Page 19 of First Comes Forever

I raise a brow at her. “You’d rather be homeless than take my condo?”

She cups her hand over the key in front of her. “No.” Sliding her hand to the edge of the table, she makes the key disappear into her clutch. “Actually, at this point, good luck getting rid of me.”

I point to her clutch. “Amani, that key is conditional.”

Now she looks a little concerned. “On what?”

“Tell me what you meant by the baby thing earlier. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

She shrivels in her seat a little, then says, “Adam—”

I continue before she can cut me off again. “I know someone who lost a baby. It was incredibly painful, and they didn’t tell anyone. Not a damn word. Years later, they told me they probably would’ve healed faster if they could’ve talked about it. So I’m offering.”

She’s quiet for a long time, and maybe I went a step too far. Maybe she won’t forgive me for prying. But I—

“It’s not a big deal,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. “I’ve been trying artificial insemination for over half a year. I thought it finally stuck, but it was a faulty pregnancy test. That’s it. I don’t have an impressively tragic story, just my body isn’t doing what I want it to and my doctor basically told me I’m beating my head against a brick wall.” She takes a sip of her water, probably thinking I don’t notice her hand slightly shaking. “He asked me to stop torturing myself for a few months.”

“Artificial insemination?”

“Yes.”

I squint at her. “You were going to have a baby with a stranger? Why wouldn’t you want to bring a baby into a family?”

“Actually, my setup with Donor 00429310 would’ve been a lot like my parents’ marriage. He won’t help with child support, but I also don’t have to cook for him or put out.” She flashes me that goofy smile again, which is quickly becoming my favorite smile in the world. “So it’s my parents’ relationship to a tee.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Mhmm…”

“But I’ll bite because now I’m curious. What happened with your parents? Divorced?”

Amani pops her shoulders. “My dad doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“Huh?”

“Did you know that Amani is an Arabic name?”

I shake my head. “No, I did not.” I know her name sounds like a song, but I had no idea the cultural background.

“I’m named after my grandmother, who also doesn’t know I exist. My dad is from Saudi Arabia. He was studying in the United States when he met my mom. From what I understand, it was pretty much love at first sight for both of them. They spent two of his semesters just being happy…and lying their asses off of course. His family thought he was buried in textbooks, but instead…” She laughs, not finishing her joke, which no doubt was “buried in my mom.”

I study Amani’s features and kick myself for not seeing it before. I’ve only ever noticed her freckles and bright green eyes. But now I scroll over her face, noticing her distinct cheekbones, and even though she’s fair-skinned, her olive undertones are apparent. Or maybe I’m making this up because it’s only adding to the narrative that this is by far the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.

“So why doesn’t your dad know you’re alive?”

“My mom is American and agnostic.” Amani raises her brows. “And was a little wild. Back then, if she could’ve made a tent at Coachella her permanent home, she would’ve. No way his family would’ve accepted her even if she was willing to convert. My dad had a family business and an arranged marriage set up for him after college. When he left, he had no idea she was pregnant. My mom was only nineteen.”

There’s an odd smile on Amani’s face as she stares across the restaurant. Pride mixed with pain.

“And she kept you?”

She turns to face me, scrunching her face like I said something ridiculous. “Of course she did.She wanted me.I was conceived out of love. It didn’t last, but it was real. My mom says she loved himsomuch, she had no choice but to let him go.”

“Wow, what a happy ever after,” I say sarcastically. “Leaving a nineteen-year-old to have a baby by herself.”

She holds my gaze warningly, like I said something offensive. “I grew up really happy, okay? Sure, we were dirt poor, but it made me appreciate what I have now.”

That warning flash in her eyes tells me to back the fuck off, so I change the subject before I’m tempted to investigate more into her childhood. I can’t seem to help it around Amani. I have met so many women in L.A. and they usually fall into two categories. I feel guilty admitting that dating feels like Groundhog Day—always one of two narratives. Either they were born and raised amongst the glitz and glam and are accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Or they were raised on the outside looking in and moved to L.A., chasing after the aforementioned glitz and glam. But somehow Amani seems disinterested in what I do and who I know. It’s refreshing.

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