Chapter 17: Jam & Tattoo Blueprints
The crash of cymbals was a thunderclap in the small room, a physical shockwave that vibrated up Ana’s arms and rattled her teeth. She brought the stick down again on the crash cymbal, then hammered the snare, the sound a gunshot in the confined space. It wasn’t rhythm. It was chaos. It was glorious.
Nevaieh stood by the amp, a faint smile on her lips, as Ana destroyed the drum kit. She didn’t try to instruct, to correct. She just let the anger pour out of Ana in a torrent of noise. Ana’s shoulders burned with the effort, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. Each brutal strike was a word she couldn’t say to Tia, a feeling she couldn’t articulate about her mother, a fear about this fragile thing blooming between her and the woman leaning against the wall.
Finally, breathless, arms leaden, Ana let the last strike fade into a ringing silence. The stick rolled from her fingers onto the battered floor tom. The quiet that followed was different now. Lighter. Cleansed.
“Feel better?” Nevaieh asked, pushing off the wall.
“My arms are gonna fall off,” Ana panted, but she was smiling, a real one that reached her eyes. “But yeah. A little.”
Nevaieh just nodded, as if she’d expected nothing less. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this dungeon.”
They ended up back at Nevaieh’s penthouse as the first smudges of dawn stained the skyline indigo. The ride up in the elevator was silent, a comfortable exhaustion hanging between them. Ana’s body hummed with a pleasant ache, her mind curiously blank. The high from the studio, the catharsis of the drums—it had left her hollowed out and calm.
Nevaieh keyed them in, the vast space dark and cool. “I’m gonna shower,” she murmured, her voice rough. She touched Ana’s lower back, a fleeting press of fingers, before disappearing down the hall.
Ana wandered into the kitchen, drawn to the wall of glass and the sleeping city below. She leaned on the cool island, watching the few lights still burning. The silence here was rich, not empty. She found a glass, filled it with water from the fridge door, and drank deeply. The water was cold and clean, washing away the taste of dust and spent adrenaline.
She heard the shower stop. Minutes later, Nevaieh emerged, hair damp, wearing only low-slung sweats. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, a sketchbook and a graphite pencil in her hand. She gave Ana a slow, tired smile, but her eyes were alert, focused.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Ana asked softly.
“Ideas,” Nevaieh said simply. She hopped onto a stool at the island, flipped open the sketchbook, and bent her head. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the scratch of pencil on paper.
Ana refilled her glass and came to sit beside her, not too close, just within the sphere of her concentration. She watched Nevaieh’s hand move with a sure, quick grace. Lines emerged from the blank page, forming something delicate, precise. A wing. A curved, needle-like beak. The fierce, blurred suggestion of motion.
A hummingbird. It was caught in mid-flight, its body a dynamo of energy, wings a soft smear of graphite. Beneath it, in Nevaieh’s tight, artistic script, were two words: Te escuché.
I heard you.
Ana’s breath caught. It was a bone-deep echo. Not just of the words growled in the soundproof room, but of the meaning behind them. I hear you. The real you. The angry you. The grieving you. The you that screams in silence.
Nevaieh looked up, her gaze finding Ana’s. She didn’t speak. She just watched her, waiting for a reaction.
“It’s beautiful,” Ana whispered, her throat tight.
Nevaieh nodded, looked back at the sketch, and added a few more shading lines to the bird’s breast. “It’s for you. If you want it.”
The offer hung in the pre-dawn air, immense. It wasn’t a piece of jewelry. It wasn’t a promise spoken aloud. It was a permanent mark. A testament to a moment of being utterly, devastatingly witnessed.
Ana reached for her water glass, needing to do something with her hands. She took a sip, but her throat had closed. The water hit a wall of sudden, inexplicable nausea. She choked, gagging violently, water spilling down her chin. She coughed, setting the glass down with a clatter.
“Whoa, you okay?” Nevaieh was off her stool, a hand on Ana’s back.
Ana nodded, waving her off, but another wave of dry heaves clenched her stomach. She gagged again, nothing coming up but a thin strand of spit. “What the fuck,” she gasped, wiping her mouth, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know… must’ve swallowed wrong.”
She tried again, more cautiously. The water was just water. Cool, clear. But as it touched the back of her tongue, her throat spasmed in revolt. She gagged a second time, turning away from the island to stifle the ugly sound.
Nevaieh’s hand stayed on her back, warm and steady. “Hey. Just breathe. It’s okay.”
Ana leaned over, hands on her knees, waiting for the rebellion in her body to pass. It wasn’t the water. It was everything. The violence of the drums, the tenderness of the sketch, the profound, terrifying vulnerability of being seen so completely. Her body was rejecting it all, trying to purge the overwhelming influx of feeling.
