Now that Elliot was married to Calliope Derrick, he was insufferable.
Though I caught a glimpse of who he might’ve been those three days in the hospital after she almost died, and as long as I lived, I would never truly resent my brother’s cheerful nature.
“You probably need this.” Elliot slid a glass on the counter beside me, the ice clattering.
I finished scraping the grill, grasping the glass and draining it in one sip. The whisky burned going down, doing nothing to numb the pressure in my balls. If anything, it loosened my resolve to keep my hands off Hannah.
Elliot raised his brows, holding a bottle of beer. “You want another?”
I shook my head.
“Fuck, okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I could get you drunk for this conversation.”
I stared at him, my usually jovial brother seeming serious. Worried.
My stomach contracted, a familiar dread curling at the base of my spine.
“Is Calliope, okay?” I demanded. “Dad?”
“Everyone we love is fine.” He took a drink. “One person you used to love is not.” Elliot spoke slowly, carefully, not meeting my eyes.
It didn’t take me long to figure out who he was talking about, since the list of people I used to love had one name on it.
“Naomi?”
Elliot nodded, raising his head.
“She’s dead?” I didn’t know why this was my first guess, but it seemed most logical, given the grave look on Elliot’s face.
Another nod.
I searched for feelings at this news. Sadness…I was obviously a sick son of a bitch because I didn’t feel any. Had I loved Naomi? Once. But I’d loved the version of her she’d created to get her hooks into me. Manipulate me.
All my love for her died when our daughter was born, and Naomi showed her nothing but cold indifference. No, not even then. Because I’d understood postpartum depression. Read that new mothers might take longer than expected to bond with their baby. Though I hadn’t been able to relate to that because the second I laid eyes on Clara, I was besotted. My whole soul belonged to her.
But I hadn’t had a huge hormone drop, didn’t go through over nine months of hell—Naomi had hated every second of her pregnancy. I didn’t truly know what she went through, so I gave her space. Naomi hadn’t wanted to breastfeed, so I fed Clara every night. That didn’t bother me because it meant my wife could get sleep, recover, and I’d hold Clara in my arms, listening to the faint suckling sounds of her eating.
I’d get to kiss her head, feel her fall asleep in my arms.
Yeah, I was tired, but I’ve always been able to operate on little sleep. I’d had insomnia for as long as I could remember, essentially training my whole life for the newborn trenches.
Naomi hadn’t. She needed her sleep. Was a bear without it. We’d joked about it when we were first married.
So I waited. For her to fall in love with our daughter. But she never did. And she was never diagnosed with postpartum depression. She simply didn’t like her daughter. Or more accurately, she didn’t like the attention her daughter stole from her.
She’d said that. Out loud.
And all my love for her had died. My resentment was a physical thing as I mourned a life we could’ve had, a partner who loved my daughter as I did. Nights spent talking about the things Clara did and about her future, looking at photos.
I didn’t get any of that with Naomi, but I got Clara. That’s all I cared about.
And now, I had Hannah. Who routinely sent me photos of Clara along with texts about cute things she’d done in her day. Hannah, who cuddled on the sofa watching movies, braided her hair. Who threw her birthday parties, made her believe in magic.
Not because she was Clara’s nanny. Because she loved her. It was plain to see. Hannah didn’t hide it or mask it because she couldn’t. Because that was Hannah.
What would life be like if Hannah were swollen with our child? Glowing, full? With our baby in her arms?
I wouldn’t wish away the past because it gave me Clara. But I had some fucking dangerous—downright destructive—wishes for the future.
