Chapter 11: Drive Home
The silence in the Rolls was a living thing. It wasn’t the cold, empty silence of the past month. This was thick, charged, like the air before a summer storm—full of things unsaid, plans unmade, a future taking amorphous shape between them. Nya stared out the window at the blur of downtown giving way to her tree-lined neighborhood. The scent of his cologne, usually a comfort, felt like a territorial claim.
Darius drove with one wrist draped over the steering wheel, his eyes flicking to her reflection in the glass every other block. She looked carved from marble, beautiful and remote. He hated it. He wanted to pull over, to shake her, to kiss her until that careful composure shattered. But he’d given his word. Brick by brick. No overwhelming her. It felt like trying to build a house while wearing boxing gloves.
He pulled up to the curb outside her brownstone. The engine settled into a near-silent purr. She unclipped her seatbelt, the sound stark in the quiet.
“I’ll have the realtor pull listings for houses in Buckhead, maybe out toward Decatur. Good schools. Yards.” His voice was low, practical. “You can review them this week.”
Nya’s hand paused on the door handle. She didn’t turn. “I don’t want a penthouse, Darius.”
He looked at her profile. “I heard you. A neutral place. We’ll find a condo, something—”
“No.” She finally turned, her light brown eyes meeting his in the dim cabin light. “I don’t want another apartment. I don’t want a secured building with a concierge and a rooftop pool.” She took a breath, her voice softening with a vulnerability that speared him. “I want a real house. One with… with a porch. And trees. And a kitchen with a window over the sink where I can watch my kid play in a yard. A real house. One I can raise our baby in.”
The words hung there, painting a picture so domestic, so fundamentally opposite to his life of neon and velvet ropes, it momentarily stunned him. A porch. A yard. He saw it instantly, vividly: her, slightly older, smiling from a window; a small, blurry figure tumbling in grass. His figure, maybe, grilling something in the background. The image didn’t frighten him. It settled in his chest with a rightness that was terrifying.
“Okay,” he said, the word leaving him on an exhale.
“Okay?” She searched his face, looking for the trap, the ulterior motive.
“Yeah, Mama. Okay.” A slow, genuine smile touched his lips, surprising them both. “A house. With a yard. I like that idea better anyway.” It was an understatement. He loved it. It was a foundation you couldn’t get from a condo. It was permanent.
She nodded, seemingly disarmed by his easy agreement. “Okay. Good.” She pushed the door open. “Goodbye, Darius.”
“Friday. Ten a.m. I’ll be here at nine-thirty.”
“I remember.” She slid out, closing the door with a soft, solid thud.
He watched her walk up the three short steps to her front door, the curve of her hips in her jeans, the set of her shoulders. She was carrying his child. She was going to live in a house with him. And she was walking away from his car like he was a rideshare driver. The contradiction was maddening. He wanted to follow her up those steps. He wanted to argue about paint colors and school districts. He wanted to feel the baby kick. He wanted to sleep in the same bed, to wake up to her morning nausea and hold her hair back.
He watched the porch light flick on, then off as she disappeared inside. The dark doorway felt like a rejection.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. The leather creaked. This was the plan. Give space. Build slowly. Be clinical.
“Fuck that,” he muttered to the empty car.
The plan was stupid. The brick-by-brick approach was for businesses, not for this. Not for her. He needed leverage. He needed an ally. And he needed to see that look on her face again, the one she’d had in his office when she talked about a porch. Before she’d locked it away.
He threw the car into drive, pulled a sharp, illegal U-turn, and parked right behind a hydrant three feet from her steps. He was out of the car and taking those steps two at a time before his rational mind could catch up.
He knocked. Not his usual authoritative rap, but something firmer than a request.
She opened the door a moment later, still in her jacket, her eyebrows raised in surprise and annoyance. “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah. Pass.” He shouldered his way gently past her, into the warm, cinnamon-scented chaos of her living room. Camera equipment was stacked near the sofa, a half-knitted blanket draped over a chair, recipe books fanned across the coffee table.
“Darius, what are you doing? You can’t just—”
“We’re telling Mom-Dukes. Now.”
She froze, closing the door slowly. “Right now? It’s almost eight.”
“She’s up. She’s always up. Watching her stories or planning world domination.” He paced the small space, energy crackling off him. “You said we should tell her together before she figures it out. You’re right. Every day we wait is a day she’s sniffing around, and she will figure it out. She smelled your heartbreak through the phone lines last month. She’ll smell this.”
Nya hugged herself. “I’m tired. I’m not… prepared.”
“There’s no preparing for my mother. We go. We tell her. We get it over with. It’s the next logical step.” He stopped pacing and looked at her, his intensity softening a fraction. “And then you can rest. I promise.”
