Baby Mama

I saw Mark for the first time on my living-room couch, where he was buying weed from my roommate. I thought he was cute. Once he started hanging out more, I learned that he was also ten-years older than me, had a couple of kids with his ex-girlfriend, and was dating someone else anyway. (They didn’t get along very well, but according to my weed-selling roommate they, “fucked like crazy.”) I had a boyfriend myself at the time who I was planning to break up with — but because I wanted freedom, not a different boyfriend. Definitely not an older boyfriend who was sure to bring baby-mama-drama into my life.  Still, I couldn’t help flirting with him every time he came around, and was ridiculously pleased with myself when he quoted from a Stephen King book and I recognized it.

After weeks of flirting, we had one brief make-out session at the bar. At that point, I conceded that I wanted to fuck him but still refused to entertain the fact that he might someday be my boyfriend. This changed on one particularly hot May night.

We were going to the bar with our friends. While I watched from the car, Mark jumped up on the porch railing and tried to walk down it. He lost his footing and fell six feet to the sidewalk, landing in a hideous tangle of lanky arms and legs.

“You all right?” I practically screamed as he got up and came to the car. 

“Yeah, but my thumb hurts like hell."

We collected his surly girlfriend outside, went into the bar, and sat in a booth. It was close to ninety degrees inside. Mark suddenly slumped over in his seat, pouring sweat, whiter then I’ve ever seen a living person.

“Feels like a bad trip,” he muttered as he slid to the floor. My roommate, helpfully, leaned over and shouted, “Dude, don’t be a bitch!  You just need a beer!” Suddenly, I realized that I would get hit by a truck for the man passing out on the ground.

“Get out of the way!” I screamed, diving to the ground to rescue him. My boyfriend appeared around the corner, holding up a plate (“I got fries!”), but the smile dropped off his face as I shouted that I had to go to the hospital. 

Mark’s girlfriend helped me carry him to the car and I drove him to the hospital since she didn’t have her license. When he came out of the E.R. hours later, loopy on Vicodin with his shattered thumb in a cast, he looked at me and said in wonder, “You drove me to the hospital."

I took care of him for the next couple of days, undressing him for bed and making doctor’s appointments. We were sitting out on my roof holding hands when he told me he loved me.  When I said, “I love you too,” I felt all my old promises and plans sliding away.

We’re still together, and though there has been plenty of baby-mama-drama, sometimes his little girl cuddles up next to me during a Disney movie too. It's all okay. — Ava