Phillip

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and adjust my clothes to give my erection time to subside. The pulsing below the belt and in my temples slows. Throwing feathers on Nata shouldn't have turned me on, but her proximity alone is enough to make my blood boil. Her happiness is a stronger aphrodisiac than I could've ever imagined. I want her to be happy.

Always.

I rifle through the drawer and locate my comb. It'll do the job untangling her hair, but that's not what I'm after. I want to make this day more pleasant, not painful. I sneak into my closet and pull out a box that still smells like sweet flowery perfume Dad says Mom favored.

Moving aside one of the smaller matching photo albums Dad made for him and me, I uncover a rectangular box padded with pink silk. I unlatch the decorative lock and life the silver brush out. The beats of my heart boom in my chest. This is either exceedingly creepy or over-the-top sweet, but I don't really care. It's a brush and with how long Nata's hair is, I don't want to tear chunks of it out with my comb.

Right now, I crave a happy Nata, with more smiles and laughter, even if I need to make a fool of myself. No. No making required, because I am a fool when it comes to her. I crave to see more hidden parts of her, those she cements behind the high wall of the emotional damage she's been constructing probably her entire life. Before destroying my pillows, she was so, so angry. I clench my fist and exhale. Brick of despair followed by a boulder of grief, I felt her defenses every step of the way and let happiness in.

It's as if she left ajar the door that leads into her soul, a place she doesn't let many people in, and I now had a chance to spend a day there. But visiting once would never be enough. I want to be a season tickets holder of Club Nata, or better—a permanent member.

I want the wall between us not to exist, so we need no more doors.

Back in the bedroom with a brush and a comb, I climb behind Nata, who sits legs crisscrossed in the center of the bed. I lean against the headboard and remove the rubber band off the end of her braid. Her long, almost black hair streams silky and smooth between my fingers. I've tucked the short strands behind her ear and felt it tickle my skin, but I've never had the privilege of this full-on contact. I unwind the three parts and relish the weight of her braid in my palms.

"I've wanted to play with your hair since I saw you on the rooftop at the reunion party." The truth comes out easier with her back to me. "You used to have it cut so short I barely recognized you behind that mane. Why did you decide to grow it out?"

My fingers make quick work untangling the next part of the braid and removing the feathers.

Nata gives a slow shrug. "I've always been utilitarian about hair. A thing to get out of my face, so short haircuts worked best."

She takes the strand near her face that has already come out loose. "Mom wasn't around much to deal with my hair." Nata twirls it around her finger.

I'm on the doorstep of the room where she keeps her secrets tucked in out of sight, waiting for her to tell me more. I slowly unravel the next knot and listen.

She reclines on my knees. "When I yet again had a giant tangle at the back of my head from fidgeting in my sleep, Dad took me to his barber who had to cut the back of my hair off to get rid of the tangle. So he chopped it short." Nata closes her eyes as my fingers get closer to her scalp. "I went to Dad's barber with him every time and kept my hair short."

Nata hums as I massage the top of her neck and dig a little harder into her scalp. "When I moved to Chicago, my neighbor was a hairdresser, so she took over." Her voice is a quiet monotone, a recitation of a long-forgotten story that no longer evokes emotion. "It was easy—walk over to her apartment once a month, and in fifteen minutes, I was free to go."

I run my shaking fingers from her head to the ends and repeat the motion with the brush. She doesn't protest.

"When I moved to Berkely for my graduate school, I was so busy I didn't find a new one." Nata lets out a breath of relief as she adjusts to the careful strokes of my brush along her hair. My chest lightens as she relaxes into my legs, her head tilting back.

"It grew long enough to pull into a ponytail, and I decided it was as out of the way as short hair. Plus, I didn't have to spend money or time on it every month like I did with a short haircut. I just never cut it since." She licks her lips and opens her eyes. Her upside-down eyes stare into mine, catching me watching her. Electricity zaps between us. I feel it in the bottom of my neck and see the effect in the flush of her cheeks. Nata's gaze holds on to mine. She gives me the barest of smiles. "I guess you can blame laziness and lack of money."

I swallow the lump of desire to make room for words. "Would you cut it now?"

"I haven't given it much thought." She digs her upper teeth into her lower lip, and I want to do the same. Taste her lips beyond the pecks I snuck in. Nata sighs. "With the recent changes, switching my hair wasn't something that came to mind." She pulls her chin down so I can only see the top and back of her head again. "Do you prefer it long?"

"It's your hair. I'll like it whichever way you do it." Even if she goes for the short buzz of El in season one of Stranger Things. "But I definitely am enjoying playing with it right now."

I run the brush along the ends and venture higher with every stroke.

"How do you know how to brush long hair?"

My turn to share secrets I've told no one because I want Nata to see beyond my smiles and know even the sad parts of me. I inhale and plunge into my story. "I don't know if it's my actual memory or if that's because of one video Dad has, but Mom used to sit me down in their bedroom at night. I would sound out words as I was learning to read, and she would brush her hair. It was almost as long as yours is now. Our deal was that I had to keep reading as long as she needed to brush it. After she was done, I got to brush her hair. I remember how happy I was with the arrangement." Sadness seeps into my pores and mingles with the happiness of the day. "It was a thing just for Mom and me."

"Do you miss her?" Nata turns and sets her chin on my knees.

"That's a difficult question." I chew on the inside of my cheek, looking for the right way to explain how I feel. No longer raw and debilitating emotions that wreck me, but more like watching a story on TV that's based on my life. "I don't really remember what having a mom feels like. There are these vague memories and feelings of comfort when I think about her, but I don't know her enough, don't remember her enough to miss her. Does that make sense?"

She nods, and her chin glides against my kneecaps. "Did you want to have a mom when you were little?"