She studied him, seeing the restless determination, the edge of something that looked like fear beneath it. He needed this. Maybe she did, too. Maybe making it real to someone else would make it feel less like a dizzying dream.
“Fine. But I’m not changing.”
“You’re beautiful. Let’s go.”
Mom-Dukes lived in a historic Craftsman in West End, a house Darius had bought for her five years ago that she’d promptly filled with riotous colors, loud art, and the constant smell of stewing greens. The porch light was on.
Darius didn’t bother knocking. He walked in, Nya trailing reluctantly behind him. “Ma!”
“In the kitchen, boy! And wipe your feet! I just mopped!”
They found her at the stove, stirring a large pot, a reality show playing on a small countertop TV. Joyce Blackwood was a force—tall, regal, with the same slanted eyes as her son and a presence that commanded every room. She took one look at the pair of them, her spoon hovering.
“Well. This is a sight. The ghost and the griefer. Together again.” Her gaze sharpened, moving from Darius’s set jaw to Nya’s pale, nervous face. “Either somebody died, or somebody’s ’bout to.”
“We need to talk to you,” Darius said, guiding Nya to a stool at the kitchen island.
“Obviously. You look like you’re here for an intervention. Nya, baby, you want some tea? You look peaky.”
“No, thank you, Ms. Joyce.”
“Suit yourself.” Joyce turned the fire off and came to lean against the opposite counter, crossing her arms. “Alright. Spill.”
Darius took a breath. He reached for Nya’s hand on the countertop, covering it with his own. It was a gesture of solidarity, but also a claim. She didn’t pull away. “Nya’s pregnant.”
The words landed in the cozy kitchen. Joyce’s face went utterly still for three full seconds. Then her eyes, wide and disbelieving, dropped to Nya’s stomach, then flew back to her son’s face. A slow, radiant smile broke through, transforming her features. She clapped her hands together once, a sound of pure delight.
“Praise Jesus! Finally!” She surged forward, pulling Nya off the stool and into a crushing hug. “Oh, my baby! A baby!” She rocked her, laughing, then released her to smack Darius hard on the arm. “You! I knew you weren’t that stupid! I knew it!” She was crying and laughing, hugging Nya again. “How far? Are you sick? Do you need anything? Darius, what are you doing for her?”
Nya, overwhelmed by the sudden, unreserved joy, felt her own tears spring up. “Six weeks, Ms. Joyce. Just a little morning sickness. We’re… we’re figuring it out.”
“We’re looking for a house,” Darius said, a note of pride in his voice. “With a yard.”
“A house! Yes! Good!” Joyce finally stepped back, wiping her eyes with the hem of her apron, beaming at both of them. “This is the best news. The absolute best. My grandbaby. Oh, we have to plan! Shower, the nursery, everything!” Her eyes narrowed playfully at Darius. “And you. You better be putting a ring on it now. No more of this best friend foolishness. You hear me?”
The air in the kitchen shifted, cooling several degrees. The joyous bubble popped.
Darius’s grip on Nya’s hand tightened. Nya gently extracted her fingers.
“Ma,” Darius said, his voice careful. “That’s the other thing.”
Joyce looked between them, her smile fading into confusion. “What other thing? What’s wrong?”
Nya found her voice, soft but clear. “The baby… it’s a blessing. We’re both committed to that. But Darius and I… we’re not… we’re not a couple.”
Joyce stared. “What does that mean, ‘not a couple’? You’re having a child together.”
“It means we’re co-parenting,” Nya said, the clinical term feeling flimsy under Joyce’s penetrating gaze. “We’re going to raise the baby together, in the same house, but we’re not… together. Romantically.”
Joyce turned her laser focus to her son. “Darius.”
It was a single word, heavy with demand.
His jaw worked. He looked at Nya, a flash of raw want and frustration in his eyes so potent it heated the room, before turning back to his mother. “It’s complicated, Ma.”
“It’s not complicated to me. You love this girl. You’ve loved her since you were teenagers pulling stupid schemes. You’re having her child. What is complicated?”
“She doesn’t want that,” he said, the words sounding ripped from him.
“I didn’t say that,” Nya whispered, stung.
“You said you couldn’t handle my intensity. You said you needed space. You said you didn’t want to be a checkbox.” He was listing their office argument in front of his mother, his voice low and heated. “That sounds like ‘don’t want’ to me.”
“I want you to choose me! Not the baby!” Nya fired back, the fatigue making her sharp.
