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She hadn’t asked for the Porsche, she’d insist to anyone who asked. It wasn’t like she’d pilfered Jack’s black Amex and surreptitiously slid her hand into the second-left pocket (ostensibly the least sexy pocket) where he always kept his wallet and went on an unhinged spending spree.
Though perhaps any of her friends would have responded with some approximation of, ‘Marry the old white man and take his money while you’re at it.’ She appreciated their candor and their unyielding support.
When they had stood in the car lot, sipping iced lattes and listening to Derek (Derek with the veneers, she later dubbed him, in the case that they needed to distinguish him from a separate, more insidious Derek) expound upon the exceptional gas mileage and horsepower, it had been hard to deny Jack his few indulgences. As a man who had driven the same stubborn Jeep Outlander since 2003, he was easily enchanted.
“Cruise control, Samira.”
So inexplicably, she had become the kind of mom who drove a Porsche Cayenne with 8-way adjustable seats. There was a Bluey sticker pasted onto the glovebox, Ziya’s handiwork no doubt. And Samira thought, okay, she could like this obscenely fancy car.
The engine hummed to a stop as she slid smoothly in between two near-identical sedans at the edge of the field. The efficacy of soccer for five-year-olds was logically debatable, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny Ziya anything, especially something as innocuous as a participation trophy. Jack was emphatically, absolutely zero help in this regard.
A slight twinge of regret stirred in her gut as she bent over the center console to locate the insulated cooler bag rife with Capri Suns and apple slices. She had been unduly absent from Ziya’s first week of soccer practice, pulled away to a local conference where she was presenting her research.
After she’d accepted a position as a Junior Attending, ‘Five-Year Chart-Based Retrospective on Racial Disparity in Emergency Medicine. (SERIOUS FINAL VERSION NO MORE)’ had taken on a life of its own. One book deal and only a modicum of rubbing it in Robby’s face later, she had a publisher and an open invitation to speak at any number of hospitals or medical conferences.
She really had attempted, earnestly, not to bask in the vindication. Though married to Robby’s best friend and the mother of his child, she’d likely deserved a little rodomontading.
Samira arched awkwardly and finally managed to snatch the bag at the tips of her fingers, huffing victoriously. The sun was beaming brightly through the trees as she trooped across the grass towards where a gaggle of tiny heads was gainlessly chasing a ball. She saw Ziya in the mix, dark braids flapping in the wind, and her heart went helplessly fond.
Her boots clacked against the precarious silver bleachers as she navigated between parents of increasingly WASPy severity. Anything remotely comfortable would have been preferable to her conference outfit, a white peplum top and a pair of dark-wash jeans. However, Jack had insisted she was, ‘totally giving hot mom.’ She pushed her sunglasses up, mussing her sleek blowout, and found Ziya again, chasing a bird instead of the ball.
“Hi,” the woman next to her grinned, extending a manicured hand. She was pretty in the Shadyside-Mom kind of way, an expensive dye job, an Aritiza blouse, and laminated teeth. “I’m Rachel.”
Samira shook her hand. “I’m Samira.”
“Your first time in?” Rachel asked, taking a sip from an oversized Stanley with ‘Soccer Mama’ emblazoned on the side in bubbly font.
“Yeah.” Samira replied, a bit regretfully, “I’ve been crazy busy at work.”
“Oh?” she said, tilting her head in an appraisal that made it clear Rachel does not work. “What do you do?”
“I’m an emergency room doctor. Over at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”
“No shit! Wow, I could never do that. Hayleigh is enough of a handful, but props to you for doing both.” Rachel laughed. “Hey, I think one of the hot single dads works there. Do you know him? I’d take a shot if it weren’t for my husband or whatever,” she flashed a frankly ludicrous six-carat pear diamond. “Total silver fox. You should go for it since I can’t.”
“Oh, actually I’m not-”
“Anyways,” Rachel continued, “I can’t figure out what his deal is. Like, there’s a ring on his finger, but I haven’t seen his wife all week. Not to be anti-feminist or whatever, but what man is that happy playing househusband? I can clock an incoming divorce from two miles away. I went to a year of law school before Aidan and I got married.”
Samira’s jaw snapped shut, an adage about self-imposed grave digging illuminating in brilliant neon in her skull. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, and also a bitch.
“So which one is yours?”
The kids were breaking, a wall of blue jerseys dissipating back to their awaiting parents, when Ziya spotted her.
“Amma!” She screeched, making a mad dash across the field, dirt kicking up underneath her cleats.
Beside her, Rachel went stock-still.
Once, Jack had attempted, fruitlessly, to get her to watch Monday Night Raw with him. He had regaled her endlessly with tales of Rowdy Roddy Piper and the New World Order. She had spent the evening slowly decimating a bottle of Pinot Grigio, ice cubes clinking in her glass, and predicting exactly what kind of lifelong health effects each injury sustained would have.
She, however, had gleaned one lesson watching Shawn Michaels spike his heel into an unsuspecting victim's jaw: the importance of a good finisher.
Sweet Chin Music, she thought as Ziya tumbled into her arms.
“Amma!” Ziya said, practically vibrating in her arms, “I almost made a goal, did you see? I’m gonna tell Daddy about it when he gets here. Where is Daddy? Oh, also, did you meet my friend Mari? She has a lizard at her house.”
Samira smoothed a few errant hairs out of her daughter’s braids and grinned. “Daddy ran a little bit late at work, so he’s on his way over now, but we’ll definitely both be here when you actually score a goal.” She began wiping her face with a wet cloth. Seemingly magically procured from her bag. “You can introduce me to Mari’s parents later, and we can talk about going to see her lizard. How does that sound?”
