Target on Our Backs
Page 59
"So?"
"You were already pregnant."
My stomach drops.
That hadn't even crossed my mind.
Leave it to Naz to fixate on that out of everything going on.
"You didn't hurt me... or us... or whatever."
Us. There's an us.
There's me and this... baby.
"I could've," he says. "I haven't been easy on you."
"That's because I can take it. And this... uh, you know..."
"Baby," he says quietly.
Baby.
Jesus Christ, I can feel the tears coming on again.
"It has your DNA," I say. "So obviously it's stubborn as shit and gonna be resilient."
He doesn't say anything to that.
I don't know if I'm making a difference in how he feels.
Probably not.
Naz already lost a family once. He lost a baby he never got the chance to know, so I'm not really surprised by his overbearing worry.
I just don't want him to beat himself up about it.
People tend to get hurt when that happens.
He lets out a resigned sigh. "So, California, huh?"
"Yes," I whisper.
One of the last conversations I had with my mother, she mentioned running away there. Maybe she was onto something. It's about as far away from New York as we're going to get without leaving the country.
"Well," he says, "better start packing then."
* * *
Most of my life was spent living out of boxes.
No reason to unpack when, sooner or later, I'd just have to pack it all up again.
I never had much as a child, or even as a teenager, so it wasn't hard, living such a life of simplicity, to pick up in the middle of the night and just walk away. It's easier to disappear, to slip into obscurity, without dragging a lifetime of possessions along.
That's something my mother taught me.
But I have a lot of baggage now... literally, figuratively... and I'm not entirely sure how it'll all fit into our new life. Dozens of cardboard boxes clutter every room of the house, most of them still empty. It's been a few days since we made the decision to move, and I feel like I've been packing constantly since, but I've barely made a dent in any of our belongings.
Truth be told, Naz has accumulated a lot of shit.
Although, okay, whatever, I guess I have, too.
I used to be able to fit everything I owned in three boxes, but now I need more than that for just shoes.
Standing in the den, my eyes scan the massive bookshelves packed full of Naz's books. He's sitting at his desk, half-dressed, a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt. It's barely buttoned, not tucked in, the sleeves of it shoved up to his elbows.
He looks exhausted.
He probably is.
He walks around here, quiet, stoic, distracting himself by cleaning, scrubbing the same shit over and over. It's rare I catch him sitting down, like he is now, but even off of his feet, he still manages to look busy. How the hell does he do that? He's flipping through the newspaper, not paying me any attention, as I stress about how to pack up his books.
"You're stressing," he says, not looking at me, his eyes never averting from the newspaper.
"I'm not."
I'm lying.
"You're lying."
Ugh.
"It's just... this is a lot of books."
"I know."
"We're going to need, like, a billion more boxes."
"What for?"
What for?
What kind of fucking question...?
"For the books," I say. "You have a lot."
He slowly sets his paper down as he looks at me. "Doesn't matter. I'm not taking them."
"What? Why?"
"Because they're not necessary."
Somewhere out there, a bookworm's head just exploded. "How can you say the books aren't necessary?"
"Easily," he says. "They're not."
"I just... I don't even know what to say to you right now."
He laughs lightly, sitting back in his chair to regard me. "There's no point in taking most of it, Karissa. It's all unnecessary... it's just things. I started over from scratch once, and I'm more than happy to do it again."
"So, what, you'd just leave everything?"
"Not everything," he says. "I'd still consider taking you along."
"Funny." I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. "What would we do with it all?"
"Whatever you want."
"What did you do with everything last time?"
"Burned it."
I scrunch my face up at that. "What a waste."
He shrugs. "We could toss it, or sell it, or donate it, or just leave it. I'm not planning to sell the house right now. It can all just stay where it is."
The thought of it all staying here, collecting dust, oddly makes a pang in my stomach start to grow. It's one thing to pick up our lives and relocate them elsewhere, somewhere far away from here… but it's another to just walk away without it all, to leave who we were behind.
"Look," he says, standing up and strolling toward me. "Say the house is on fire, and you've only got a minute to grab what's important to you. What's irreplaceable. What do you go for?"
"This sounds kind of philosophical," I point out. "You're not going to quiz me about this later, are you? Make me write a paper or something? If so, I'm totally gonna fail this. Can I phone a friend?"
A smile tugs his lips. "Just answer the question."
I think about it for a moment. What would I grab if I only had a minute? "Pictures. I don't have many, but I'd like to, you know, keep a few."
He nods. "Understandable."
"Killer," I say. "I'd want my dog."
His cheek twitches. "I'm not surprised."
"You... do you count?"
"No, I'll get myself out."
"Then that's it, I guess."
"Photos and the mutt," he says. "That's what we take along."
I scrunch up my nose at him. "What about you? What would you grab?"
"Nothing."
I look at him incredulously. "Nothing?"
"It's all replaceable," he says, stepping toward me, his hands finding my hips. Leaning down, he kisses me, softly, sweet little pecks.
"Except for me?" I murmur against his lips.
I can feel him smiling against my mouth. "Even you."
Rolling my eyes, playfully scoffing, I shove away from him when he says that, but he keeps a hold on me. Laughing, he gazes down at me, one of his hands drifting from my hip and skimming along my stomach. He presses his palm flat against my shirt, over my belly button, as his eyes shift that direction.
He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.
I can see the flit in his eyes, the spark, the restrained excitement. He's trying like hell not to get his hopes up. Naz isn't the kind of guy who lives his life in a cloud of optimism. He looks at the world and sees the darkness shrouding it. But light is peeking through the cracks in his armor, and it's warming some of that bitterness he's held onto.
