yall at this point i dont even know whats going on with my writing life. sometimes i get super inspired for a certain ship (whether it's japril or jeca) and sometimes the last thing i wanna do is write. so, whatever ship takes hold of my brain, i literally just go with it and write all i can. because it feels like im barely writing for fun at all anymore. so, i hope you guys enjoy this! if you're one of the few jecas reading this, i love you awesome nerds, and if you're one of my japrils reading this, you're a real one and i also love you. til we meet again 3
…
"I'm a superhero! Know why? Know why Lawyer Barbie is a superhero, Mommy?" Chelsea asks.
She's in the bath and I've taken up residence on the bathroom floor with an elbow resting on the lip of the tub. For the past half hour or so, she's kept herself entertained with thought-out narratives involving the handful of Barbies that she's just as enthusiastic about now at six as she was at five. It's a passion that hasn't yet died.
"Why is she a superhero, Chels?" I ask.
Chelsea's characters and storylines change so often that it's sometimes impossible to keep up. Her Barbies are always getting into some kind of trouble or acquiring a new job or four. They're high-powered women and nothing stops them, which is the way that I like Chelsea to think. But that still doesn't mean her interwoven tales are in any way cohesive.
"Because she can breathe underwater! Look! Mommy, look!"
Chelsea dunks the blonde doll under the water for a few long seconds, then meets my eyes, waiting for me to be impressed. "Wow," I say. "And she's totally fine under there?"
"Yep!" Chelsea chirps, lifting the doll again. "See? Look! All fine!" The doll's hair is matted around her face, and Chelsea notices. "She has to go to the dolly hair salon," she comments.
The dolly hair stylist on duty, tonight and always, is Jesse. He has more patience for those Barbies than I've ever had. I think he actually enjoys sitting and working their hair into intricate designs. And if he doesn't, he never makes it obvious.
"But I like her anyway, even if she's messy," Chelsea says, setting Superhero/Lawyer Barbie on the edge of the tub next to my arm. "And Vet Barbie likes her, too! And Crossing Guard Barbie. But you know who they don't like, Mommy?" I meet my daughter's eyes. "They don't like Royal Queen Barbie. We don't play with her. Ever."
I'm familiar with Chelsea's arsenal - her favorites, at least. There's Superhero/Lawyer, Vet, Crossing Guard, Singer, Doctor, Teacher, and Artist. But I don't recall seeing any sort of Royal Queen. So, I ask, "Who?"
Chelsea looks at the water and runs her fingers through the suds by her knees. "We don't like her," she says. "She hides under the bed. All my Barbies say she's mean."
Then, I realize. She's talking about the doll that Luke got, the one he bought to try and win her over. And in the moment, it had worked. Now, after some time has passed and Chelsea has gotten a little older, she's clearly still working through it. She's trying to interpret what that gift meant by filtering it through not only what her dolls think, but what I think, too.
"We should sell her to Goodwill!" Chelsea says through Crossing Guard Barbie. "Or I should put her in jail forever!" She lifts up Singer Barbie, who's been submerged for a good while now. "You could make her sign a piece of paper that gets her in trouble!" she says.
"Chels," I say, recognizing all too well the way in which this story is headed. "Was Royal Queen Barbie the one your dad bought for you?"
Chelsea doesn't respond with words - she doesn't need to. She lifts her eyes to mine without moving her head and I know, with that small action alone, that I'm right.
"Don't remember," she murmurs, pushing her dolls through the water. "Look, Mommy. They're swimming."
"Uh-huh," I say, chewing my lower lip. "Babe… you know…" I take a deep breath and try to figure out how to say the words I want, even though I'm not exactly sure what those words are. "Your daddy made a lot of mistakes, but he did love you. He does love you, still. Just because I don't love him anymore doesn't mean that you can't."
Chelsea pats the water with a flat hand and seems to mull over what I've said. When she looks up I assume she's going to comment, but instead she smiles and says, "You don't love him anymore 'cause you love Jesse. Right, Mommy? Lots?"
"Yes, I do," I say, massaging the conditioner into her wet, slicked down hair. "But do you understand what I'm saying? It's complicated, but I want you to know that you don't have to hate him. Your daddy."
"I know."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I like Jesse," she says. "He's way nicer than Daddy. Remember, Mommy? Remember how Daddy was mean?"
"Yes, I remember," I say, pouring a cup of warm water over her head.