“I AM!” he roared, the sound echoing in the tiled kitchen. He took a step toward her, then checked himself, running a hand over his locs. He lowered his voice, but it was no less intense. “I am choosing you. Every damn day I’m choosing you. The house, the appointments, the… the fucking prenatal vitamins. That’s me choosing you. What the hell else do you call it?”
“I call it duty!” Nya shot back, tears streaming now. “I call it obligation! I call it you being a good soldier for your kid! Where’s the part where you choose me, Nya, the woman you hurt, the woman you took for granted? Where’s the romance in that, Darius? Where’s the fight for us, not just the family unit?”
They were chest-heaving, inches apart, the old wound gaping open and raw in his mother’s kitchen.
Joyce watched them, her initial confusion giving way to a deep, knowing sadness. She slowly moved to her pot, giving them a moment, the pretense of busywork.
Darius looked down at Nya, his eyes dark pools of torment. “You want flowers? You want dates? You want me to crawl? I’ll do it. But it’s gonna look like me making sure you eat. It’s gonna look like me reading baby books at three a.m. because you’re asleep. It’s gonna look like me working triple time to make sure that house is perfect and secure. My love isn’t a separate thing from my duty, Nya. Not for you. It’s all the same. It’s all for you.”
The silence after his words was deafening. Nya stared at him, seeing the truth of it etched in the tension around his eyes. This was his language. This was how he loved. With actions, with provision, with relentless, practical care. It wasn’t the sweeping, apologetic romance she’d dreamed of. It was brick and mortar. It was a foundation.
Joyce turned around, leaning back against the stove. “He’s telling the truth, baby,” she said softly to Nya. “Always has. His way is hard. It’s stubborn. It infuriates me most days. But it’s solid.” She looked at her son. “But, boy, you have to say the words sometimes. You have to get down in the dirt of it and say ‘I was wrong, I was scared, I’m sorry.’ You can’t just build a castle and expect her to know it’s all for her. She’s not one of your nightclub blueprints.”
Darius swallowed, his gaze locked on Nya. The fight seemed to drain out of him, leaving a weary vulnerability. “I’m… trying.”
Nya wiped her cheeks. The emotional whiplash was exhausting. “I know.”
Joyce sighed, a long, world-weary sound. “So. You’re not a couple. But you’re having a baby. And you’re buying a house. And you’re… what? Roommates?”
“Co-parents,” they said in unison, the term now sounding hollow even to their own ears.
Joyce just shook her head, a small, resigned smile on her lips. “Alright. Well. My grandbaby is loved. That’s the headline. The rest…” She waved a hand dismissively. “The rest is your mess to figure out. Just don’t take too long. Babies have a way of speeding up time.” She moved to Nya, cupping her face. “You’re family. Always have been. Now you’re the mother of my grandchild. Anything you need. You call me. Even if it’s to curse him out. You hear?”
Nya nodded, fresh tears welling. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Joyce turned to Darius, poking him in the chest. “And you. Drive careful. Take her home. And for God’s sake, learn some words.”
The ride back to Nya’s apartment was quiet again, but the silence had changed once more. It was filled with his mother’s blessing, with the echo of his raw confession, with the staggering reality of the path they were on. He pulled up to her curb again.
“Nine-thirty,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“I know.” She got out, but before she closed the door, she leaned down. “Darius?”
He looked at her.
“Thank you. For telling your mom. And… for the house. The real one.”
He gave a single nod. “Friday, Mama.”
She closed the door and walked inside. This time, he didn’t watch her go. He put the car in drive and pulled away, his mother’s words ringing in his ears. Learn some words. He had a foundation. Now he needed to learn how to build a home.
Now he needed to learn how to build a home. His first lesson was silence. The kind that didn’t punish. He didn’t call. He texted. A link to an article about folate. A simple ‘Which ones?’ followed by a photo of three premium prenatal vitamin brands lined up on a glass countertop.
The one on the left. The others make me gag just looking at the bottles. Her reply was immediate, practical.
Done. He responded. An hour later, a delivery concierge left the chosen vitamins, a case of expensive alkaline water, and a box of bland, organic ginger crackers at her door.
The meals started the next day. Precisely at 8:15 a.m., 12:30 p.m., and 7:00 p.m., a insulated bag from Giovanni’s appeared on her welcome mat. Soft scrambled eggs with chives. Plain orzo with a whisper of butter. Roasted chicken so tender it fell apart. He was applying the logic of a siege, but his weapons were nutrients and consistency.
Her texts were a barometer of her day. Ate the eggs. Held them down. He’d stare at the message, a stupid sense of victory swelling in his chest. Or, Don’t send the salmon again. The smell made me throw up in the sink. He’d forward that to Giovanni immediately, his brow furrowed as if she’d reported a security breach.
