Raji swung the bulk of her pregnant belly around as she rolled up a few salwar kameezes, which were Indian tunic and leggings sets, and wedged them into her overstuffed suitcase that was lying open on her bed. These last few months, she had been glad that her family had been sending her salwar kameez as gifts for many years. With the drawstring waists and roomy tops, they had worked perfectly as maternity clothes under her new, XXL-sized white doctor’s coat.
Boxes and zipper bags filled the rest of her luggage. Friends and cousins had dropped packages by or mailed them to her so she could to take them in her luggage to their families in India. No one trusted the international mail.
Breaking up with Peyton had left Raji with lots of free time. She had picked up other people’s shifts at the hospital and had gotten ahead to the point where she could take three whole weeks off to have the baby and recover.
One of Raji’s Indian aunties had been thrilled to volunteer to take Raji in afterward and had sent lists detailing just how she was going to mother Raji after the birth with sweets and savory snacks, all the time, any time she wanted, as inadequate thanks for Raji giving Aarthi this most beautiful and blessed of gifts.
Raji’s mother was flying to India for the birth and recovery, too. She had emailed competing lists of the foods and snacks that she was going to cook to help Raji recover her strength after this most kind and generous offering, for which the gods would surely bless her a thousand and one times.
Raji had felt a little trepidation at first about how her family would receive that she had gotten pregnant with an illegitimate child, but after she had offered the baby to Aarthi, the problem of the baby’s father hadn’t come up.
Her flight for India would leave that evening. A last-minute OB/GYN appointment just an hour ago had assured her that she was less than ten percent effaced, normal for late pregnancy. Thus, it was exceedingly unlikely that she would go into labor in the next forty-eight hours, barring any unexpected shock.
Raji was cleared for take-off.
Her apartment was picked-up and vacuumed enough so that, if the plane crashed or something, no one would think she lived like a slob. Raji hadn’t bothered with Christmas decorations, though. She only had a little table-top tree and some garlands in a box in a closet, and hanging them up had seemed stupid and far too much effort when her arms could barely reach around her pregnant tummy. She wouldn’t be home until well after New Year’s Day, anyway.
Yet, it was Christmas Eve, and her bare apartment seemed especially sad.
Well, it wasn’t like she had children to share the holiday with. When she was a kid, her mother had insisted they celebrate Diwali, Christmas, New Year’s, and Tamil New Year’s every year. Raji had just assumed she would do that with her own kids someday, if she had a family and any little half-lizard kids.
Something wet fell out of her eye, and she wiped it away. Damn hormones.
The television was tuned to some stupid entertainment channel where overhairsprayed talking heads jabbered about nonsense. The woman wore a red coat with a white fur collar. Fake snow covered the desk and floor, and enormous, glittering Christmas trees crowded the set.
Nonsense was calming. Entertainment shows never talked about people dying on operating tables.
“And in other news today,” the television announcer woman shrilled, “Fame This Week has released an explosive new exposé on the rock band, Killer Valentine.”
Raji half-turned, afraid that the newsreader would say something about Peyton Cabot, his sunny sense of humor, or his fascinating sea-green eyes. Raji hadn’t sobbed in the shower for months, an embarrassment that she chalked up to pregnancy hormones instead of non-lizard sentiment on her part.
The blond woman smiled brilliantly for the camera. “Allegations of widespread drug abuse by most of the band members, including—” she squinted just off to the left of the camera, and her mouth worked for a second before she continued, “—Rade Delcore, Grayson Jones, Tryfon Diav—are you kidding me, making me try to pronounce something like that on camera? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The television screen cut back to a woman in the main studio who was staring, wide-eyed into the camera. “Um, some technical difficulties. To sum up, the article included allegations of illegal drug use by band members including Rade Delcore, Grayson Jones, Try-fon Di-a-vo-los Ar-e-le-ous,” mispronounced while staring straight ahead, “and Cadell Glynn, plus injectable steroid abuse and alcohol abuse by lead singer Xan Valentine. The newest band member, Peyton Cabot, seems to have an unhealthy fixation with the keyboard player and wife of the lead singer, Georgie Johnson, and joined the band to stalk her while abandoning his pregnant girlfriend. Fame This Week is available at newsstands and grocery stores now.”