"Jesse would never, ever hit you."
"You're right," I say, resigning to the fact that I probably won't get through to her tonight - if at all in the next few years. "But you know what? I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't like remembering that side of your dad."
"That's all I remember," she says, standing up after I unplug the drain. "I remember him shouting and saying bad words. And I cried all the time. Mean Daddy."
"Let's not think about him anymore tonight," I say, bundling her in a towel. "Let's think about something happier. I'm sorry that I brought him up."
"Let's think about dolly salon!" she cheers.
"Did I hear something about the dolly salon?" Jesse says from outside the door. "Are my services needed?"
"Lawyer Superhero Barbie needs you to fix her really bad!" Chelsea says through the closed door. "Help her, Jesse! Once I come out. 'Cause I'm naked right now and Mommy is drying me."
"Mommy could dry you better if you'd stop being a wiggly fish," I say lightly, rubbing her shoulders and torso as she squirms and dances.
"I'm a fish fish fish," she says, smiling as her cute little face peeks through her hooded duck towel. "Quack, quack! I'm a fish that says 'quack.'"
"Then you are one silly fish," I say, picking her up to hold her like a football at my side - something I can still do because she's so petite. "Coming out. Precious cargo in tow."
"I'm cargo!" Chelsea squeals, flailing around as we meet Jesse in the hallway. I set her down and she holds up Superhero Lawyer Barbie, who has definitely seen better days. "Help, help!" she says, raising her voice in pitch to personify the doll. "I need my haircutter!"
"Stylist, at your service," Jesse says, following us into Chelsea's room.
He sits on the end of her small, pink bed and she bounces from foot to foot while standing in front of him. I find a pair of pajamas for Chelsea to wear, but I take my time so I can listen to all she has to say.
"Jesse," she says, placing a hand on either of his knees.
"Chels," he replies, combing Superhero Lawyer Barbie's hair with an impossibly small doll brush. He insists on using it, though, claiming that real brushes rip out too much hair.
"Me and Mommy were talking about you," she says.
He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? Good things, I hope."
"Yeah," she says.
"You wanna elaborate?"
"You like to say big words," she says, grinning.
He touches the end of her nose with the Barbie's messy head. "Elaborate means 'explain,'" he tells her. "It means I'm curious about what you guys were saying about me."
"That you love Mommy and wouldn't ever hit her or say bad words at her or make her cry. Or make me cry, too," Chelsea says, all in one breath. "That you're really nice and she loves you lots."
He smirks, glancing between Chelsea and the doll he's still working on. "Any love from you? Or nah?"
"Me, too!" she sings, then goes quiet for a moment before continuing. "My daddy is my daddy who used to live with me," she begins. "But you live with me now. And Mommy, and our baby."
Chelsea looks over and scampers to me, placing a protective hand on my rounding stomach. I'm almost six months along, and we're expecting a little girl. Chelsea has been brainstorming names since Day 1, but refuses to tell me any of them. I have good reason to believe they all start with B and rhyme with Darby.
"So, you can be my daddy now," she says, a little more subdued. "I want you to be my daddy. I wanna be just like the baby… like I'm all yours and all Mommy's."
Jesse's hands stop moving and he looks at Chelsea with grave sincerity, his brown eyes glistening with feeling. I know that look; he might be about to cry. He always wears his heart on his sleeve - the complete opposite of me.
"Chels, I would love that," Jesse says. "I would love to be your dad."
Chelsea's face lights up and she looks to me with an excited expression. I hadn't realized that I was already smiling, and she takes that as a cue to launch herself into Jesse's arms and wrap her own around his neck as tight as they'll go.
"Now I'm yours, right?" she says, her voice muffled by his neck. Jesse rubs her back with one hand and closes his eyes, keeping her close and savoring the moment. "I'm all yours, and my other daddy gets none?"
I sit on the bed to unfold and refold her pajamas. She untangles herself from Jesse and sits on his lap, facing me and wondering how I'll answer.
"It's not quite that simple," I say.
"Why?"
I inhale deeply. "Well, Chels, your daddy still wants you as his daughter."
"But I don't want him."
I pause, unsure how to navigate this. I truly have no clue at all. "I know," I say, and look to Jesse in hopes that he'll have some wisdom to impart.
Much to my surprise, he stays silent. His eyes are far away now, glazed over with new thoughts that me and Chelsea aren't privy to.