“Okay!” Ziya replied brightly. She took Samira’s cheeks in her little, soft palms and rubbed their noses together. “I love you! Watch me play, okay?!”
“Love you, stinker. Play nice!” Samira called as she watched Ziya run towards the ball with a ferocity that indicated there would be a discussion about competition somewhere in Samira’s future.
Rachel hadn’t moved for the duration of their conversation, staring blankly into the straw of her cup until Samira turned towards her.
“You’re… Mrs. Mohan.” She frowned, the words clunking uneasily off her tongue.
“Oh, Ha!” Samira pressed a hand to her mouth. “It’s Dr. Mohan, actually. I’m not surprised Jack introduced himself as Mr. Mohan, but I told him to stop doing that.”
On the field, Ziya’s jersey rippled in the wind, Mohan-Abbot on the back in stark white lettering.
“I’m so-”
Samira was well aware that she nursed something of a mean streak. It was an unwelcome pet, a wildcat domesticated into a one-bedroom apartment. There had been Robby and his blank, stupid face while she ripped into him at her Junior Attending interview. Then the gangly med-student she’d nearly eviscerated after he asked about her menstrual cycle. Jack had been invaluable in hustling her to the roof and promised to be a good prison husband should she decide she actually needed to kill that kid. Such levels of animosity were undeserved here, but she had accepted being a sore winner long ago.
“I’m not sure what Jack’s deal is-” she sighed heavily, tugging her wedding ring from the chain underneath her top, “-but as far as I know, we’re pretty happily married.”
For all the madding crowd could say about Jack Abbot, he was overly intense, prone to bouts of uncomfortable eye contact, and he married a resident fifteen years younger than him after knocking her up; they could never say his timing was anything less than impeccable. He settled next to her hair, still damp from the ER showers, and placed a kiss squarely on her lips.
“Hi, gorgeous. Sorry, I’m late. How’s the little demon?”
“Oh, making lifelong enemies.” Samira nodded solemnly.
“Good.” Jack grinned. “Everyone should have a few rivals. It keeps you motivated.”
“Jack,” Samira said, gripping his knee, “have you met Rachel?”
“Oh uh…” he peered around Samira’s form and made a face that she identified as an attempt to place the visage of any non-Samira or non-PTMC-related woman. “…yes?”
“We met last time.” Rachel choked out, gaze not wavering from the field.
“Oh, right!” Jack snapped his fingers. “Hey, are your heart palpitations feeling any better? We’ve got a great cardiology team at PTMC.”
She hazarded a gaze between Jack and Samira and then ducked, a flush crawling up her neck. “They’re all better now. Thank you for asking. I have to go check on Hayleigh, if you’ll excuse me.” She scrambled down the bleachers onto the field where the kids were congregating around an anthill.
Ziya jogged over and pulled herself up into Jack’s lap.
“Hey, killer!” He said, tickling her sides, to much commotion. Samira extended a hand to keep her from falling over. “You won the World Cup yet?”
“Daddy,” Ziya said seriously, giggles ceasing. “I don’t know what that is. You shouldn’t tell me things I don’t know.”
“Right, of course, my bad.”
Ziya plopped herself between them, both of them kicking happily. “I didn’t make a goal today, but I still had fun, so I think it’s still good.”
“Well, yeah, bug,” Jack said, ruffling her hair. “The only thing your mom and I care about is whether you’re happy and healthy. All the other stuff can come in its own time.”
“Ready to go home?” Samira asked packing Ziya’s dirty cleats into a plastic grocery bag.
“Race you to the car!” Ziya declared, tumbling down the bleachers, clean shoes still awaiting her in Jack’s hands.
Samira groaned, leaning her head against Jack’s shoulder. “That kid’s gonna make me drop dead one of these days.”
He patted her cheek sweetly and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “I should die first so you guys can collect on my life insurance policy, so try to hold out for a little longer.”
Samira shrugged, “I could use a vacation house in Cape Cod.”
“Anything you want, baby.”
Ziya stood in the middle of the field, having realized that they hadn’t moved an inch.
“Amma, Daddy!” She yelled, fists clenched. “You have to race me!”
Jack’s back popped loudly as he rose, and Samira cackled.
“Maybe we should dig that AARP card out when we get home?”
He pinched her ass smartly, “I’ll show you an AARP member.”
“Promises, promises.”
He took her hand, leading her down the steps, and stopped a moment to take her in.
“Have I told you how sexy you look today?”
“I’m always amenable to hearing it again.”
Jack’s forearm tugged her in, tucked neatly into the small of her back. “You are the sexiest woman alive,” he said as his mouth grazed hers, soft and wanting, “and I thank God every day you let yourself get baby-trapped by me.”
Samira snorted.
“Seriously, it was all part of my long game. My next plan was gonna be throwing myself on the sword in front of your apartment if you didn’t notice how in love with you I was.”
Her hand found his nape, sinking into the soft, silver curls there.
“That’s a pretty drastic love confession.”
“Yeah, well,” he gave a thoughtful pause, “you’re a woman requiring drastic action.”
Her heart fluttered, nearly six years since that night in his apartment that had changed the course of their lives forever, and still sometimes she swore she’d wake up and find it all a too-wonderful dream.
She leaned in, the soft brush of his lips just feasible when a voice broke through the silence.
“Amma! Daddy! Why aren’t you racing?” Ziya folded her arms across her chest, mouth quirked in an exact replica of Jack.
She patted his chest placatingly and squared her heels. “Bet I can beat you to the car.”
A wicked gleam sparked in Jack’s eye. “You’re on Mohan.”
And together they raced, towards their daughter, towards their home.