Richard watches as the blue Honda disappears into the traffic, a sense of emptiness crawls into his chest but he pushes it down— the less he thinks about it the better. A forgotten, heavy weight presses on his leg and he remembers he turned off his phone more than three hours ago, the thing buzzing too much for his liking. He knows what he’s going to be bombarded with when the screen comes on, but he guesses it’s better than standing in the middle of the sidewalk doing nothing— so he takes it out of his pocket and turns it on. The thought of not having money for a taxi, or even a train ride, rings at the back of his mind; he’ll just hop the turnstile. He always does anyway.

20 missed calls. 30 text messages.

He sighs as he scrolls through all the messages, not bothering to read them. He knows what they’re saying and he doesn’t want to think about it, not now. Alfonso, Tamari, Georgina and Eva. Richard ignores all the others with the exception of Eva, he’s aware that’s something he has to deal with— although he forgot about her existence in its entirety for the past five hours. Her sure rage is the least of his problems. He reads the texts as he walks to the train station, the chilly October breeze caressing his face, rumbling his hair.

Where r u?   3:19pm

Call me back  3:21pm

Pick up ur phone  3:25pm

Tf? Why r people saying u wished for a baby with Wilson??   3:30pm

Ricky pick up  3:32pm

Richard   3:32pm

With fucking Wilson Richard?!   3:40pm

R u a fag? That’s why we’ve never done it?   3:41pm

I’m legit crying right now  4:01pm

I thought you loved me   4:15pm

By the time he’s read all of them, he’s already sitting in the train. He presses a button and the screen darkens, a dog that’s too big to be legally allowed on the subway barks and Richard rests his head on the cold, glass window. His arms feel empty and he closes his eyes as he doesn’t think about it.

The peace of the commute lasts 30 minutes.

“You ungrateful punk, we sacrifice ourselves to have you in our house and you go ahead and reproduce?! You useless shit…” Nelson’s screaming, he’s been screaming since Richard got to the house. Richard had told Georgina not to tell him, but since when did she listen to Richard anyway? He’d just been lucky she hadn’t found it in herself to go to the hospital earlier today.

The living room is a mess, more than it normally is. The usual empty beer bottles that change daily, and that Nelson keeps like trophies on the coffee table, are all splattered and shattered on the floor. All in the man’s fit of anger and demonstration of his displeasure to Richard’s actions— or his presence. Nothing new. Richard tunes out most of the yelling, flinching when Nelson raises his hand in an exaggerated gesture. He cringes at his own body’s reaction.

“I won’t bring her here,” is the only thing Richard says. And the noise that comes out of Nelson’s mouth is just that— noise.

By the time he gets to his room is 9:02pm, his head is throbbing and going to bed seems like the best idea to have ever crossed his mind since birth. He goes and takes a shower, not knowing why he isn’t going to sleep instead. He takes out his contacts, puts on some boxers he picks up from the floor which seem to be clean, and kneels in front of the dresser— ravaging for something in the bottom drawer.

When he seems to find what he’s looking for he grabs it and takes it to bed. He sits there, head against headboard and notebook at hand, a pencil in between his fingers. And he tries not to think about it. He tries to rub the feeling off his face, but it doesn’t go away.

He’s thinking about red and white hair, and small hands, a small smile and familiar eyes.

He’s thinking about her.

Richard feels his eyes stinging and he rubs harder, urging the tears back to wherever they’re threatening to come from. But he’s thinking about it. About a tiny palm clinging to his finger. About that wet spot on his chest that has long gone. About the warmth of a little body that somehow is related to him. Fucking dammit he’s thinking about her. And the tears are falling without his permission. Shit he’s such a fucking sissy. The fading pain on his cheek throbs, and a strangled sob escapes him.

He ignores how blurry the tears make his vision and he starts to write, he ignores the occasional drop that falls on the page and the utter and complete mess that he currently is. The bleak tug of his lip is unconscious, and the fast and purposeful movement of his hand a consequence of what inspired it.

Because he has something different to write about.

Finally.

*

“I still think we should’ve given him a ride home,” his mother says from somewhere in the kitchen. The sound of metal pots clashing and the smell of garlic fills the house, and Daniel would feel more ecstatic about his favorite food being cooked if he didn’t feel like shit.

The tiny demon responsible for his current estate yawns from where she is in the center of the living room. She’s in sitting one of those baby chairs with little toys attached, she had been playing with them earlier, but now her eyes are drooping and Daniel can’t help but follow her and yawn too. Four times. She woke up four times last night. The first time his mother had woken up with him, to show Daniel how to calm her down and figure out what she needs. The second time was feeding time, so that one was necessary. But the third and fourth? Totally Bethel not wanting him to sleep. She hadn’t needed a diaper change, she hadn’t been hungry, she hadn’t been sick, she had just been crying. His mother, on the other hand, had just told him that he was the father so he needed to learn how to do this on his own. ‘We’ll do this together’ his ass.