"I want Jesse," she says, solidifying her point by plopping her head down on his chest. After a moment, she looks up at him and asks, "Can I call you 'Daddy'?"
He smiles. "You can call me anything, as long as you don't call me late for dinner."
The joke flies over her head, but she replies anyway. "Can I call you Poop Monkey Fart?"
"Chelsea," I say, scrunching up my face - but at the same time, I'm glad she's gotten herself distracted from the topic at hand. It was getting too heavy for this time of night.
"Let's stick to 'Daddy'," Jesse says. "Or just Jesse, if you don't end up liking the sound of the whole 'Daddy' thing."
"I already do like it," Chelsea says, then looks at me as I hold up her small, green pajamas. "But you have to leave now, Daddy, 'cause I'm gonna be naked again to get into my pajamas."
"Alright," Jesse says, getting up.
"But will you come back in to hug me?"
"Sure," he says.
"And kiss."
"You bet," he says, and I thank him with my eyes.
Ever since Luke's disappearance and the upheaval that followed, Chelsea has been craving a sense of control and a predictable routine. She likes to know when things are happening and in what order, and always wants me to tell her ahead of time when plans change. It's been a little overwhelming to get used to, but it's the least I can do to give her some peace of mind.
I get her into pajamas, comb her hair, and tuck her under the covers. Her eyelids are heavy, and she keeps a good hold on my hand - both of hers clutching it - as her voice gets slower and quieter.
"I got a new Daddy," she whispers. "Means the old one can go away."
Because it's too complicated to get into tonight, and she won't remember this anyway, I say, "Uh-huh."
"Me and you love him, Mommy," she says. "Right?"
"So much."
Chelsea locks eyes with me, then tests out the word. "Daddy," she calls. "Time to come back in."
Jesse appears in the doorway and smiles at both of us. "All tucked in and cozy?" he asks. Chelsea nods and reaches for him, and he leans down to give her a sweet hug and kiss on the forehead. "Sweet dreams, Chelsea-bear."
"Night-night, Daddy," she says. "Sweet dreams, Daddy."
He smiles, clearly enjoying hearing the word as much as Chelsea likes saying it.
I tell Chelsea I love her, kiss her forehead, her nose, and all her fingers, then shut off every light except the one in her closet. I keep the door open a crack, then head downstairs with Jesse at my side.
He's still glowing with the new name Chelsea gave him, but there's something simmering beneath that. I can tell. He doesn't mask his emotions well.
"Jess," I say once we're downstairs. "What's going on?"
He sighs, long and deep, before saying, "I gotta show you something that came in the mail."
Instantly, the change to his tone of voice puts me on edge. While it had been upbeat and lighthearted only a second ago, it's now grave and somber. He's not about to show me a winning lottery ticket, that's for sure.
"Alright…"
He hands over an unopened envelope, but when I see that it's been sent from the courthouse I know enough about the document inside. I barely have any optimism left, but I hold onto what I do have as I slice it open with my thumbnail and pull out the tri-folded piece of paper.
I flatten it out and read the words that I was afraid to see. Luke's restraining order is due to expire in a week.
I close my eyes and try to breathe, but it's not easy. I set the paper on the table and lower into a chair, steadying myself as best as I can. If there hadn't been a chair here, I would have surely fallen to the floor. My hands are shaking so hard that I have to squeeze them together to make it stop.
Jesse notices my state right away as he kneels in front of me, hands on my thighs. "Hey, hey," he says, keeping his voice low and even - what he knows I need. "You're okay. Chelsea's okay. Maybe he doesn't even know."
"He knows," I whisper.
Jesse concedes because he knows I'm right. For a while, he doesn't say anything - I'm not sure what there is to say.
"This doesn't necessarily mean he'll try anything," he finally says, looking straight into my eyes.
He can say that all he wants, and I can nod all I want, but we both know how unlikely it is. It's wishful thinking, sure, but it's also unrealistic.
"We'll be fine," Jesse promises, and I have no choice but to believe him.
…
The next morning, Chelsea is excited for school. I listen in on she and Jesse's conversation upstairs as he helps pick out her clothes, and she comes down a short while later in a denim overall dress with a green turtleneck underneath - adorable, as usual.
"Hey, sweet pea," I say, beckoning her to where I sit on the couch. "I like your dress."
