Page 82 of Forbidden Pregnancy
I watch Nicki’s face transform into pure rage. I would love to act like I’ve never seen her this angry, but I’ve watched Nicki throw hands over iced lattes with too much ice. She’s proud of being every Italian stereotype in the book and I’m not 100% sure, but I’ve always suspected her family members aremobsters, even if it’s the kind of crazy backstory you would only watch on an old CW show from the mid-00s.
“Yeah. He said that.”
Nicki’s anger validates me enough that the tears practically vanish from my face.
“He’s a fucking asshole.”
“He was the love of my life.”
My voice chokes up again. Nicki puffs out some weed and wraps her arms around me, holding me close for a tight hug. This isn’t the first time we’ve sat here on the lake house dock crying over a guy. Most of the time, Nicki was the one doing the crying. Guys ignored me for most of high school, so Nicki mostly reassured me that I would lose my virginity someday while she cried over her various boyfriends, hook ups, fuck buddies and even long distance lovers.
“He wasnotthe love of your life,” Nicki says, shaking her head. “The love of your life would never insult your hair.”
“What’s wrong with me, Nicki?” The question erupts from deep within my soul. The pain surrounding this breakup is even deeper than the last one. Jaylen and I broke up because he moved to Kansas City for his rap career. He was biracial, endowed with the most average dick you could imagine, and never had any money. There were never any hard feelings between us, but I guess what we had wasn’t enough for him to stay in Buffalo.
Iwasn’t enough. The dream of us having kids and raising a family together didn’t appeal to him and when I met Weston, I really thought I foundthe one.He played football at Buffalo University, he protested for Black Lives Matter. Out of all the conservative truck driving, Carhartt wearing douchebags in Western, New York… he stuck out as a sexy, confident, liberal man… comfortable in his masculinity and eager to find a woman to build a life with.
He was supposed to be the one. If he wasn’t the love of my life, why did I spend two brutal years intertwining my life with his? I feel hopeless. My head lands on Nicki’s shoulder for support. I can’t hate her for trying to help me, but it’s hard to take her love life advice seriously when she turns heads whenever she enters a room.
The only time I’ve ever turned a head is when being mistaken for a waitress. Nicki strokes my hair and puffs on her joint.
“What? Nothing is wrong with you. Why would you say that?”
I find her hand stroking my head oddly soothing while my stomach tightens in a guilty knot, bubbling up all the contrasting emotions inside me. I should have told her all of this earlier, but now that Weston and I are officially over, I have to confess…
Women always wait until they dump a guy to tell their homegirls he had hooves or something. Weston might not have had hooves but this isn’t the first time he’s put me in a position to question my worth. I assume there’s something wrong with me because I still stayed with him. I waited for him to call me ugly to my face to stand up for myself and there’s no worse feeling than the self-betrayal.
“I found him on Hinge last month and didn’t break up with him.”
“GERALYNN!”
Her admonishment only makes it worse, but I deserve it. Ladies, if you’re ever in that situation, that man needs to go. I had to learn the hard way.
“He had his preferences set to blondes.”
“That’s it, I’m calling my brother.”
“What?” I shoot up from Nicki’s shoulder. Which brother? I’ve snuck around trying to stay invisible around Nicki’s terrifying brothers whenever I’ve had the experience of hanging around them. They’re much older than she is and too wrappedup in themselves to know their youngest sister's best friends by name.
“I can have Weston killed.”
“Nicki, you’re joking.”
“Of course!” she says laughing awkwardly. “What, do you think I’m in the mob or something? I have a much better idea.”
“Like what?”
“Bar tonight. I still have to call my brother, though. I’m not allowed to go anywhere anymore without his supervision.”
“Are you going to tell me why?” I ask her.
Nicki puffs on her joint and passes it to me.
“Nope,” she says. “But you look like you need a smoke, sister.”
“I don’t condone this unhealthy behavior.”
“I’m not asking you to condone it, queen. I’m asking you to smoke it,” Nicki Taviani says, handing me her freshly rolled joint with its orange, burning tip.
The End