He checked in constantly. How’s the fatigue? Any cramping? Did the crackers help? As long as it was about the baby or the pregnancy, she responded, her texts clipped but cooperative. If he strayed—What are you watching? or The club is dead without you—his messages would be met with a void. The silence was a clear, cold boundary. He learned to stay within the lines.
Friday arrived, a palpable shift in the atmosphere. He was at her door at 9:28 a.m., leaning against the frame of his Rolls. She emerged looking deliberately casual in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun. She looked young and tired and beautiful. He opened the passenger door without a word.
The clinic was all soft lighting and muted earth tones, a stark contrast to his usual environments. The air smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. He filled out the paperwork for her, his large hand scribbling in the tiny boxes: Father. He didn’t hesitate.
A nurse called her name. They were led to a dim, cold room dominated by a large exam table and a sophisticated-looking machine with a monitor. The nurse handed Nya a flimsy gown. “Everything off, open in the front. The doctor will be in shortly.”
The nurse left. The silence in the room was clinical, heavy. Darius didn’t move toward the door. He simply turned his back, examining a laminated poster detailing fetal development week by week. He heard the rustle of fabric, the slide of her jeans, the soft click of her bra clasp. He kept his eyes fixed on the image of a twelve-week fetus, his heart pounding a slow, thick rhythm in his ears.
She settled onto the crinkling paper of the table. “Okay.”
He turned. She was swimming in the gown, her knees pressed together, looking small and exposed. He pulled the single guest chair close to the head of the table, not the foot. He sat, his knee almost touching the metal frame. A silent offer of presence, not scrutiny.
Dr. Evans entered with a warm, brisk energy. “Nya! Good to see you. And you must be Dad.” She shook Darius’s hand, her grip firm. She began firing questions while tapping on a tablet.
“Any bleeding or spotting?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Constant. It’s worse in the evenings.”
“Managing to keep anything down?”
“Some. Mostly bland carbs.”
“Energy levels?”
“Nonexistent. I nap twice a day.”
Darius listened, his body still. He catalogued it all. The ‘constant’ nausea she’d downplayed to him. The ‘nonexistent’ energy. He stored each detail like a piece of intelligence, a fact to be addressed later.
“And any history of miscarriage? PCOS? Endometriosis?”
Nya’s voice tightened slightly. “No. None.”
“Excellent. Let’s get a look then.” Dr. Evans pulled on gloves. “We’ll do a quick pelvic exam first, then the ultrasound.”
Nya’s eyes flickered shut. She hated these. The cold speculum, the intrusive pressure, the sheer vulnerability. She felt the doctor’s touch, the cold glide of lubricant. She focused on a crack in the acoustic tile ceiling.
Darius watched her face. He saw the slight flinch, the minute tightening around her mouth. His own stomach clenched in a sympathetic curl of anger—not at the doctor, but at the entire violating process. He wanted to block it, to stop it. His hand tightened on the arm of the flimsy chair.
“All done,” Dr. Evans said kindly, removing her gloves. “You can scoot down a bit. Let’s meet your baby.”
The gel was warmer than Nya expected. The transducer pressed low on her abdomen. The screen was a swirl of grainy black and white static, shapes moving in a chaotic ocean. Darius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his entire world narrowing to that screen.
A rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh suddenly filled the room, fast and frantic, like a tiny hummingbird trapped in her chest. His breath caught.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Evans said, smiling. “Nice and strong.”
But Darius wasn’t listening to the sound anymore. His eyes were locked on the screen. The doctor moved the wand, and the static coalesced. There it was. Not just a blob. A distinct shape. A curved spine like a tiny seahorse. A prominent, rounded head. Arm buds nubby little paddles.
“Measuring right at seven weeks, two days,” the doctor said, clicking a freeze-frame. “Perfect size. Everything looks textbook.”
Darius didn’t hear ‘textbook’. He saw a person. His person. His and Nya’s. The reality of it, visual and undeniable, slammed into him with a physical force. This was the flicker. This was the seed. This was the future in grainy black and white. Pride, savage and primal, roared through him, followed instantly by a protective fear so vast it made him lightheaded.
He reached out, his fingers finding Nya’s hand where it lay clenched on the crinkling paper. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezing hard. She squeezed back, her gaze fixed on the screen, tears tracking silently into her hairline.
He didn’t let go. Not when the doctor printed the images. Not when Nya wiped the gel from her skin. Not as they walked, silent, back through the clinic lobby. He held her hand all the way to the car, his grip an anchor, a claim, a silent vow. In the quiet of the Rolls, he finally released her to start the engine. He stared straight ahead for a long moment, the ghostly image of that curved spine burned onto his retinas.
“A house with a yard,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Soon.”