"Daddy picked it!" she says, beaming at Jesse as he sits next to me.
She stands between his parted knees and faces outwards so he'll braid her hair. This is a routine that they've fallen into every morning before school; his skills continue to improve, though they'd been pretty good in the first place. At this point, he's mastered the French braid, the fishtail, the Dutch braid, and the box braid. I keep joking that he should make YouTube tutorials and we could get rich from it.
But tutorial videos aren't what's on my mind this morning. All I can think about is that we're one day closer to the end of the restraining order. I need to get it extended, and eventually renewed indefinitely. But that will involve a hearing, which I'm not strong enough for.
I'm not strong enough for constant worrying, though, so it's a lose/lose situation.
Knowing what I know - that it's getting easier for Luke to touch us - doesn't make me all that keen on sending Chelsea to school today, or any day in the near future. I don't like the idea of her being away from me for seven hours, in a place where I can't keep her safe. I know she's smart and she has great teachers, but I'm her mom. I take care of her best.
"Chels," I say, touching her shoulder. "Are you sure you wanna go to school today? I was thinking about going shopping for Baby Sis. Maybe you should come with."
She turns her head and shoots me a strange, befuddled look. "But Mommy," she says, brunette eyebrows furrowed. "It's my turn to show and share today. I'm bringing Rabby."
"Not the Barbies?" Jesse asks.
She turns to him with a 'duh' look. "They're too special," she says. "And Rabby wants to see my classroom."
I tuck my hair behind my ear and let her words sink in. I don't want to scare her by forcing her to upset her routine. She won't understand, and if I told her the reason, she'd get anxious. Anxious just like me. And I don't want that for her.
Jesse meets my eyes and we communicate without words. He knows why I brought it up; he knows why I don't want her at school. "Sounds like a fun day," he says, keeping his eyes on mine.
"It will be!" she says, bounding away after Jesse secures her French braid. "I'm getting Rabby, then I wanna go!"
I sit on the couch, slumped forward, while Chelsea rummages through the shoe closet. She comes back wearing black ankle boots and does a little spin, and I manage a weak smile - not a big one like I'd normally give her.
"I'll be home to have a snack with you, Mommy," Chelsea says, climbing onto my lap. She kisses my right cheek, then my left, then the tip of my nose. "You don't even have to miss me for that long, okay?"
I nod and give her a good squeeze. "Okay, babe. Sounds good."
"Bye, Baby Sissy!" she says, waving with her palm flat on my belly. "Come on, Daddy, let's go!"
"See you later," Jesse says, planting a kiss on top of my head. Then, he whispers, "You okay?"
I sigh and say, "Yeah. I'll be fine."
…
I try to work on some beats while Jesse is at the office and Chelsea is at school, but I can't get my mind straight. All I can think about is the restraining order. I know there are steps that I can take to get it renewed, but I'm scared to take them. Today, music isn't even helping.
I close my laptop after lunch and take a long, hot shower. I try to clear my mind of everything Luke-related while I'm under the hot water, but by the time I come out, all I want is Chelsea beside me. I don't know why I feel so insecure without her - it might be codependence, it probably is - but I really don't care about the reason. I miss my daughter, and I feel better with her around.
I would never pull her out of school early for my own selfish needs, but that doesn't mean I can't drive to the school and wait in the parking lot until pickup time. So, that's what I do. I sit in the car for over an hour, listening to the most popular radio station while answering emails that could have (and should have) been answered this morning.
Just before 3:30pm rolls around, I pull in front of the school and wait for the first graders to filter out. I crane my neck and look for that head of brunette curls that I love, expecting to see her bounding ahead of her classmates and racing towards the car. But that's not the case.
I barely notice Chelsea because she's fallen towards the back of the group, shoulders turned in and head down, staring at the ground. She's dragging her feet - literally - having lagged behind the rest of the class.
Concerned, I roll down the window and shout to catch her attention. "Chels!" I call. "Chelsea-bear!"
It only takes a moment before she lifts her head. She forces a small smile, then picks up the pace by just a little.
When she makes it to the car, I swivel at the waist and watch her buckle herself into her booster seat. "Hey, babe," I say, reaching to squeeze her knee. "How are you?"
"Good," she says.
"You sure?" I ask. "You hungry? I brought a snack."
She shrugs one shoulder, and my heartbeat quickens. This is how she acted when that little rat Kaleb was hurting her at school - pinching her and shit. I won't let that happen again.