“Oh, no,” Raji said, scrambling for her phone. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
Her phone rang before she managed to dial Peyton, and the screen said, Loca Friend.
Raji swiped to the right. “Beth! Oh, my God. Something terrible has happened. I don’t know what to do. Somebody found out about me and Peyton Cabot and called the damn magazines!”
Over the phone, Beth’s voice said, “You’re welcome.”
“What?” Panic flashed through Raji like a blaze of fire. “No, tell me you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did. All that stuff Peyton Cabot bragged about to you—drug abuse, steroid abuse, alcoholism, fucking the groupies—all that is coming back to bite him on the ass.”
Raji stupidly started to cry. “No. Oh, no! Oh, Beth. Why?”
“That asshole deserved it for all the heartbreak he’s put you through. If he hasn’t come back here by now to help you, then he deserves to burn with the rest of Killer Valentine. They’re a bunch of drug addicts and negligent baby-daddies, and I hate them all for you.”
Raji edged over to her window and looked down the four stories to the main street outside. Down there, several cars and two satellite trucks were parked right up next to the doors, and people were walking around, holding tablets and talking. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I did it for your own good.”
“That’s always a bad thing!”
“Peyton Cabot should have helped you. He should have been there for you when you needed him. He’s an asshole for dumping you like that. Let him explain to the world why he did that.”
Down on the sunny street below, another white van topped with a satellite dish pulled up. “Beth, I need to get to the airport. A bunch of reporters are stalking the lobby of my building and standing in the street, waiting to ambush me. I can’t get out.”
“They shouldn’t be going after you. They should be going after Peyton Cabot and the rest of the Killer Valentine assholes.”
“The band is in France and Monaco on sabbatical. They’ve been lying low for months!”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“You should have! They’re after me, now!”
“I’ll come and get you,” Beth said. “I’ll stuff you in my trunk and get you to the airport on time.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Just finish packing.” Clattering filled the space behind Beth’s voice. “I’ll be right there. I’m on my way now. Those magazine bastards don’t stand a chance against me.”
Raji knew that she should be pissed as hell at Beth and probably should never speak to her again, but it was also probably true that Beth would spit fire at those celebrity-news reporters and send them running for the Hollywood Hills. Raji would bash this out with Beth after she got home from India. She wouldn’t be telling Beth anything secret ever again, though.
Raji balled up the last few clothes she was taking, flipped her last suitcase closed and locked it, and checked her purse again for her snacks, tablet, and passport.
Knocking thumped on her door in the living room.
“Coming!” Raji hoisted her purse over her shoulder and dragged her rolling bags behind her to the living room. The suitcases dragged in the doorway, and it took Raji three tries to find a way to get the luggage, her purse, and her enormous, pregnant belly through the doorway and into the living room.
Deep inside her body, the baby kicked some vital organ, leaving Raji gasping. Felt like a lung.
More knocking pounded on the door.
“I’m coming! Wait a sec!”
Raji dropped everything and staggered to the door. Beth could damn well help her carry some of this crap instead of beating on the damn door.
More pounding.
“All right! I’m coming!”
Raji flipped the locks and swung open the door.
The hulking, towering man had thick, blond hair that flowed past his shoulders, and his dark gold beard had grown in thicker.
For some ungodly reason, he was wearing a furred, red and white Santa hat.
Even if he had been bald or covered in rags or emaciated from illness, Raji would have known his striking, sea-green eyes anywhere.
Peyton dropped the black backpack he held in one hand. “Raji-lee, I came as soon as I could get here to protect you from them.”
Of course, he had.
Because Peyton always would.
Raji covered her face and burst into tears.