Dancer Read Free Page B

our fun date that consisted of dinner at a nice restaurant and visiting a historical museum.
    In other words, we never engaged in a 'quickie'.
    Caleb, twenty-three, had a taste for fine urban culture, one of his qualities that impressed me when we first met.
    That was before I learned of his bad qualities.
    At nearly ten o' clock at night, we lurked in front of my parents' two-story brick home. Caleb's sleek, black sports car was parked at the curb.
    Caleb's tall, narrow frame was hidden in shadows while I peered up, unable to read his expression. He gently cradled my face between his palms.
    Struck by a sensation of drifting, falling, I couldn't stop that hideous descent. Couldn't stop myself from falling, once again, for a man who mistreated me in the past.
    Fool me once. Fool me twice. Blah, blah, blah. Fuck me; fuck my weakness and my stupidity.
    At least he made me forget—about The Dancer.
    Caleb's lips crushed mine in a heart-stopping kiss. I trembled when his hand inched up my shirt. I wanted to slap his wandering hand, his caressing fingers. Couldn't find the strength.
    Someday I would. Someday...
    Our steamy kiss drew to a conclusion and his stony, intense eyes pierced like daggers. Pierced like his long-ago cruel words. 
    "Still love you, Sammy."
    His cold expression didn't match his tender words. Four simple words that sent me into a tailspin of crazy.
    And I wished he'd stop calling me that goddamn name.
    Flustered, I broke from his arms and bolted to the front door, slamming it behind me.
    I heard the humming of an engine, screeching tires as Caleb's car pealed from the curb.
    Pressing my backside flat against the door, I tried to catch my breath, tried to make sense of these last four hours spent with Caleb. Trying to understand why I found myself drawn to him or why I enjoyed his company—despite his propensity for abusive behavior.
    Caleb Brown. A puzzle whose motivations I couldn't possibly figure out.
    'Still love you, Sammy.' His alluring words echoed through my troubled brain—and wouldn't shut the fuck up.
    Must. Resist. The temptation. To believe. 
    However, my intense loneliness wouldn't allow it. I believed what I wanted to believe and this meant buying empty promises and lies.
    * * * *
    A s the days wore on, the more confused I became.
    No. I hadn't smoked weed in a whole week. My confusion and mind fog originated from a different source; that much I knew.
    Caleb called every few days, although we hadn't set up another date.
    Didn't matter. There were other things on my mind.
    Mind fog was one thing. What really pissed me off? My clothes no longer fit and I was reduced to wearing dreaded elastic .
    Lovely.
    Why had I gained weight? I wasn't eating more than usual. Frustrated as hell, I felt like taking my clothes and hurling them out the bedroom window.
    Not wanting to face the most obvious explanation, I buried certain clues inside the darkest pit of my mentality.
    I couldn't pretend for long. Time had a way of catching up and I was no exception to this awful rule.
    Therefore, four or five weeks after my disastrous one-night stand, I bought a pregnancy test at the local Wal-Mart.
    At this precise second, on the floor with my back to the wall, I stared at the pink stick on the bathroom sink. This tiny stick would seal my fate.
    From my viewpoint I couldn't see results. I prayed and prayed this test wouldn't show the second line.
    And these seconds trickled by at an agonizing pace. My heart—on the other hand—pumped a swift rhythm.
    God please don't let it be positive. I'm gonna go insane before this shit's over.
    Time to look.
    I clambered to my feet and steeled myself. Pink substances flowed through the final test window.
    I had my answer.
    Legs weakening, I sank to a seated position, absently drew my knees to my chin and hugged them.
    I knew it. I knew it. A baby in eight months. A baby I'm not ready for. A baby I don't want, fathered by a guy who didn't want me. Or his wife,