Pretty Boy
words : 720
genre : fluff <3
characters : Mr + Mrs. Curtis, Darry Curtis, Sodapop Curtis, Two-Bit Mathews, Ms. Mathews
tw : N/A
tag! @mjmacchio1991 @pepsi-and-cigarettes @james-fucking-hates-dallas @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato @patrickslayze @outsiderslamb @frypansgirl @unorginalchocolatemilk @jackettslut @victorious-2 @johnnycadesjeanjacket
Darlene was the first person you met when you arrived in Tulsa. While Darrel was somewhere up the street, looking for anyone willing to help him change the tire on your Ford, you made yourself comfortable in a booth, both hands folded over your stomach and son.
You were sure it was a son. You could feel it every time he kicked or stretched; he was strong like his daddy.
That’s when the waitress approached, the same age as you, fresh outta high school. You got to talking like most young women do, about the baby growing in your stomach, the ring on your finger, and the man with grease smeared down the front of his button-up when he comes inside. Your Ford is no closer to being fixed, though you've begun to think you've found home.
You can feel it.
That was two years ago. Darry, your son, sits on the floor with Darla’s little boy, eyes glued to the television as you lower yourself onto the sofa and cover your belly instinctively, all while Darla grins like a mad woman towering over you. Even if he's only a baby, it's obvious where Keith got his eyes; a pale grey, bright with mischief. Darry ended up being his father’s twin. Not that you're upset about it, but you can't help but imagine what having a twin of your own would be like.
“It’s not gonna work if you're covering your stomach, Meri. You've gotta do it over the bump.”
Your wedding ring, a simple band of gold, hangs by a thin piece of thread above your abdomen. Darla had practically forced you onto the sofa when she realized just how far along you were. It's as if she forgets you're pregnant every time she comes over to dig through Darry’s old baby clothes, or to make sure Keith’s latching properly.
“C’mon,” she chuckles, “my grandma did the test on me and it was right about Keith.”
You sigh and drop your hands, letting your swollen fingers trace the delicate flowers embroidered on the cushions. “Alright Darlene, but if you're wrong, you owe me some new baby clothes.”
She mumbles in agreement, laying one hand across your face and forcing your eyes closed. “Stop talkin’, you're messin’ with the magic.”
For a while, the only sounds echoing through the house are cartoons on the screen and Darrel hammering away on that damned cupboard drawer that won't close all the way. You're barely breathing, counting the heartbeat in your ears as you bite down on your lip, forcing the image of a baby girl from your mind. You’ve always wanted a daughter — like how Darrel always wanted a son. But were you really about to put all your faith in a little “magic?”
As it turns out, that's exactly what you do when you raise your head and see your ring making loops around your baby.
“I'm havin’ a girl?”
Darlene smiles wide, dropping your ring into your open palm before she pulls you to your feet. Then, when her face is only an inch from yours, she wraps her arms around you as well as she can manage. “You’re having a girl, Merrion! Get Dar in here!” She pushes away when Darrel comes storming into the living room and pulls you into his chest, smelling of saw-dust, chocolate, and tar.
“Oh lord,” he mumbles into your hair, “she's gonna be beautiful.”
Four months later, Darlene arrived with a truck of baby clothes. Your son was a gorgeous baby, and your dead-ringer. Thin blonde hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, long, dark eyelashes concealed brown eyes. He was a quiet baby, too. Never wailed or screamed, not when the autumn wind threatened to tear the shingles from your roof, or when Darrel pulled him from your arms so you could shower.
Maybe he isn't your twin, sleeping peacefully against your chest as you knit another pair of mittens, watching Darry play with those little figurines Darrel brought home from work one day. As he lays there, smiling and humming to himself, you can see your husband in those blue-green eyes. You can see yourself in the sleeping babe you’re holding, too.
Not a beautiful girl, but a pretty boy.
The next one will be a girl, you decide. It better be.