"How was your day?" I ask. "Was it okay?"
"It was good."
"Chels," I say, placing a hand on her knee again. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, Mommy."
"Are you tired?"
She shakes her head no, then leans back in the seat and looks out the window. It's true, she doesn't seem tired. But she doesn't seem like herself, either.
"Do you feel sick?"
"You're asking a million and one questions," she groans, frowning as she keeps her eyes on the window. "Stop, Mommy."
I purse my lips and try to decide what to do. I know she's six and can't formulate her feelings very well, but I also know that something is wrong. I can't figure out a way to get it out of her, though. If I push too hard, she'll clam up tighter - she is my daughter, after all.
"One more," I say. "Can you look at me for it?" She turns her head and blinks slowly, and I smile into those blue eyes that I love. "Is Kaleb hurting you again? I know he switched classrooms, but is he-"
"No," she answers sternly, eyebrows lowering. "I don't see him."
"So, he's not pinching you or pushing you down?"
"I don't even ever see him."
"Okay," I say, turning around to place both hands on the wheel. "Well, let's get going then. Hey," I say, looking in the rearview as I shift the car into drive. "I didn't end up going shopping for the baby today. Do you wanna go together, right now?"
She shakes her head no - something I hadn't expected.
"You don't?"
"I just wanna go home."
"Oh," I say, trying not to show my confusion or disappointment. "Well, that's okay too."
…
Later that night, while I'm making dinner and Jesse is helping Chelsea with a worksheet from school, I hear him ask about the show and share.
"Did everyone freakin' love Rabby?" he asks excitedly.
"I guess," Chelsea says.
"You guess?" he says, trying to get her to liven up. "That's all?"
"I don't know. Can't remember."
"Well, okay," he says. "Understandable. Hold on a sec, though. I'm gonna go grab your bag real quick, 'cause I think we're missing a piece of this packet."
"No!" she says, leaping up from the couch. She says the word with such ferocity that it startles me, and Jesse looks to Chelsea with wide eyes. "No, Jesse," she repeats. "I'll get it."
"Alright," he says, then glances at me. I shake my head to tell him that I'm just as confused as he is, and he tries to shake it off.
Later that night, when Jesse and I are lying in bed staring at the ceiling, he speaks first.
"Did you notice that Chels didn't call me 'dad' once tonight?" he asks. "It was Jesse this and Jesse that, when last night it was all she could say. What's that about?"
I close my eyes for a long moment and say, "I don't know. Something's wrong; something's bothering her."
"Do you think she's picking up on your anxiety?"
I rub my face with both hands, exhausted and wired at the same time. "I don't know," I say again. "I asked her if that kid Kaleb was bothering her again, and she said no. I believe her, too - it really didn't seem like she was covering for him."
I sigh and then concede.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe she is picking up on my stress, and it's weighing on her." I groan and flip onto my side. "Well, great. Now I feel even more like shit."
"It's not your fault," Jesse says, caressing my face while wearing a soft expression. "It'll pass. We're gonna get this figured out."
I close my eyes and exhale loudly. "I wish he'd just disappear," I say. "I'm so tired of being scared all the time."
"I know," Jesse says, moving his hand lower to rub the baby bump between us. "I know."
There's not much more to say. There's no fixing it tonight, and we're both very aware of that. What matters is that he's beside me and not going anywhere, which does make me feel safer than if I were alone.
But the primal feeling of fear in my gut is more powerful than any security blanket. Luke has the power to make me feel more vulnerable than anyone else does - and not in a positive way. He knows me, unfortunately, and knows how to upset me. No matter how diligently I tried to get one step ahead of him when we were together, I never could. And I still feel that way. I still feel like I'm struggling to stay above water, even though he hasn't made any moves that I can see.
It doesn't matter, though, because I can feel them. Like the awareness of not being alone in the dark, or the sensation of someone's eyes on you from across the room.
…
The rest of the week passes a lot like that first day. No matter what I do, I can't get Chelsea out of her shell. She fights me on going to school, which is behavior reminiscent of when Kaleb was mistreating her. But I called her teacher, and there's nothing going on - at least, nothing that she's aware of. She promised to keep a closer eye on my girl, and I trust that she will.