Daniel looks down at the half-filled paper, the exhaustion— and the fact that he hadn’t really been paying attention in class at the time— preventing him from writing the other three paragraphs needed to finish the essay. He’s laying on his stomach on the couch, a couple of sheets rest on the floor near him and the crappy essay in question stares back at him, mocking him in his inability to think properly. How can he think about the effect tone has on a poem when his eyes keep closing on their own accord every ten seconds? He’s knackered, as the British would say. A few feet away from him sleep finally wins the battle, and Bethel’s eyelids finally close. Daniel remembers that as long as she is as peaceful and content as now, getting a little tired along the way is not a big deal. He can do this. He yawns again.

“We had to buy more stuff for Bethel, I’m sure he was fine,” Daniel half-yells across the house, shaking his head to get the sleepiness out of his system. He didn’t really care about Richard’s feelings, honestly. His mom, however, had warmed up to the guy rather quickly and has been complaining about them leaving him last night. And about taking Bethel away from him on the first day. And about not paying him back the money he spent on her supplies. For Daniel though, Richard is the least of his worries right now. He has a baby— that’s his, a baby that’s Daniel’s (he still can’t quite grasp that)— who needs to be fed every four hours, who needs to be changed, and bathed, and soothed. Plus an essay due Monday which doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. So yeah, he couldn’t care less about the guy who’s been bullying him since freshman year, or what the fact that they have a daughter together might suggest. He’s not ready to think about that one yet.

Daniel stares at the partly done and still-a-long-way-to-be-finished essay in front of him and groans— quietly, because Bethel is sleeping. He pushes to his feet and goes to the kitchen, there are pots in the stove that fill the air with a savory smell. His mom looks enthralled in her task, her back to him, as she chops some vegetable. The thump, thump of the knife hitting wood resonates in the space and Daniel opens the refrigerator.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Meredith asks, the thump, thump, thump accompanying her words.

Daniel pours himself some water, “Talk about what?”

“Her red hair”

The water feels cool as it goes down his throat, the action distracting him from the implication of the question, “Dr. Kilton said that because red hair is a recessive gene, and as Ricky has two red hair genes, I must have a recessive one. Being covered by the dominant black hair one. So, even if it’s weird for other races apart from caucasian to have it, it’s completely normal that-”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about” his mom cuts in, still chopping the parsley and her back still to Daniel. Meredith feels intrigued by the science behind her bi-racial granddaughter having red hair, when in her African American family there has never been anyone with such trait. But she pushes it aside, the real meaning of her question being more important. She’s been a mother long enough to recognize her own son’s avoidance tactics.

“Then what are you talking about”

“He worships that kid Daniel,” she says, and the thumb,thumb stops. She turns around and meets his gaze, “every time he sees her is like he just wants to hold her until they fuse together and become one. He bought her diapers, toys, milk, and even clothes. He thought ahead. He’s only seventeen.”

His mother’s knowing gaze pierces him, making Daniel shift his weight from one foot to the other. He feels naked in her scrutiny and he wonders if there’s anything his mother doesn’t know. He gulps, but he’s long drank the water, he holds the empty cup regardless, “What are you trying to say?”

“That I won’t blame you for wishing to have a kid with him”

They stare at each other for a second, but it feels like an hour. And Daniel realizes that no, there isn’t anything that she doesn’t know. He’s the first one to break eye contact and he walks to the sink and places the empty cup there. His mother eyes him next to her as he speaks,

“No, I don’t want to talk about it”

And that’s that. His mother nods and gets back to chopping, an audible “okay” relieving the slight tension in the air. Easy conversion follows after that, and Daniel finds himself helping his mother chopping up stuff. They put it all in the cooking pot after they finish and when Daniel tries to dip a spoon in the sauce his mother slaps his hand.

“It’s not ready yet you fat fuck” she hisses, batting his hand away.

“You really shouldn’t curse so much, there’s a child in the house”

Meredith ignores her own words and dips her own spoon in her creation, making a thoughtful face as she tastes it. “One you should be looking after,” she informs him, a metal spoon between her teeth.

“She’s sleeping,” Daniel takes her distraction and tries to dip the spoon again, but his mom notices smacks him on the back of the head, “Ow. why are you cooking so early anyway, it’s only 11 am.”

Meredith is about to answer when the sound of the doorbell interrupts her.

A smile immediately makes its way to her lips, “Because I invited him to come today.”

Daniel hasn’t grasped who ‘he’ is when Meredith is urging him out of the kitchen, telling him to get the door. What awaits him when he opens it is a Richard with windblown hair, khaki pants and a navy blue t-shirt, he makes a disgusted frown as he looks at Daniel.

“You look like shit,” Richard tells him. And Daniel doesn’t hesitate as he shuts the door in his face.