Page 23 of Tyriq & Teaira
After pulling my wallet out of my pocket, I grab my license then place it on the table. She grabs it then places it on some machine. It grabs my license then spits it back out. She takes it out and sets it on the table. “Tyrick,” she says, mispronouncing my name.
I don’t bother correcting her; I just nod as I grab my ID. She nods back. While she does whatever she’s doing on her computer, I scan the waiting area. It’s not as crowded as I would have thought but there are people waiting. The sound of the large brown door opening draws my attention to it. Out walks Teaira.
“Good night, Miss Beatrice,” she says while looking down in her bag. She doesn’t see me but my eyes are glued to her.
“Thanks for coming in. I hope you feel better,” the lady behind the counter says. When I start to walk toward Teaira, Miss Beatrice tries to stop me. “You need this badge,” she says but I ignore her.
“Tee,” I say as I step to Teaira.
Her head damn near flies off her neck when she looks up at me. With eyes as big as basketballs, she exclaims, “Tyriq!”
Tyriq! Are you fucking kidding me!
Tyriq? Here and right now.
If this ain’t some shit right here. Ugh!
Since receiving the shock of my damn life, I have been floating through my shit. Granted, I’ve been doing my job; I just haven’t been all the way present. It’s like I was floating and carefully watching my movements overhead but I wasn’t grounded and fully present.How could I be? I’m fucking pregnant.
With his child…
And his ass is here. At my damn job.
“Tyriq! What the hell are you doing here?” I ask now in a more hushed tone. The initial shock of seeing him here had me practically screaming his name but I quickly remember where I am and lower my voice.
“You sick?’ he asks with so much concern instead of answering me.
No. Just pregnant.
My true words scurry somewhere down in my throat. Plus, even if I had the courage to say them, it wouldn’t be in here, in front of sick strangers. And there’s also the matter of still being in utter dis-damn-belief that my ass is actually pregnant. I sigh, probably too damn loud for this waiting room, so I latch my arm into his.
“Not in here. Let’s go outside,” I encourage.
He nods, reaches for my lunch kit, and I relent. His free hand lands on the small of my back and we walk out. Normally, I park in the garage on the second floor, reserved for employee parking, but today I bypassed it and lucked up on a space out front in visitor parking. I took a chance, and when I passed by security, he acted like he didn’t see me parked in the wrong place.
The minute we step out into the warm night air, Tyriq repeats his question, “You sick?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I just wasn’t feeling like myself so I left a few minutes early. My shift was going to be over at eleven anyway.”
“You’re around sick people all the damn time. You gotta take care of yourself.” When we reach my Jeep, I unlock it but don’t get in yet. “You want this in the back?” he asks.
“No. Passenger seat but I got it,” I say but he ignores me.
He opens my door and places my bag and my purse on my passenger seat. When he’s done, he crowds my space then looks down at me. His eyes study me, practically looking through me. His hands rest on my shoulders.
“Are you sure you’re straight? Some of them people look fucked up in there,” he says, then smirks.
I swear my truth crawls from my belly up my throat then forces its way out of my mouth. Before I can analyze, construct, or even form them into well thought-out sentences, they spew out of my mouth like hot gossip. The issue is, this isn’t tea to spill; it’s a situation that neither of us planned or wanted, at least not now for me anyway.
“I’m not contagious, Tyriq. It’s not like you can get pregnant from someone sneezing on you,” falls from my lips so damn fast.
The night sounds and wind seem to still into silence as I observe his body and facial expressions go through visible changes. His hands drop from my shoulder. His craned neck lifts and he takes a small step back. His body morphs into a contemplative stance and his arms fold across his chest. His head tilts to the left. With all his movements though, his eyes never leave me.
What the hell is he thinking? Is he angry or just surprised as I still am? Why is his eyebrow lifting like that? Shit! Say something. Anything.
My own voice is screaming so loud in my damn head that my ears are drumming. His silence, piercing eyes, and body movements are driving me crazy. I’m freaking the hell out.
“It’s yours, in case you’re wondering,” I utter, unable to deal with this dead silence between us. That hiked eyebrow drops and the other lifts, then they knit together. More body language but none that he actually vocalizes. This is maddening and sickening. I’m starting to feel queasy all over again and my legs feel unsteady as shit. “Say something, anything,” I plead.