"You were already pregnant."
My stomach drops.
That hadn't even crossed my mind.
Leave it to Naz to fixate on that out of everything going on.
"You didn't hurt me... or us... or whatever."
Us. There's an us.
There's me and this... baby.
"I could've," he says. "I haven't been easy on you."
"That's because I can take it. And this... uh, you know..."
"Baby," he says quietly.
Baby.
Jesus Christ, I can feel the tears coming on again.
"It has your DNA," I say. "So obviously it's stubborn as shit and gonna be resilient."
He doesn't say anything to that.
I don't know if I'm making a difference in how he feels.
Probably not.
Naz already lost a family once. He lost a baby he never got the chance to know, so I'm not really surprised by his overbearing worry.
I just don't want him to beat himself up about it.
People tend to get hurt when that happens.
He lets out a resigned sigh. "So, California, huh?"
"Yes," I whisper.
One of the last conversations I had with my mother, she mentioned running away there. Maybe she was onto something. It's about as far away from New York as we're going to get without leaving the country.
"Well," he says, "better start packing then."
* * *
Most of my life was spent living out of boxes.
No reason to unpack when, sooner or later, I'd just have to pack it all up again.
I never had much as a child, or even as a teenager, so it wasn't hard, living such a life of simplicity, to pick up in the middle of the night and just walk away. It's easier to disappear, to slip into obscurity, without dragging a lifetime of possessions along.
That's something my mother taught me.
But I have a lot of baggage now... literally, figuratively... and I'm not entirely sure how it'll all fit into our new life. Dozens of cardboard boxes clutter every room of the house, most of them still empty. It's been a few days since we made the decision to move, and I feel like I've been packing constantly since, but I've barely made a dent in any of our belongings.
Truth be told, Naz has accumulated a lot of shit.
Although, okay, whatever, I guess I have, too.
I used to be able to fit everything I owned in three boxes, but now I need more than that for just shoes.
Standing in the den, my eyes scan the massive bookshelves packed full of Naz's books. He's sitting at his desk, half-dressed, a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt. It's barely buttoned, not tucked in, the sleeves of it shoved up to his elbows.
He looks exhausted.
He probably is.
He walks around here, quiet, stoic, distracting himself by cleaning, scrubbing the same shit over and over. It's rare I catch him sitting down, like he is now, but even off of his feet, he still manages to look busy. How the hell does he do that? He's flipping through the newspaper, not paying me any attention, as I stress about how to pack up his books.
"You're stressing," he says, not looking at me, his eyes never averting from the newspaper.
"I'm not."
I'm lying.
"You're lying."
Ugh.
"It's just... this is a lot of books."
"I know."
"We're going to need, like, a billion more boxes."
"What for?"
What for?
What kind of fucking question...?
"For the books," I say. "You have a lot."
He slowly sets his paper down as he looks at me. "Doesn't matter. I'm not taking them."
"What? Why?"
"Because they're not necessary."
Somewhere out there, a bookworm's head just exploded. "How can you say the books aren't necessary?"
"Easily," he says. "They're not."
"I just... I don't even know what to say to you right now."
He laughs lightly, sitting back in his chair to regard me. "There's no point in taking most of it, Karissa. It's all unnecessary... it's just things. I started over from scratch once, and I'm more than happy to do it again."
"So, what, you'd just leave everything?"
"Not everything," he says. "I'd still consider taking you along."
"Funny." I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. "What would we do with it all?"
"Whatever you want."
"What did you do with everything last time?"
"Burned it."
I scrunch my face up at that. "What a waste."
He shrugs. "We could toss it, or sell it, or donate it, or just leave it. I'm not planning to sell the house right now. It can all just stay where it is."
The thought of it all staying here, collecting dust, oddly makes a pang in my stomach start to grow. It's one thing to pick up our lives and relocate them elsewhere, somewhere far away from here… but it's another to just walk away without it all, to leave who we were behind.
"Look," he says, standing up and strolling toward me. "Say the house is on fire, and you've only got a minute to grab what's important to you. What's irreplaceable. What do you go for?"
"This sounds kind of philosophical," I point out. "You're not going to quiz me about this later, are you? Make me write a paper or something? If so, I'm totally gonna fail this. Can I phone a friend?"
A smile tugs his lips. "Just answer the question."
I think about it for a moment. What would I grab if I only had a minute? "Pictures. I don't have many, but I'd like to, you know, keep a few."
He nods. "Understandable."
"Killer," I say. "I'd want my dog."
His cheek twitches. "I'm not surprised."
"You... do you count?"
"No, I'll get myself out."
"Then that's it, I guess."
"Photos and the mutt," he says. "That's what we take along."
I scrunch up my nose at him. "What about you? What would you grab?"
"Nothing."
I look at him incredulously. "Nothing?"
"It's all replaceable," he says, stepping toward me, his hands finding my hips. Leaning down, he kisses me, softly, sweet little pecks.
"Except for me?" I murmur against his lips.
I can feel him smiling against my mouth. "Even you."
Rolling my eyes, playfully scoffing, I shove away from him when he says that, but he keeps a hold on me. Laughing, he gazes down at me, one of his hands drifting from my hip and skimming along my stomach. He presses his palm flat against my shirt, over my belly button, as his eyes shift that direction.
He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.
I can see the flit in his eyes, the spark, the restrained excitement. He's trying like hell not to get his hopes up. Naz isn't the kind of guy who lives his life in a cloud of optimism. He looks at the world and sees the darkness shrouding it. But light is peeking through the cracks in his armor, and it's warming some of that bitterness he's held onto.
