The smallest comment from her was always enough to tip me over the edge, to send me down a spiral of not feeling like enough. That pressure—the expectation to be perfect—was part of the reason I wasatthat stupid charity ball in the first place.
“What is it?” Russell asks, and when I look up at him, I see the hard line of his mouth, realize whatever I’m feeling must be written all over my face, because he looks murderous.
For me. On my behalf.
“It’s—” I start to sayit’s nothing, but I can’t get the words out, and then the next text is coming through.
Mom:Do you realize how ashamed your father and I are of you?
I do, actually. They both made it pretty clear when I announced I would be having Gus on my own. From the way they reacted, you’d think we were living a hundred years in the past.
My dad said my child would be a bastard, and he’d have nothing to do with something like that.
It gutted me. But I’d already decided I’d be having my baby, whether I had their support or not. Over the years, I’ve received the occasional text from my mom—never about birthdays or holidays, but drunken messages about me causing problems for the family. People asking after me.
Even though she must have known that, at that point, I couldn’t reverse my decision even if I wanted to. And I never did.
With a firm but relenting hand, Russell reaches for my phone, giving me the chance to stop him if I want. But I don’t—instead, I hand it to him, shame climbing up my spine and flushing my face deep and hot.
Just ten minutes ago, I was floating on the glow of what he and I did together. And now that’s gone, replaced with the sinking dread of not being good enough.
“Come here.” Russell commands. Slowly, gently, he sits up, opening his arms and ushering me into them. At first, I resist, not wanting to break down on him for a second time, but it’s never been easy for me to tell him no.
And then I’m against his chest, drowning in his scent, and crying. Telling him about everything—my mom and dad essentially disowning me when I said I’d be keeping Gus.
My father was the mayor of our medium-sized city, and they saw any deviation from perfection as a direct transgression from me. Like the only reason I did anything outside the plan was to spite them.
It was bad enough that I moved to New York City to look for work, and didn’t stay in my hometown, working in my mother’s bakery and settling down with one of the milk toast men in their circle of friends. After that, a child out of wedlock, apparently, was the last straw.
Growing up, I was always independent. Knew that if I wasn’t careful, my parents would swallow up my life into their own. Butafter that day, I’d come to the realization that the only person I could ever count on was myself.
Russell listens quietly, smoothing his hand over my hair and leaning down once to kiss my forehead.
“I think me and you have more in common than we thought,” he says, when I finish the story and we sit in silence for a moment.
That makes me laugh, “Oh, really? Did you get pregnant at twenty-seven? Are you thesire to a bastard?”
“Jules, you have to stop saying that,” he says, pulling me closer and jutting his chin toward my phone. “Don’t let those fuckers cast a shadow on what you have with your son. You’re a superwoman, and he’s already something amazing. Just imagine what it’s going to be like at his high school graduation, when he gets married—you made your choice, and it’s an investment that will return. Your parents chose themselves, and that’s what they’ll have as they age.”
I bite my lip to keep from crying, but tears well up in my eyes anyway.
“Speaking of investments,” I say, sitting up and clearing my throat slightly. I know I’m changing course, but there are three words hovering at the back of my throat, and I’m worried that if Russell keeps talking to me like this, they might come through my lips. “I’ve been thinking about the clinic.”
Russell raises an eyebrow at me. “You have?”
“Yes,” I nod. “And I was thinking…what if you presented the clinic—and used the clinic—more as a PR opportunity? I drove by it the other day and couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a lot of signage.”
Russell looks at me steadily, “Yeah?”
Feelings of dread and shame are replaced with a sort of excitement, a reminder of why I chose PR in the first place. I shift on his bed, dragging the sheet with me to cover my chestas I sit back, sinking into the mattress. Russell frowns at how I’m covering up, and I ignore the way it makes me feel a flutter, focusing on the matter at hand.
“So, as a public relations specialist, I think rather than viewing the clinic as something you just operate without any benefit, you could use it as a PR opportunity. First, use the location for more advertisement—make it clear to anyone driving past that BHC is giving back to the community. Slap the hospital’s label on it—just seeing it can improve trust and recognition. Think of the clinic as a chance to save some money on advertisements.”
The corners of his lips lift, and he reaches for me, pulling me back onto his lap, “See, I knew the hospital should have brought you on for consultation.”
Flipping me over so I’m beneath him, Russell drags his lips down my neck and scrapes his teeth over my collarbone, his cock already hard and pressing into my thigh. When I turn my head, I catch sight of that mark again, and shove the suspicion deep down where I won’t have to think about it.
It’s not possible. I need to let it go.
