Pulling away, I clear my throat and turn to the man who is likely going to call my mother the minute he leaves here. "Show us what you have."
Jason spends the next hour laying out the options. All the ways we can use my existing footprint to create additional rooms. He also offers an option that expands the house, keeping my rooms as they are while opening up the back half where Mariah's rooms are into a haven for children. It includes three new bedrooms and a playroom, along with two additional bathrooms. Doing that would also add extra space to the first floor, giving us the opportunity to include a space for kids down there as well.
I know which one I'm picking, but Mariah looks overwhelmed.
I ask Jason to leave everything for us to look over, telling him we’ll get back with him after we've gone over everything. After showing him out, I come back into my office to find Mariahpacing around. I kind of thought this would overwhelm her, so I settle into the chair she vacated, letting her burn off a little of whatever's bothering her before I ask, "What's upsetting you?"
Mariah's head snaps my way, eyes focusing on me like she didn't even notice I was back. "Nothing. I'm fine." The fake, bright smile she's perfected affixes to her face.
But it's way too late for her to try to use it on me.
"Come here." I wait as she slowly inches closer, sitting very still so I don't spook her. I've discovered that when Mariah is in her carefully crafted element—the one filled with bright smiles and cheery words—she’s the most comfortable. But whenever one foot steps outside that circle of sunshine, she gets nervous. Unsure and skittish.
I don't like how afraid she is to be anything besides happy and positive. I especially don't like when she pretends to be what she's not with me.
As soon as Mariah's close enough, I pick her up by the waist, depositing her on the desk in front of me. Now that we're face-to-face, and my body’s position between her thighs makes it difficult for her to easily escape, it's time to start asking tough questions. "Why does the thought of staying with me after the baby’s born make you anxious?"
Mariah's expression turns to one of confusion. "That's not what makes me anxious."
I might not have identified the issue, but I did get her to admit the anxiety pinching her features. So I guess that's a start. Resting my hands on her thighs, rubbing up from her knee and back again through the fabric of her stretchy pants, I hold her gaze. "Whatdoesmake you anxious?"
Mariah's lips flatten, like she thinks she can hold it inside. And maybe she can. I'm not exactly great at prying information out of people. Human interaction isn't one of my strengths. But, if I want to take care of her—and I do—I need to figure out how to interact with her.
So I pull her closer, thinking it might help her see what I'mthinking. How I’m feeling. “Tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
"I —” Her eyes drop mine, forcing me to lift a hand to her chin, gently pressing up until she's looking at me again.
"You, what?"
Her teeth pinch her lower lip, face filled with the discomfort I know means what she's about to tell me is true. Real. Not what she wants me to hear, but how she genuinely feels.
"I have a bad habit of seeing things for what I want them to be instead of what they really are," Mariah starts softly. Carefully. Like she thinks I won't understand. "I go and do something thinking it'll be the best thing that's ever happened to me, and it never turns out the way I expect it to." Her words come easier. "I see things and people for better than they are. Situations for more than they could ever be." Her next breath is shaky. "It's happened more times than I can count, and I feel like a freaking idiot every time. So I move away. Try to start fresh, thinking I will be better this time." Her head barely shakes. "But I never am."
Her words hit me with the force of a punch. I've been thinking Mariah pretends to be happy because she wants everyone to think she's great and pleasant and easy to get along with. But maybe at least part of the reason Mariah pretends she's happy is because she wants so much to genuinely be happy.
"And you're worried that's what's going to happen here." I don't pose it as a question. I don't have to. It's obvious that's what she's afraid is going on.
Mariah nods. "I read into things that I shouldn't, and put importance in places other people don't. I start imagining something that doesn't exist, because I only see what I want to see."
Is that what I am? Something she wants to see? The possibility that Mariah could want this—want me—settles an unrest I didn't know existed. Fills me with a sense of rightness I haven't carried in a long fucking time.
"And you're afraid that what's happening between us isn'treal." Again, not a question. "Or that you're misreading the things I say and do."
This time Mariah's nod is barely perceptible. But I don't have to see it to know I'm right.
And—as I've shown time and time again—there's not much I wouldn't do to make her happy. So instead of hiding away like I have for over a decade, I expose the most vulnerable part of me. I open up, knowing the risk it carries.
"You're not misreading anything, Mariah." I swallow hard, torn between guilt and fear. "I want you in a way I haven't wanted anyone in a very long time." My hand slides from where it still holds her chin to curve against her face. "I want you to stay here with me. I want to take care of you." My eyes and hand drop, both resting on her still unchanged belly. "And I want to take care of them."
I could kid myself into believing this is simply me trying to replace what I lost. Make up for what I lack. Honestly, it would be easier if it was.
But I don't think of Mariah as a replacement. I can't slot her into the place Kara once filled. She doesn't fit. And shouldn't have to.
Neither does her baby. The baby she's growing can never replace the one I lost, but that doesn't make it any less wanted. Because at the end of the day, it's not only Mariah I want.
When I lift my eyes to hers, there's an amount of emotion I can't decipher. I could try to pick it apart. Analyze it down to its core. But I don't want to. Because it doesn't need to be treated like the work I do every day.
It just needs to be.