“I’m alright,” she said straightening up, her voice shaky. “Just… weird.”
Nevaieh studied her face, her eyes missing nothing. The panic, the confusion, the residual shock. She didn’t offer false comfort. She just picked up the water glass, walked to the sink, and dumped it out. Then she opened a cabinet, pulled out a can of ginger ale, cracked it open with a quiet hiss, and handed it to Ana.
“Try this. Smaller sips.”
Ana took the can. The bubbles were gentle, the taste mild. She sipped. Her throat accepted it. She took another, deeper breath.
Nevaieh returned to her stool, looking from the flawless sketch of the hummingbird to Ana, pale and clammy, clinging to a can of soda. A soft, almost imperceptible snort of laughter escaped her.
“What?” Ana asked, defensive.
“Nothing,” Nevaieh said, shaking her head, a real smile playing on her lips. “It’s just… I offer to permanently ink your skin with a moment that literally took my breath away. And you’re over there choking on Poland Spring.” She reached out, not for the can, but to brush a strand of hair from Ana’s forehead. Her touch was infinitely gentle. “You’re a fucking trip, Anaijiah.”
Ana looked at the sketch, then at the concern and amusement in Nevaieh’s tired eyes. The hummingbird, frozen in its relentless pursuit. Te escuché. The gagging reflex, her body’s stupid, primal betrayal.
She set the ginger ale down carefully on the polished concrete. She walked around the island to where Nevaieh sat. She placed her hands on Nevaieh’s knees, leaned in, and kissed her. It was slow. Deep. A taste of ginger and salt.
When she pulled back, her voice was steadier than she felt. “Yes.”
Nevaieh searched her face. “Yes to which part?”
“To the tattoo,” Ana said. She brought a hand up, her fingertips tracing the design on the paper. “And to all of it.” She kissed her again, a brief, solid press of lips. “Now take me back to bed. The sun’s coming up.”
Nevaieh looked at the brightening sky, then closed the sketchbook with a definitive snap. She slid off the stool, took Ana’s hand, and led her away from the island, from the drawing, from the empty glass, back into the shadows of the hallway where the day couldn’t reach them yet.
She led Ana back to the rumpled sheets, their sanctuary of tangled limbs and slow breaths. Sleep, when it came, was a deep and dreamless void, a necessary reset for bodies and minds pushed to their raw edges. They didn’t speak, just folded into each other, a silent pact against the coming dawn.
A few hours later, the sun was a brutal, insistent flat against the bedroom windows. Ana stirred, her mouth feeling full of cotton and static. The pleasant ache from the drums had morphed into a general, low-grade misery. She disentangled herself carefully, Nevaieh sighing but not waking, and padded to the en suite bathroom.
The first heave was sudden and violent, a convulsion that bent her over the cool porcelain. Nothing came up but a thin, bitter acid that burned her throat. She spat, flushed, and stood on trembling legs, gripping the sink. Her reflection looked pale, the vibrant peacock on her thigh a stark contrast to her waxy skin. “Get it together,” she whispered to the glass.
She brushed her teeth, the mint a shocking clarity. Maybe she was just hungry. The thought of the sleek, stainless-steel kitchen felt foreign, but her stomach growled in hollow agreement. She needed to ground herself, to prove last night’s gagging was a fluke. She slipped into one of Nevaieh’s discarded shirts and went to forage.
The penthouse was silent, all sharp angles and diffused morning light. She found blueberries in the fridge, plump and promising. She ate three. The sweet burst was familiar, comforting for exactly four seconds.
Then her gut clenched, a swift and vicious fist. She barely made it to the sink, the beautiful, expensive farmhouse sink, before she was vomiting them back up, a pathetic splatter of purple. She ran the water, her eyes stinging with the effort. “What is wrong with me?” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Food poisoning?” Nevaieh’s voice, scratchy with sleep, came from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, her hair a magnificent chaos, watching Ana with an expression that was neither alarm nor pity. It was pure, unvarnished calculation.
“From what?” Ana croaked, straightening up. “We didn’t eat anything. Just studio dust and ginger ale.”
“True.” Nevaieh pushed off the doorframe and walked to the coffee machine, her movements leisurely. She didn’t touch Ana, but her presence was an anchor. “Maybe it’s psychic. Your body rejecting my shitty family commentary.”
Ana managed a weak laugh that turned into another dry heave. She leaned her forehead against the cabinet. “Stop making me laugh. It’s a hazard.”
Nevaieh didn’t laugh back. The machine grumbled and hissed. The rich, dark scent of coffee filled the air, usually a comfort, but now it coiled in Ana’s stomach like a threat. “When was your last period?” Nevaieh asked. Her voice was casual, as if asking about the weather.
