What if I love to kiss you?”

  I relax into this kiss, reaching into his hair. My body dissolves into particles, floating in the air around us. It’s silly, but somehow I feel both completely whole and yet totally apart from myself.

  When he pulls back again, holding his gaze on me, appraising me like a work of art, I don’t know if I can move. Despite everything that’s happened, despite the reality that still faces me when I walk out his front door, for this brief moment, everything is okay. Everything is more than okay. My whole body is aflame, and it’s not just lust. Is this—as crazy as it seems—what love feels like?

  “I love to kiss you too,” I say, not even realizing it’s out loud until a smile blooms on his face, soft and beautiful and entrancing like a watercolor painting.

  “You’re incredible,” he says. “Both meanings of the word.” He shifts, eases me off his lap, reaches for his crutches. “Come on.” I watch him push to his feet, then slowly join him, following him toward the hallway.

  Breathing is suddenly incredibly difficult, and I have to consciously remember to inhale and exhale, my heart pumping loudly, my pulse echoing in my ears. I should go. I had the defense of drunkenness before; what’s my excuse now?

  If he senses my hesitation, he doesn’t let on. “That end of the hall is a guest bedroom and bath, and through here,” he says, pushing the door open with the tip of one of his crutches, “is my room.” He notices I’m not behind him and shifts.