“I was never lazy!” I protest.
“I doubt he is, either, if he’s survived four months in your class,” Cat says, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss me.
“You think I’m too hard on them,” I growl.
“All I’m saying,” Cat murmurs, starting to unbutton her blouse, “is that if you want to take out some of that frustration . . . I’m right here . . .”
An hour later, we’re both laying on the floor, naked and sweating. Cat sprawls across my lap, her bottom as pink as her cheeks.
She’s right . . . I do feel much better now.
I’m stroking her hair in that soothing, petting motion she loves so much.
I can see her ribs expanding with slow, steady breaths. I think she’s falling asleep, until she surprises me by rolling over, looking up into my face.
“Do you like teaching?” she asks me.
I think about my boxing classes—about the thrill I get when one of the students does something right for a change. Even that kid from Coney Island.
“Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”
“Would you be disappointed if you couldn’t finish the year?”
I frown at her, confused.
“I’m only here because I thought you wanted to finish.”
“I did. But now I’m worried it might not be safe,” Cat takes a deep breath. “For the baby.”
I stare at her for a moment, not quite understanding. Then the racing of my heart jolts my brain.
“Are you serious?” I whisper.
“Very serious,” she says. “And very sure.”
I scoop Cat up in my arms, holding her tight against me, squeezing her hard but not too hard. My eyes are burning, my heart pounding, my throat too tight to speak.
“We’re gonna have a baby?” I croak.
“Yes,” she says, “Sometime in June.”
I can’t stop hugging her. I can’t let go, even for a second.
“You should have told me!” I cry. “I wouldn’t have spanked you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cat snorts. “I made sure you weren’t too rough.”
“What about the—”
“That’s fine, too. It won’t hurt him.”
“Him? You think it’s a boy?”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I mean . . . I have a feeling. An inclination. But it’s just a guess.”
I nuzzle my face against her hair, breathing in the clean scent of her scalp. I need to smell her to calm myself down, because I’m experiencing a mixture of joy, excitement, and terror so acute that I feel like my heart might explode.
“I’m so, so glad,” I tell her. “I wish it were June right now.”
“Me too,” Cat murmurs. “But I’m sure it will come soon enough.”
She is getting tired now, I can hear it in her voice.
I lift her up in my arms and take her to the bed. She may be carrying my child, but it’s still easy for me to carry her petite little frame and set her down gently on the mattress. I cover her with the blanket, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking her hair until she’s fast asleep.
I’m as awake as I’ve ever been.
I can’t stop imaging this child—what he’ll look like, what he’ll sound like, what he’ll think and feel. What will he want, and will I be able to give it to him?
I’ve barely learned how to love Cat the way she deserves. I still make mistakes.
What if I fuck up with my child? What if I damage him forever?
I stand up from the bed, my stomach churning. I snatch up my phone, taking it into the other room so I don’t wake Cat.
Then I call Snow.
He picks up on the third ring. It’s 5:00 p.m. in New York, six hours earlier than here.
“Dean,” he says, in that deep, gravelly voice—rough on the surface, but warm underneath.
“Snow. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise, my friend. Are you and Cat coming to see us soon?”
“Well . . .” I say. “If we do, there will be three of us coming . . .”
Snow catches on quicker than me. He chuckles.
“Congratulations, Dean. There’s nothing like having a child. You’ll see.”
My skin feels hot and cold at the same time. I grip the phone tight against my ear.
“How do I do it?” I ask. “I don’t know how to be a father.”
“In some ways it’s like being a coach or a mentor,” Snow says. “But in some ways it isn’t. A coach is there if you want them. If you don’t want the goal anymore, then they don’t coach you. A father does whatever it takes for his son to achieve his goals. A coach praises when the goal is met. A father always shows that he’s proud of his son. You build your child up, and never tear him down, because you love him. And that makes it harder—because you’re not controlling where they go. You don’t control their goals. Be the kind of father that accepts your son’s decisions.”
I nod slowly, though Snow can’t see me.
“That’s how I want to be,” I say.
“Most of all,” Snow says, “a father never gives up on his son. Your child may struggle at times. He may scream at you, hate you, push you away. But you will always be there to help him when he needs you most.”
“Yes, I will be,” I say, fervently.
The baby in Cat’s belly may barely be formed. But I already love it. I already know I’ll protect it with my life.
“Snow,” I say. “You were more than a coach to me.”
I can picture his rough-hewn face as if he were standing across the room from me.
“And I’ll always help you, Dean,” he says. “However I can.”
Zoe Romero
Berlin, Germany
June
I packed several dresses for Chay’s wedding, but none of them seem right once we reach the opulent hotel where the ceremony will be held.
I’ve never seen such an eye-popping array of color, pattern, and texture—as if it were designed by Liberace after a vacation in Wonderland.
I’d expect nothing less from Chay. “Subtle” and “understated” are the dirtiest words in her dictionary.
Now my wardrobe choices seem underwhelming. Chay said the dress code was “somewhere between the Oscars and the Met Gala.”
I attended the Oscars with Miles just last year. Chay told me that the black gown I wore was, “nice, but a little boring.”
I plan to spend the afternoon shopping on Kurfurstendamm to find something more impressive to wear, but Miles forestalls me before I can leave our room.
“I’ve got something that might work,” he says.
“You brought a dress?” I say, trying not to smile. “That’s daring, even for you. Though you do have incredible legs . . .”
Miles grins. “Yeah, I bet you’d love to see that. Sorry to disappoint—this dress was always for you.”
He covers my eyes with his hands, walking me through the main room of our suite into the bedroom.
“Is this just a ruse to get me back in that bed?” I say.
“Possibly,” Miles says. “Depends how much you like your gift . . .”