The question hung in the aromatic air. It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t freighted with hope or dread. It was simply a logical, mechanical inquiry. A data point.
Ana froze, her forehead still pressed to the cool wood. Her mind scrolled back through the whirlwind—meeting Nevaieh, the penthouse, the pool, the studio, the drums. The constant, low-grade stress of Tia, of bills, of just holding her life together. She counted weeks. Then she counted again, her blood going cold, then hot.
“No,” she said, to the cabinet, to herself. “It’s stress. It’s all the… the everything.” She finally turned to look at Nevaieh, seeking confirmation, a shared dismissal of the impossible.
Nevaieh was pouring a single mug of coffee, her profile unreadable. She took a slow sip, then set the mug down with a definitive click. She finally met Ana’s wide, frightened eyes. “You threw up after water, Ana. You just puked up three blueberries.” She stated it flatly, a detective laying out evidence. “I’m not saying it’s that. But the math… it’s math.”
The room seemed to tilt. The beautiful, minimalist space felt like a trap. Ana’s hand drifted unconsciously to her lower stomach, a place she never thought about. The phantom weight of it was suddenly immense, terrifying.
Nevaieh saw the gesture. She crossed the space in three long strides, not to embrace her, but to stand close, her voice dropping to a low, steady murmur. “Hey. Look at me.” Ana did. “We don’t know anything. We need a test. That’s all. Just information.”
“A test,” Ana repeated, the word alien and clinical.
“Yeah. I’ll go get one. Or ten.” A flicker of that familiar, wry humor touched Nevaieh’s lips, but her eyes were serious, intent. “You should probably stay here. Near the, uh.” She nodded toward the sink.
The normalcy of the next step was somehow the most surreal part. A errand. A purchase. A plastic stick that would hold an answer capable of splitting the world into a before and an after. Ana nodded, unable to form words.
Nevaieh grabbed her keys from the bowl on the island, her movements efficient, focused. She paused at the door, looking back at Ana, who stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen, bathed in accusatory sunlight. “Don’t disappear,” Nevaieh said, and it wasn’t a command. It was a request, faintly layered with a fear of its own.
Then she was gone. The door clicked shut. The silence she left behind was absolute, a vast, humming void filled only with the echo of her question and the terrible, twisting calculus now alive in Ana’s body. She stood there, waiting, one hand still pressed against her silent, traitorous stomach.
The silence of the penthouse became a palpable thing, a thick gel slowing her thoughts. She could hear the distant hum of the elevator shaft, the faint pulse of her own blood in her ears. Her hand remained on her stomach, as if holding in a secret, or holding back a tide.
The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet. She walked to the sofa and sat, then stood immediately, too restless to be still. She paced to the wall of windows, the sprawling city below oblivious. A fly buzzed against the glass, a trapped, frantic thing. She watched its doomed flight.
Nevaieh was gone maybe twenty minutes. It felt like twenty hours. Each minute stretched, a rubber band tightening around her ribs. She tried the ginger ale again. A single sip. Her throat tightened, but she fought the gag reflex, swallowing it down like medicine.
When the key turned in the lock, Ana jumped. The sound was abnormally loud. Nevaieh pushed the door open with her hip, a plain plastic drugstore bag dangling from her fingers. She looked at Ana, took in her pacing, her posture, and didn’t say a word. She just walked to the kitchen island and set the bag down with a soft crinkle.
“They had a three-pack,” Nevaieh said, her voice carefully neutral. She pulled out the boxes, lining them up on the concrete like surgical instruments. “Figured… options.”
Ana approached slowly, as if the boxes were live animals. The branding was stupidly cheerful, all soft fonts and pastel colors. A paradox. She picked one up. The instructions were a dense block of text. Wait for the result. As if you could do anything else.
“You need to… you know,” Nevaieh said, nodding toward the bathroom.
“I know how it works,” Ana snapped, the fear sharpening her voice. She regretted it instantly.
Nevaieh didn’t flinch. “Okay.” She popped the cap off a bottle of water she’d also bought and placed it next to the tests. “I’ll be right here.”
It was the only thing she could have said that didn’t make it worse. Not ‘good luck,’ not ‘it’ll be fine.’ Just I’ll be here. Ana took the top box and the water, her fingers cold and clumsy. The hallway to the bathroom felt miles long.
She closed the door and locked it. The click was final. She was alone with the plastic stick, with her own hummingbird heart. She read the directions twice, her eyes skimming the words without comprehension. The process was absurdly simple. Pee on the stick. Wait. A ritual older than time, now packaged in sterile plastic.
