“The contract.”
“Do you… have questions?” The hesitation gives her away. She knew I’d want to make changes.
I decide to start with the easier thing, and get it out of the way first. “Would you really rather have the doctors shove a syringe up you than make love with me?”
Her short intake of breath tells me she didn’t expect this question. “I, uh, thought it was better not to reopen old wounds. We broke up for a reason, and I don’t think being intimate with each other is a good idea.” She exhales shakily. “The fact you call it love-making rather than sex is a sign I’m right. Besides,” she goes for the kill, “since I’ve miscarried before, a pregnancy is more likely to be successful that way. It makes sense.”
I can’t argue against science, so I don’t try. Honestly, I’d have to be a messed up bastard to insist she have sex with me for any reason, but especially when it might put her at higher risk of failing to get pregnant or experiencing another miscarriage. She’s vulnerable, and I’m not going to use that to twist her into a difficult position.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” She seems surprised.
“Yeah.” I rub my jawline. “Like you said, it makes sense.” I just have to hope that those wounds she mentioned only exist because she still feels something for me, just as I still care for her. Love her.
Ashlin
Seth doesn’t push the matter of IVF versus sex, for which I’m incredibly grateful. We never lacked a physical connection, but for me, it was always bound up in emotion, and I’m not sure I could handle him touching me the way he used to. I might cry. Or slap him. Or beg him to love me forever.
It’s that last option I’m most afraid of. We were good partners to each other, but I was always the weaker link. I never had to stand on my own feet because he was right behind me, taking care of me, making sure I got what I wanted. I can’t lie and say I didn’t like it. The way he treated me made me feel cherished. Like I belonged with him. But it also meant I wasn’t challenged to build my own internal strength—something I needed, and which I’ve been forced to do in the past three years.
“About the parental rights…” I begin, knowing this is what he wants to debate.
“You can’t take them away from me,” he states, drawing a line in the sand. “If you want me to be the father, I’m not signing away my rights. If we have a baby,”—his voice cracks on that last word, and I have the urge to smooth a hand over his big chest to soothe him the way I’ve done a thousand times before—“I want to be part of their life, and I want partial custody. Weekends at least, or maybe alternating weeks.”
“How would you make that work?” I ask, wondering if he’s thought about the logistics or whether he called the moment Tyrell told him what the contract said. Most likely the latter. “Harley says you’re at the gym for twelve hours a day.”
“Fucking Harley,” he grumbles, and I cover my mouth so I don’t laugh.
I rest my elbows on my desk and glance at the door, double-checking that no one has opened it. I’ll only have my classroom to myself for another few minutes. In fact, I’m surprised no one has barged in to find out why I’m not on patrol.
“I know the baby would have to stay with you to begin with,” he continues. “But I’d like to visit often, and once it’s old enough to be away from you, I could have an assistant coach open in the mornings and close in the evenings so I could be home more.”
“You need time to think about the options.” Personally, I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks. “It’s a big commitment, Seth. Are you sure that’s the route you want to take?”
“Yeah. I’m not being an absentee dad.”
“All right then.” Even though he’s adding a level of complication I’d hoped to avoid, I admire his principles. “I have an alternative contract with a partial custody arrangement outlined. I’ll drop it off later so you can have a look at it.”
“No need. I’ll come and get it.”
“No!”
Silence follows my exclamation. I know it sounded abrupt to the point of rudeness. The thing is, I’m not prepared to have him in my house. Not yet. I need to grow accustomed to the idea of having him in my life before inviting him into my sanctuary and letting him see what I’ve made of myself during our years apart. I also need to establish boundaries. Part of looking after myself means making it clear what I will and won’t accept. Right now, despite desperately wanting him to say yes, I’m not willing to accept him marching into my life and taking over. Not that he’d mean to, that’s just the kind of person he is. He takes charge.
“Ash…”
“I’ll come to you,” I say. “Would you rather I visit at the gym or drop by your place?” I have a reasonable idea of where he lives from Harley.
“My condo. It’s number 302. You know the building I’m in?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’ll send you the address.”
“Great, thanks. See you around five-thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