I've had to actively hold myself back from parking across the street from the playground and watching Chelsea at recess. I am not that mom, that helicopter parent, that person who buzzes around their child and doesn't let them live. But she's all I think about - all day, every day. From the moment she leaves to the second I pick her up, I'm worrying. I'm sure it's not improving her morale by much.
It's Saturday when everything comes to a head. Chelsea woke up sunnier than usual, assumedly because it's the weekend and there's no school in sight for the near future. And the feeling is contagious. The house is brighter, there's been a weight lifted from our shoulders; it's like a sigh of relief.
"I missed her laugh," I say to Jesse as he sits at the piano and practices riffs with Chelsea. Mostly, she just plunks on the keys - but she finds it hilarious, so we don't mind. "Thank you."
He tips his face up, and I drop a kiss to his forehead.
"Be back down in a bit," I say, skimming one hand over my stomach. "I'm gonna do a load of laundry."
Both of them nod, and I head upstairs on my own. The baby kicks and I smile to myself, comforted by her presence in the same way I was when Chelsea was growing inside me. It's a strange and surreal feeling, knowing that my body is all this baby has ever known, and all she will know for the next few months. It's just me and her - this is our tightest bonding period.
It was terrifying, carrying Chelsea. Much scarier than it is to carry her sister, because she was my first. And not only that, Luke was never gentle - not even when I was pregnant. I had a nasty fall down the second half of the stairs once due to a firm shove to the shoulders, and I cried for days thinking that I had lost her. I cried again when she finally kicked to let me know that she was okay.
On one hand, I wish I could keep her that close now. But on the other, I love that she's growing into a little independent person - and that I see so much of myself in her.
I walk into Chelsea's room with a laundry basket on my hip, picking up tiny pairs of jeans strewn about the floor, crumpled-up hoodies, and wrinkled t-shirts. It's not so easy to bend at this point, but I'm determined to work through it, even if it puts me out of breath.
I have to get on my hands and knees to grab a sweatshirt from under Chelsea's bed, and when I tug on the pink sleeve, something topples over from further underneath. With my eyebrows furrowed, I lower and squint to see where the ruckus came from - then come across something very odd.
Under Chelsea's bed is a pile of seven or eight unwrapped, brand new, store-bought Barbies. They're shoved about as far as a six-year-old would be able to shove them; had the sleeve of this shirt not been sticking out, I would have never found them.
For a second, all I can do is stare at the strange dogpile, the boxes in different angles stacked on top of each other. Fleetingly, I wonder if Chelsea might be going through a shoplifting phase. But the thought that comes to mind after that - the correct answer - is so much worse.
These are gifts from Luke.
Instantly, I break out in a cold sweat and my face heats up. I wrangle the boxes out from under her bed and try to collect myself before storming downstairs. I'm not angry at Chelsea, and I can't let my emotions take over and make it seem like I am. That's not fair to her, and she doesn't deserve it.
I sigh, understanding now why she hasn't been acting like herself. He's been infiltrating her mind just like he did to me for all those years.
A new sense of rage washes over me. I'm not going to let him continue the cycle. That's the last thing I want to happen, the last thing I'll ever allow. I close my eyes for a long moment and arrange my thoughts into words meant for my daughter. I need to get my mind right before I make any moves.
I walk down the stairs slowly and deliberately, the Barbies stacked precariously in my arms. The stairs are in plain view of the piano, so when the disjointed music stops, I know Chelsea has seen me.
We lock eyes, and as I'm setting the boxes on the coffee table, she bolts up from the piano bench and runs to hide behind the couch, peeking at me over the arm with wide, scared eyes.
"Please, don't be mad, Mommy," she pleads, her voice wobbling.
My stomach sinks. "Baby, I'm not mad," I say.
"Don't be mad, Mommy. Don't be mad, please."
"I'm not," I assure her again, then meet Jesse's eyes. I can tell he's not quite sure what's going on, but he's about to find out. "Can you come out so we can talk?"
She sniffles, sobs, and doesn't move. "Am I in big trouble?" she asks.
"No, honey, you're not in trouble at all," I say. "I just want to talk to you about… I need to hear from you what's been going on."
Slowly, she inches out from behind the couch and over to me. I pull her onto my lap so her legs dangle sideways off of mine, and she stares at her hands while picking at her fingernails.
"Chels," I say, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Who gave you the Barbies that I found under your bed?"