"Sometimes." I rest my gaze on hers and absorb her care and understanding. My melancholy loses its potency. "I think I wanted to have a sibling the most. I was always hoping Dad would find someone and have more children, but he never did. He never really got over Mom. I assume he dated and saw other women, but he brought none of them home. I guess none of them were serious enough of a relationship to introduce me to them."

My stomach rumbles and interrupts the quiet that settled around us.

"Was it you or me?" I pat my stomach reverting to my usual armor of joviality, happy to drop the heavy topic. Today is supposed to be about fun, not about recapping my childhood.

"That was definitely you, but I'm actually hungry too." Nata looks at my bedside table. "What time is it?"

I glance at my watch. "Four-thirty."

"We completely skipped lunch." She slides to the edge of the bed. "Do you know which pizzas Martina packed for us?"

"No." I rise and follow her to the door. "But I'm ready to find out."

We run downstairs where Nata perches on the stool that, in my mind, has become her place at my kitchen counter. The spot she always sits at.

"I'm hoping for marinara." She drums her nails on the stone surface of the countertop.

"You need to try their Bismark when it's fresh out of the oven: thin crust topped with melted cheese, juicy garlic spinach, and a perfectly cooked sunny side up egg with a runny yolk." My mouth fills with saliva as another rumble emanates from my stomach.

Nata scrunches her nose. "Egg on a pizza?"

"Italians use eggs on pizzas. But don't think that'd be good cold." I extract the two pizza boxes out of the fridge and open the top one. "Looks like Quattro Fromaggi." Or death by cheese to someone like me. I can't eat that.

"Four cheese? I love that." She turns the box her way and inspects the hand-tossed pizza. "And the other one?"

I open the second box. "My favorite. Quattro Stagioni with hard cheese instead of mozzarella. Martina remembered my lactose-intolerance problems."

"I assume they have a file on what the owners like." Nata peers over the pizza. "Not a one flavor guy?"

"Don't read too much into it. Eat. It's just pizza."

Nata takes her piece and bites. She hums her approval. "It's good even cold."

"True. But maybe next time let's eat it there, while it's hot. After the opera." I push the brochure of this season her way from the growing stack of documents piling up on the corner of the counter. Mail. Medical documents for dad. My test results. More mail that's been forwarded from New York. I should ask Dustin to come in and organize here once a week as well.

While Nata flips through the pages of what The Lyric Opera of Chicago offers, I skim the test results Dr. Lutz gave me for Dad and for my Parkinson's test. I tested negative for the PD-linked mutation. Even though that doesn't 100% mean I won't get Parkinson's, it's good news. A smile of relief spreads on my lips.

"What's that smile about? Thinking of me going out with you?" Nata closes the opera's brochure.

"That too. But also, I got good news." I turn the papers in my hand her way. "I got tested for the LRRK2 and G2019S gene mutations that indicate increased risk of Parkinson's. Dad has them, but I don't. Which means that it's unlikely our kids would inherit them."

"What a relief." She wipes her hands on a napkin. "Not my area of expertise, but, would you mind if I have a look?"

"You're going to get more out of them than me, I just listened to Dr. Lutz's explanation." I give her the pages. "No secrets, remember?"

"Plus the NDA." She skims the tests.

"Plus the NDA." I take another piece of pizza and observe the concentration on her face switch to confusion.

She flips between two pieces of paper. "Phillip?" She frowns and looks again.

"Mmm?" I raise my chin at her in a question as I chew.

"These can't be right," she says with a lilt of worry in her voice. "I think the lab messed up."

I stop enjoying the delicious combination of thin crisp pizza dough, cheese, and mushrooms and swallow the bite. "Why would you say that?"

Nata puts two pages side-by-side. "See here." She points at the lines on each that show the blood type. "Your dad's AB and you are O."

"I've taken enough biology to know kids and parents don't need to have identical blood types. Mom probably was O."

"I've taken years more biology than you. To be O, you usually need to get O from Mom and Dad."

"Usually?"

"I think it's more likely someone messed up your tests than that AB parent can have a biological O blood type child." She narrows her eyes at me. "Is your blood type even O?"

"How would I know? I've never had surgery or needed to know my blood type."

"Weren't you curious?"

"About many things. But blood type has never been one of them." I take the pages out of her hands.

"We're so different. I know my blood type and rhesus. B negative." She places her hand on my shoulder. "Talk to your doctor and see if you need to retake everything. It's a simple test. Mistakes happen in labs."

"I did pay for expedited results." The calm that settled in my gut after seeing I didn't hate Parkinson's gene-mutation like Dad vanishes. "You're right. Mistakes happen." If they got the blood type wrong, these are probably not my results. "I'll talk to them."

My appetite is gone. I close the lid on my pizza and text Dustin to schedule an appointment with the test clinic ASAP.

Author's Note

8.20.23

We're back to plot! Many of you have already guessed this particular development in Love Expectations. But Phillip is yet to uncover what exactly these incorrect test results mean. If you think you know--comment with your theories. 

If you don't know and don't want spoilers--do not read the comments!

On an unrelated note.

Several readers asked me if I publish anywhere else but Wattpad as Gala Russ. I do not. The only other books written by me are as Willa Drew (a pen name I write and publish under with my co-author) and are not on Wattpad. But you can check them out on willadrew.com 

If you want to get a free Willa Drew book and are a US resident, go to Instagram and find willadrewauthor there. We're giving away six cute illustrated cover romance books, including WE Blend by Willa Drew. That closes on August 26th, 2023.

Back to Nata and Phillip. They are entering a turmoltious part of their story, so if you need some calming down, you'll have to re-read the last three fluffy chapters. It's all rough waters from here on now for a while.

Buckle your seatblets.

Love,

GR