Just One Inch

Because that was the clear path forward. Sure, I’ve been known to engage in threesomes before. Every rich playboy in the Valley does it, but Tina was worth way more than that. She was far more than a fling, and I was willing to break off a very public engagement in order to explore a relationship with the curvy brunette. Asking her to engage in a threesome? Not only would I be slapped to the ground, but it didn’t honor what I thought of this beautiful girl, the one with a mind as sharp as a blade complete with a playful, teasing personality.

But what the fuck had just happened? She’d shown up looking delicious enough to eat, her curvy form skimmed by a brown dress, her slim legs shown off to their best form in a pair of pumps. And she’d thrown me a dazzling smile upon her arrival. I was ready to jump her on a moment’s notice. We would have made good use of the couch in my office, or maybe the rug. Anywhere, so long as we were horizontal.

But I disappeared for a few minutes on some stupid errand and she was completely different when I returned. Nervous, balky, recalcitrant … and utterly firm in rejecting my advances.

I’ve been rejected before but only by women who are lesbians. Even the married ones find me irresistible, doing the down and dirty as soon as I get my game on. But Tina? She was so adamant, her pretty face determined, her movements sure and firm as she pushed away from me. It wasn’t the “oh help me” struggle of a damsel in distress who actually wants to be ravished. It was the “let me go NOW” struggle of a woman determined to make an exit.

So I let her go, figuring I’d save myself some scratches and dings. But it was odd. Even when I mentioned I was planning on breaking up with Jenna, she just shook her head, saying that “this was all too complicated” and “Jenna is my sister” and some more bullshit. Okay, maybe it wasn’t total bullshit, but it wasn’t anything that time wouldn’t cure. Fuck, it wasn’t like I was married to Jenna. We were only dating, and just a few months at that. Worse things have happened in the world.

Silently, I cursed at myself. What the fuck was going on? Had my inability to actively reject Jenna gotten me into this mess? Had I been too passive, allowing myself to be led along like a dumb mule? I cursed silently again. Normally a go-getter, I’d let myself be seduced by a pretty face and lithe body. Now it was too late, and I was now stuck with a witch … while the girl of my dreams disappeared into the horizon.

11

Tina

Six months later …

My baby mewled in my arms. Janie was beautiful, just the tiniest thing, crying a bit as I rocked her. Normally crying is a good sign because it shows that a baby has strong, healthy lungs and isn’t afraid to communicate her distress, sending adults scurrying to do her bidding. But with my daughter, things are different. Janie was born prematurely and she’s tiny for her age. Her crying was weak, her mewls pitiful. She doesn’t eat much, nor does she have the “rooting” instinct of newborns, the one that causes them to seek their mother’s breast for nutritious, life-giving milk.

I’d been trying to tempt her with formula instead, mixing different types, even adding Baby Ensure to get her the calories needed to thrive. But something was wrong, I could feel it even though we were just back from the hospital. Janie was growing weaker by the minute and my best efforts to nurse weren’t enough. We needed to go back

I burst into the Emergency Room, Janie in my arms.

“Please,” I gasped. “I need to see a pediatrician immediately. My baby won’t eat and she’s listless and limp.”

“She looks alright to me,” said the nurse with the briefest glance at the bundle in my arms. “There’s movement and she’s breathing. Put your name on the list, we’ll call when the pediatrician’s available,” she said, turning away.

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I scribbled my name in shaky script. My panting and gasping was audible to everyone in the waiting room and not a few people looked at me with pity, a single woman with a tiny bundle in my arms, desperate for help. Janie’s blanket was literally damp from my tears, and I grew more panicked by the second as my baby grew weaker, draining of life.

Finally my name was called. “Tina Walsh,” harrumphed an old lady. I followed the pink scrubs to a waiting room where a pediatrician waited, exhaustion lining her face.

“And what have we here?” she said, reaching for Janie.