Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
But I get it—I think. Get why this is coming up now. My mother being her usual mothering self has dredged up a nasty piece of Ryan’s history—just like in the wine bar, when she broke the news of her pregnancy and assumed I’d walk away. Just as her own father did.
We got through that, so we can get through whatever fear has been dredged up this morning.
“Honestly?” I say, taking her sad but lovely face in my hands. “She sounds like a piece of work, and I’m glad she’s not around to hurt you anymore. You didn’t deserve that. Not as a kid. Not as a human.”
“I’m glad she’s dead too.” There’s a vehemence in her tone, an absolute sincerity on her face.
“Thanks for telling me, darlin’. Whatever you have to say, whatever you tell me. I promise to shoulder it.”
“Matt.” Her gaze slides away. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do. I’m here for it all. And I’m sorry if the stuff Ma sent is making you feel like this.” That it’s triggering somehow.
“It’s not the package,” she says kind of manically. “It’s this—this fuckup I’m responsible for.” Her fierce blue eyes fill with tears, her words turning wobbly as she tears away from me, putting the kitchen island between us like a barrier. “I can’t stay here with you.”
Concrete fills my guts, a cold, heavy sensation seeping through me. “What do you mean you can’t? I love you—we’re having a fuckin’ baby!”
“It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to the baby. I know I said I’d stay, but I think it’s better we do this now before things get too complicated.”
“Too complicated?” I almost bellow, the concrete falling away to leave cold, hard rage. “No.” Just . . . fuck that. “You said you’d stay so I could be a part of this. You’re supposed to stay now because you want to be with me. Because we’re about to become a fucking family!”
Sunshine streams through the window, the summer day a stark contrast to the winter she’s created in my heart. Until I notice how frozen she is, framed by the window and a verdant garden backdrop. Ryan is a Madonna in stained glass, whose trauma responses deserve to be handled better.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. You’re just . . . spooked.” Hyperindependence is a trauma response, right? I’m sure I read that somewhere. And by God, she’s suffered some trauma. A father who didn’t want to be part of her life. A mother who didn’t deserve to be in it. “I get it,” I begin, not sure where I’m going with this. “We’re all products of our experiences. But you’re so strong. You made a life for yourself, pushing through all that toxic family and career bullshit. And then you met a man who you thought you could trust. Before he reminded you that the human race sucks.” I want to take her in my arms and promise to take her pain away. “You think you can’t rely on anyone, but you can, Ryan. You can rely on me.”
“Matt, please,” she says softly, her eyes begging me for something I won’t give.
“You can trust in me.” I want to go to her, but I don’t trust myself. Not as something seems to come over her. A calmness or detachment, maybe.
“I love you,” I say as a realization sets in. She hasn’t once in this exchange said the same. “Last night, you said you loved me.”
“That’s the problem with people like you,” she begins. “People who say what they mean. They think other people mean what they say too.”
“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?”