I pull her in tight so she can't see the tears forming in my eyes. I was so worried about her body that I didn't think to ask what she'd seen or what her four-year-old brain had processed. This is what she's been dealing with while I was planning to sneak off with Henderson.
Shit. Henderson.
Well, as much as I want to run off and hide with him, I can't. Paisley needs me. "Paisley, baby, I've got to go give someone a message. I'll be right back. Will you be okay until then? Why don't you go snuggle in my bed and I'll be right in?"
She nods, looking so little. More fragile than when she was in the hospital after the accident.
I steal out of her room, looking for Henderson. He'll understand.
When I find him, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, it's obvious I'm the last thing on his mind. His head is in his hands, his shoulders slumped, and he looks dejected.
No, defeated, is a better description.
Is this because I was with my daughter? I'll be the first to admit that I don't know how to balance dating and motherhood—obviously—but get a grip, man. I wasn't even gone that long. And I just told him I'd always pick my daughter first.
"The ambulance scared Paisley. Because of the accident, you know. She never really told me what happened. But now she's afraid that I'm going to be carted away and never come back."
He doesn't say anything.
"So I need to stay with her tonight."
Henderson just nods, almost imperceptibly. I stand there for a minute, a bit stunned by his indifference. Where is the man who wants to be with me, who is willing to throw his own personal issues to the side because he can't stop thinking about me? Where is the man who just pursued me?
But when I step back, all I see is a sad little boy who just wants someone to love him. To pick him.
And I didn't choose him.
I wish I could, but Paisley is more important than a man.
I wish Henderson's mom had felt the same way.
Chapter 30: Henderson
Icannot believe this. The ambo—Jasmine—this can't be happening.
I don't need to wait for the report from the hospital to know how bad this is. All because I was off with Tabitha.
Okay, well, maybe not, but I can't help but feel the universe is sending me a message. If it were any clearer, it'd be in big, flashing neon letters that say, "You don't belong with anyone!"
Apparently Jasmine decided she needed more oysters. Very drunk people and sharp knives don't mix.
If she were in literally any other role in the show, we'd be able to work around this injury. But she's playing Anne, the trapeze artist. Jasmine's quite good, but not good enough to do all her tricks on the silks and lyra with one hand.
And it's not like there are dozens of Black aerial artists who can also act and sing floating about out there, ready to step in on a moment's notice.
Normally we don't cast based on something like race, except when it's integral to the story line. For example, you can't talk about race prejudice without casting actors of different races.
I mean, theatres do it, but they really shouldn't.
And The Edison isn't going to start now.
I pull out my phone to see if there's been any update from Grayson, who followed the ambo to the hospital. I'm not sure who was sober enough to drive him. I look around. The place has pretty much emptied out, with the exception of waitstaff—were they here the whole night?—cleaning up.
How's Jas?
I wait for Grayson to respond. I don't need to be waiting here in Tabitha's house. She already told me she has to be with her tyke.
As it should be.
