“Bullshit.” My retort is a bullet I know she’ll dodge. Grief has seven stages, but I wonder how many stages trauma has. And what they are. Denial? Bargaining? Anger? Sounds right about where we are now. How many more stages before we reach healing?
“Mama might’ve been an evil whore, but she taught me some things.”
“Words of wisdom?” I say, folding my arms. Even my stance is combative.
“Sure.” She gives a spiky shrug. “The truth. You can’t trust what someone says on New Year’s Eve, on their deathbed, or when they’re fucking you.”
“And who was fucking who last night?” I demand as blood boils like lava in my veins. I don’t know what this is I’m feeling. Is it pity? Is it rage? Hurt. And pain. It feels like she’s punched her hand through my chest to twist my heart.
All these months I’ve trodden lightly, followed her cues, withstood her dismissals, and refused to shrink from her denials. But cruelty. What am I supposed to do with that?
“I think we were fucking each other,” she says, unconsciously reaching to protect her stomach.Our child.
“So that’s it?” I demand flatly. “I’m just supposed to let you walk away?”
“Yes.” A whisper. An almost imperceptible nod.
“And what about the baby? It wasn’t New Year’s, I wasn’t dying, and we weren’t fucking when you said I could be a part of his life.”
“I won’t take fatherhood from you.”
I shake my head. Disbelief. Distrust. My head is a mess, and this is just so fucked up.
Her gaze drops. “I’m sorry. But we were just a fantasy I lived for a little while.”
Chapter 39
Ryan
I hate the look on his face. The hesitation and the pain as I make him doubt my love. I hate what I’m doing to him, but I don’t do it lightly. And I do it for him.What’s best for him.
“Fuck this bullshit,” he says, stalking across the room. “Last night, this fucking morning, I was there—I was inside you. You can’t fake those kinds of emotions.”
“Maybe you can’t,” I whisper, turning to the window.
“You’re just frightened,” he says, coming to stand behind me. In the reflection, I watch his hand rise. But he lowers it again without reaching for me.Maybe he’s learning.
“You’re right.” Confessing a little of the truth won’t hurt me. “I’m frightened all the goddamn time. I’m frightened of being on my own, and of not being able to cope. I worry about baby brain and a shift in my focus and losing my edge. I worry that I won’t be able to do my job—I worry that I won’t get a job. Here. Back home. But worst of all,” I say, as my voice breaks, “I’m so very afraid that I’ll turn into my mom.”
“That’s not gonna happen.” In our reflection, Matt swipes a hand through his hair. “You’re not that person. You’re kind and loving—”
I give a laugh that sounds like a sob.
“It’s fucking true.”
“You don’t know,” I say, my attention slicing over my shoulder. “After all, she was my only role model.”
“You’re your own role model, Ryan. And you love this baby.” His arm comes around me to touch me, but I spin away.
“But will this baby love me back, or will she learn to hate me?”
“What are you talking about?” he demands, catching my arm and stilling me. “You’ll be an amazing mum—look at all you’ve done for him so far.”
“Drinking tea I don’t like and staying away from wine and not shoving coke up my nose is a pretty low bar.”
“You moved in with me. That was some leap of faith, and you didn’t do it for you.”
His words strike me true. I accepted his proposal for so many reasons, but at the heart of each was that one constant. Our child. I said yes for safety, for security. And it was a leap of faith, and he was our soft landing. And I did it so Matt could be a father and so our child wouldn’t be fatherless. But that’s not enough to keep me here.
