Then Donovan softened inside her.
“I…” he jumped off her, hurrying to tuck himself back inside his shorts. “I… no.”
“Donovan, wait. It’s okay. You aren’t going to hurt it.”
He’d picked up his t-shirt, had it stretched and ready to slip over his head when she spoke, then stopped short, throwing the green fabric to the floor. “It’s a her, Layla. Her. Not an it, not a thing. She’s a girl. Our fucking daughter!”
“Donovan, please.” She tried to sound sweet, soft and Layla got to her knees, crawling across the bed so she could touch him, but Donovan shook his head and she couldn’t tell if he was mad that she still kept her emotions, her heart, from the thing growing inside her, or if his frustration, likely disgust came from the idea that he’d been fucking a pregnant woman. He was so closed off to her then, stepping back, a constant shake moving his head.
“I can’t, Layla. I just can’t do that with you. Not anymore.”
It only got worse, the tension becoming thicker over the next few weeks as spring neared. By the seventh month, they were hardly speaking to each other, answering obligatory questions, informing each other where they’d be, how long they’d be out. It weighed on her, the distance that grew with the stretch of her belly. She wanted him. She only wanted Donovan and she got nothing back from him. They slept in the same bed, ate meals together, spent time with their friends, but it was as if they were roommates, distant roommates. Anything once shared between them died a little bit every day, the closer they came to the moment when they’d turn their child over to a family they didn’t know. It got so tense that Layla considered leaving. She’d grown tired of the quiet, of being looked after but not really taken care of, not loved.
They’d spent months with each other, fighting, fucking, then loving each other’s bodies making tentative plans for their lives after the baby had been born. But they’d never talked about a relationship. They’d never discussed love. Those lingering thoughts about finding a place of her own became more insistent, more tempting and Layla found herself, every night with Donavan’s back facing her in their bed, praying for a sign that she should leave.
It came to her one day outside of Marshall Hall when her father stopped her.
“Baby girl, look at you.” Her father wasn’t an emotional man, beyond motivating his players. Ever. But that day with the smell of blooming flowers perfuming the air and the activity of the campus around them becoming mute as they stared at each other, Layla’s father stood in front of her with tears wetting his eyes. “My little girl,” he’d said, taking her against his chest, ignoring how stiffly she stood in his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
It was the first time Layla had a real conversation with her father. He’d taken her to McKinney’s and they sat in the inner sanctum booth, voices low, quiet, as they split a banana sundae that the baby seemed really eager for her to scarf down.
“You look so beautiful,” he’d told her, seeming unable to stop smiling at her like she was this brilliant, glowing fairy his eyes wanted to eat up.
“I look like a small elephant.”
“No. You don’t. And if anyone says you do, tell me and I’ll kick their ass.”
She caught him up on the pregnancy, ignored his heavy frown when she gave him details about the adoption and hoped he was as happy as he pretended to be about getting the request she’d received for her sketches and swatches from Parsons. But then he’d asked about Donovan and slipped a bit of information the blonde had neglected to tell Layla about.
“What do you mean, New Zealand?”
Instantly her father seemed to understand that he’d screwed up. “I’m sure it’s nothing that’s set in stone for either Donley or Fraser.” He shrugged, but it was a half-hearted effort.
“Daddy…”
“They’d both have to play for one of the smaller squads first, maybe The Blues if they’re lucky or the Chiefs, but the plan would be to eventually try for the All Blacks.” He hurried to slip his spoon into his mouth, watching Layla closely as she stared out the window, thinking that her chest shouldn’t feel this tight, that her eyes shouldn’t ached this badly. “Would you go with him? Autumn and Fraser would be there, I’m sure. You wouldn’t be lonely.”
“No,” she’d said, watching a line of ducklings following their mother as she led them across the sidewalk toward the pond in the center of the park. “No, I don’t want to live in New Zealand.”