She blinks rapidly, her lips slack and cheeks shiny with tears - old and new. She shrugs minutely and says, "I don't know."
I take a deep breath and say, "I think you do."
She shakes her head, tears coating her eyelashes and making them stick together. "Uh-uh." she says.
"Chelsea," I say gently. "I need you to tell me the truth."
After a moment, she lifts her eyes. They flit back to her hands more than once. "He said not to tell 'cause you don't like him," she whispers, breathing shakily. "He handed them to me through the fence. Every day at lunch recess. Sometimes, he gave me two."
"Your dad?" I ask - just for clarity's sake.
She nods, then looks up with newfound terror in her eyes. "He said you'd be mad. He said you'd be so mad, and I'd get in big, big trouble. So, I had to do it secret and hide them in my bag, then under my bed so you couldn't find them." She starts crying hard, and her little shoulders shake. "But you found them, and now I'm in trouble."
"No," I say, hugging her close and tight. She cries into my neck, and my entire body gets hot with rage. Luke has taken things too far. "You're not in trouble at all, baby, and I love you. It was really brave of you to tell the truth."
"But I didn't for all the days before!"
"But you did today," I say, my lips pressed to her forehead. "That's what matters."
She continues to cry, and I rock her from side to side like I used to do when she was tiny. It doesn't take long for it to soothe her.
So far, Jesse has stayed silent. But I can see in his eyes that he's just as furious as I am. "What are you doing?" he asks as I pull out my phone.
"I'm calling him."
"Bec," he says slowly. "That's not a good idea."
"Why?" I say, finger poised over the green button. "If I don't, what does that tell him? That I'm okay with this, that I'm allowing it?"
"I need you to think rationally for a sec-"
"I'm done with being rational!" I say, raising my voice.
"Mommy!" Chelsea cries, welling up again because I shouted.
Before I can apologize, the doorbell rings. Jesse gets up and extends a flat hand towards me and Chelsea, and I work on comforting her again as he makes his way to the door. I listen to him open it, expecting pleasantries to follow, but they don't.
"What are you doing here?" Jesse asks gruffly. He rarely uses that tone - I've only heard it a handful of times. Immediately, it puts me on edge.
"I'm here to see my daughter," a voice says. Luke's voice.
"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," Jesse says, still stern.
Chelsea grips me with vice-like fingers, tightening her arms around my neck as she wraps her entire body around mine. "No, no, no, Mommy," she whimpers.
"I have a right to my child, don't I?" Luke asks, slippery as ever. "I mean, now that the order is up, I have all the same freedoms that you do. I miss her. Can you blame me? It's been almost half a year."
"She doesn't wanna see you," Jesse says.
Luke scoffs. I hold Chelsea closer. "Do us all a favor, mate," Luke says. "Quit acting like you're her father. Just let me in, alright?"
I can't take it anymore. I get up, carrying Chelsea on my hip, and march towards the door. All the fear I had earlier this week has gone out the window - it's been replaced with unadulterated hatred. "He is her father," I say, jaw set as I look straight into Luke's ice blue eyes - the exact opposite of Jesse's. "He's doing what you never could. He supports her, he loves her… he's raising her, Luke."
"Come on," he says. "Are you trying to say that I don't love my kid?" He laughs humorlessly. "Low blow. Even for you, Bec. You know me better than that."
"I don't know you at all, and I want you to go," I say, trying to keep my voice from wobbling. "Get out."
"Sure," he says. "After I spend some time with my best girl. Wanna play Barbies, Chels? We got a whole new stash to choose from."
"Fuck you," I say, one hand flat in the middle of Chelsea's shoulder blades as she faces behind me. "Fuck you, Luke. I want you to go. Leave, right now."
"Can I get a smile, Chels?" Luke asks, ignoring me entirely - acting like I never even spoke. "Come on, turn around and show me that pretty smile."
Being pregnant and holding a six-year-old don't really go hand-in-hand, and my arms start to slip. Chelsea notices at the same time I do, and subsequently freaks out because of it. In a panic, she glances over her shoulder to see Luke breathing down her neck, though I've tried to get her as far away from him as I can. To get further, though, she reaches for Jesse and desperately murmurs, "Daddy."
Luke's demeanor changes right away. He drops the fake niceness and replaces it with a mean, hard stare. Then, a slow, sickening smile grows on his lips.
"Hold on a second," he says, staring Jesse down. "Daddy?"