ARC10

Chapter 10.3

Luckily, it's not my shift at the Kitchen Sink tonight. I stop there to grab a sandwich from Simon and to inform him that by the end of the day, he will officially be a grandfather.

"Well isn't that exciting," he says with his traditional sarcastic bite. "I'm too young to be a grandpa, though."

"Well, that makes two of us then. I mean mother. Not grandpa."

"You're almost thirty."

"You're almost fifty."

He scowls at me before returning to the griddle. "You're going to be fine. Millions of women have done this before you. This is natural. You're taking your place in the circle of life and all that crap."

"You're terrible at this."

As Simon flips my sandwich, Dean's head pokes out from over the steel saloon doors. Part of me wished he'd reconsider, but no. He's here. He's striding into the kitchen as if he belongs here as much as I do.

"Hey, Dean!" Simon calls with way more enthusiasm than necessary. "Come on in! Hot sandwich?"

Dean's spirits visibly lift at the mention of food. "Can I get three?"

Simon pauses briefly with his spatula mid-air.

"Oh, Honey," he catches my gaze with mocking, sad eyes. "I don't know what chemicals the HHP were inhaling when they thought this," he waves the spatula at us again, "was a good idea . . . Your poor tiny uterus."

Dean sits at the metal table next to me and folds his hands together and squeezes them through Simon's jesting. While sitting next to him and watching his face flare, something falters in my upward momentum of loathing. When I see the pink of his cheeks rising from his down-turned head, my anger sputters away like a chunk of butter on the grill. It spasms, slows, and then evaporates.

The tension in my shoulders slip away. I can't face him as a familiar grin from our better days returns in full blast. "Stop, Dad. You're embarrassing him." When I have control of my expressions again, I scooch closer to Dean. "So, Freyer, there's a pool going around for how beefy the kid's going to be. I put my creds on a healthy six to seven pounds, but they tell me that's just wishful thinking. Some of the guys have gone as far as fourteen."

I take one of Simon's specialty handmade knives from off the table and inspect it. "You better pray to the Lady it's nowhere near that size . . . " My threat wafts between us until I can't contain my snort of laughter anymore.

Dean shakes his head and smiles into his lap.

It's bizarrely ordinary to be sitting in the kitchen with my father, Dean, and the subject of our unborn child. I eat in silence while Dean picks at his pile and asks about one of the books Simon borrowed a few weeks ago—one from the illegal library hidden in his pod.

"Gotta go!" I dump my plate in the sink where the clean, sudsy water stagnates. I slosh it around a few times and with mindless strokes rub the sponge on the dish. When Dean grabs his last sandwich, I swipe his plate out from under him and treat it with the same quick punishment.

I'm anxious. Give my hands something to do before they give me away.

***

The trek to Level 2 is silent. We barely brush sleeves as we move side by side through the Rotunda. From the corner of my eyes, I peer over at Dean as we are walking.

"What?" he asks while staring ahead.

"I can't figure out why you want to be here. Isn't this a massive waste of a free afternoon?"

"Nope."

"Wouldn't you rather be reading or doing something equally stupid?"

"You know what reading is? That's surprising."

I stare straight ahead. Nobody can push my buttons like Dean. On that same note, nobody can melt my aggression to a pool of cream like him either.

We approach one of the massive posters held in by bolts and glue of a nondescript man and woman handing over a child to our President who is lit gloriously from behind.

Every Little One Counts: Do your part for the Human Hope Project

Safety and Equality for Unity

I clench my teeth as we pass it.

Despite the anger and grief and promises of eternal loathing, the events of the past week slip into mist. Part of me wants to hang on and continue the aggression, but, making a conscious decision to foster some sort of tolerable companionship, I swallow it.

When we arrive at the metal doors of the HHP labs, I lose the ability to move forward.

Dean must sense my hesitation because he moves behind me. "It's okay," he whispers. "This is the easy part. All we have to do is listen."

I know that. I know what this is, but I still can't force my legs to go.

Puddling at my feet is my initiative, my go-getter attitude, my stonewall resolve I'd gathered. The pep-talk soliloquy is a wispy memory once I face those dark metal doors.

I imagine them coming at me, their latex gloves extended, their nefarious coats and clean-cut shadows formed from harsh light looming like too-bright storm clouds. It's the last image flashing over before I calculate the exits. The possibilities roll over my mind in unmitigated tumult until Dean's large hand rests at the small of my back, gently nudging me forward.

With that little effort, with that little pressure and that little reminder my once-best friend is behind me, I glide in without another thought.