Her hands shook as she fumbled with the wrapper. The test itself was innocuous, a white plastic wand with a little window. She set it on the edge of the black marble sink. The contrast was severe. She drank the water, forcing it down, waiting for the dull pressure in her bladder.
When it came, she moved on autopilot. She hated the sound, the vulnerability of it in the silent, echoing room. She placed the stick on a square of toilet paper, careful not to drip on Nevaieh’s perfect floors. She set a timer on her phone for three minutes.
Then she stood back, arms crossed tightly over Nevaieh’s shirt. She watched the little window. A pink line appeared immediately in the control line, bold and confident. See, it seemed to say, I work. The other side remained blank, a stark white desert.
The seconds ticked. She stared so hard her vision blurred. She thought of the soundproof booth, the music thundering in her ears, Nevaieh’s hands on her. She thought of the drums, the cathartic violence of it. She thought of the hummingbird, forever in flight.
One minute. The white space held its breath.
Her phone timer buzzed, a violent jangle in the quiet. She snatched it to silence it. Her eyes darted back to the stick. And there, faint but undeniable, a second pink line was emerging. It grew stronger as she watched, solidifying into a parallel truth beside the first.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
The word didn’t come to her mind. Instead, a sensory overload blanked everything out. The air left the room. The sharp, clean lines of the bathroom melted into a watery blur. A high-pitched whine, like studio feedback, filled her ears. She gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles bleaching white against the black stone.
She unlocked the door. The mechanism sounded distant. She walked back down the hall, the test held limply in her hand. She felt detached, floating above her own body.
Nevaieh was where she’d left her, leaning against the island, phone dark beside her. She looked up, and her whole body went still, reading the story on Ana’s face before her eyes even dropped to the stick.
Ana held it out, a mute offering. Nevaieh took it, her fingertips brushing Ana’s. She looked down. Her expression didn’t collapse. It didn’t soar. It just… settled. Her shoulders dropped a quarter-inch. She breathed out, a long, slow exhale.
“Well,” Nevaieh said finally, her voice rough. She set the test carefully on the counter. The two pink lines stared up at them. “Fuck.”
The simplicity of the word broke the spell. A sound escaped Ana’s throat, something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah,” she whispered, her own voice unfamiliar. “Fuck.”
Nevaieh looked at her, really looked at her. “Okay,” she said, and it wasn’t an acceptance, it was an assessment. “You’re white as a sheet. Come sit down before you fall down.”
She guided Ana to the sofa. Ana’s legs obeyed, feeling like unbaked dough. Nevaieh sat beside her, not touching, leaving a careful inch of space between them. The city light poured over them, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
“What do you feel?” Nevaieh asked. Not what do you think. Not what do we do.
“I don’t know,” Ana said, and it was the truest thing. A hysterical thought bubbled up. “I gagged on water. That’s how I found out. How fucking cliché is that?”
A real smile, small and worn, touched Nevaieh’s lips. “Not cliché. Just biology being a dramatic asshole.” She paused, her gaze dropping to Ana’s stomach, then back to her eyes. “It’s ours. From that first night. In the water.”
It wasn’t a question. Ana nodded, the memory of the warm pool, the weightlessness, the feeling of Nevaieh’s mouth on her skin flashing through her with a new, terrifying clarity. “Yeah.”
Nevaieh nodded too, as if filing the fact away. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and ran her hands through her hair. The gold nose ring glinted. “Alright. So. We’re having a baby.” She said it to the floor, testing the shape of the words.
The sentence hung in the air between them, vast and impossible. It had no frame of reference. It belonged to other people, people with plans and spare rooms and stable families. Not to them. Not in a penthouse bought with rock-and-roll money, with a studio full of broken drums and a lifetime of running from different kinds of ghosts.
Ana looked at Nevaieh’s profile, the tense line of her jaw, the tattoos creeping up her neck. She thought of the hummingbird sketch, the promise of permanent flight. Te escuché.
“Nevaieh,” Ana said, her voice barely a scratch.
Nevaieh turned her head. Her eyes were dark, wide open, holding a storm of questions and no easy answers.
Ana reached out, her hand finding Nevaieh’s where it rested on her own knee. She laced their fingers together, the calluses on Nevaieh’s palm familiar and rough. “I’m scared shitless.”
Nevaieh’s hand tightened around hers. The pressure was an anchor. “Me too,” she admitted, the confession quiet in the sunlit room. She brought their joined hands to her lips and pressed a kiss to Ana’s knuckles. “But you’re not alone in it.”
She stood up, pulling Ana gently to her feet. “First, we’re getting you some real food. Something that stays down.” She kept hold of her hand, leading her toward the kitchen, away from the test on the counter, toward the mundane, necessary next thing. “Then… we figure out the next next thing.”