by Cat Carmine
It’s getting harder to keep it from them, too. I’m starting to show a tiny little bit, but with baggy tops and leggings, it isn’t really obvious. But last week, I went for my first appointment with an obstetrician here in town, and a follow-up with my old family doctor. I had sworn them both to secrecy, and while I trust their professionalism, I also know the realities of small town gossip. It’s only a matter of time before the wrong person asks Mom if she’s excited about her impending grandparenthood.
“Mr. Lonney was in today,” I tell Dad, because it’s something to think about other than … everything else.
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “What this time?”
“Faulty dishwasher installation. Ruined kitchen floors.”
“Two dozen roses?”
“Yup. His wife must be just about ready to walk out.”
“Are you kidding?” Dad chuckles, one eye still on the television. “I’ve met her a couple of times and trust me, that woman has the patience of a saint. The roses aren’t really because he needs to buy her forgiveness. I think they’re just an excuse for him to dote on her. What is Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels?”
“Aw. That’s cute. He told me to send you his best.”
Dad grunts. “I don’t need anyone’s sympathy, you know.”
“No one’s feeling sorry for you, Daddy.” I roll my eyes. “They just miss seeing you around the store.”
“Well, don’t you worry. I’m going to be back on my feet before you know it, and you’ll be back to your glamorous life in New York.”
“Right.” I pick at an invisible piece of lint on my oversized t-shirt. I also haven’t told them yet that I have no intention of returning to the city. The Connecticut life suits me just fine. “I’m going to have a bath.”
“What is Mount Rushmore?” Dad calls back. I laugh and shake my head.
Upstairs, Mom has already emerged from the bathroom and is in her bedroom with the door closed. I grab a fluffy blue towel out of the linen closet and then shut myself in the bathroom. It’s still steamy and smells like Mom’s lavender soap.
I turn on the shower first so that I can rinse off. Is it just me, or is it disgusting to get into a bath when you feel really gross? It’s like sitting in a stew of your own sweat. No thank you. Plus, it’s virtually impossible to wash your hair properly in the bath.
I soap up my hair and my skin and let the water pound down on me a minute. My eyes are already starting to fill with tears. Okay, so that’s the real reason I like to shower before I get into the bath — the sound of rushing water provides a perfect cover for my nightly sobfest. I don’t even have to think about it now — as soon as the hot water starts to pelt my back, the tears come.
I’ve cried every night that I’ve been here, ever since I walked away from Logan. Every time I picture him sitting across from me at Green Street, I cry. Every time I think about his lips against the back of my neck, I cry. Every time I think about lying in bed with him, or about drinking coffee with him in the morning at the office while he dictated the day’s to-do list to me, or about the time we traipsed through the city with Jack and Daisy, drinking milkshakes and talking about dinosaurs and butterflies, I cry.
Sometimes I think I’m an idiot for walking away from him. Did I say sometimes? I mean pretty much every minute of every day. It nags me like the worst kind of obsession. The notion that I screwed up. That I could have just said yes and had everything I ever wanted. Logan, a baby, a family.
But if I’d said yes, wouldn’t I always be wondering how long it could possibly last? Wouldn’t I always be tiptoeing around, waiting for him to decide he couldn’t do this? Wondering if he could ever love me the way I wanted him to? Doesn’t my child deserve better? Don’t I deserve better?
I did the right thing. I think. I hope. God, I hope.
By the time I’m done showering, I no longer feel like having a bath. Instead, I step carefully out of the shower, wrap myself in the fluffy blue towel, and pad down the carpeted hallway to my bedroom.
Nothing’s changed since I left here a few months ago — my room is exactly the same as it was when I left. I pull a pair of cat pajamas out of my drawer and tug them on, then crawl under my familiar striped duvet, into my narrow twin bed. I dig my battered copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting from its hiding place under my bed. Despite being exhausted, it takes me forever to fall asleep, and I read long into the night.
I’m bleary-eyed at work the next day. I’d kill to be able to have a coffee. Instead, I drink herbal tea and rub my stomach every time I yawn.
“This is for you,” I mutter to my grape-in-utero. “I hope you appreciate it.”
The chimes over the front door tinkle, and I stand up straight. A woman enters. She’s wearing a caramel-colored coat and has gorgeous hair that falls down over her shoulders. It’s blonde, but it’s got so many rich highlights and lowlights that it almost looks ... gold. It looks so good that I want to secretly snap a picture so I can bring it to my hairdresser, once I can finally get my hair colored again.
She looks around the shop a bit, pausing in front of the ready-to-go bouquets for a minute and selecting one that Mom made up this morning — pale pink peonies and deep burgundy ranunculus. She brings it over to the counter.
“Great choice,” I say with a grin. “I absolutely love peonies.”
“Me, too.” She smiles. Her eyes are dark blue, the color of denim. There’s something so familiar about her face. I purse my lips, thinking, as I ring in the bouquet.
“You recognize me, don’t you?”
I look up, blinking in surprise. “I have no idea who—”
I stop. I was going to say I have no idea who you are, but in that second I know exactly who she is. The burnished blonde hair, the dark blue eyes, the sardonic half-smile.
“You’re Heather. Logan’s sister.”
“And you’re Blake.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes go immediately to my stomach, and I realize she knows. Of course she knows. Logan would have told her. My hand flutters protectively over my barely-there-bump.
“Blake, I love my brother.”
I don’t respond. She obviously came here because she has something to say, and I want to hear what it is before I play my own hand. Not that I have much of a hand to play.
She sighs, fingering the soft petals of the peonies. “I love him, but he’s hard to love sometimes. I get that.”
I want to tell her that he’s not. That it’s easy to love him — the easiest thing in the world, really. It’s just hard to know where you stand with him. And that’s the problem. How can you ever know where you really stand with a man like Logan Cartwright? A man who keeps everything tucked up nice and neat inside him?
“I’m very protective of him, as I’m sure you can understand,” Heather continues. “And I want to make sure you understand that this baby is part of the Cartwright family. You can’t keep it from him. From us.” Her lips are firm now, the half-grin long gone, replaced by a look of determination.
“I know,” I say again, but this time I push my shoulders back and force myself to meet her eye. “And I have no intentions of doing anything like that. I made it very clear to Logan that he was welcome to be as involved with this baby as he wanted.”
Heather deflates slightly. “I know. He did say that. It’s just that … it’s not just about the baby now. He can’t think about that baby without thinking about you, Blake. And that’s what’s killing him.”
I don’t say anything in response. I feel like every cell in my body is holding its breath.
Heather shakes her hair out. It catches the light and seems to glimmer. Okay, seriously, would it be inappropriate for me to snap a covert picture right now? It would, wouldn’t it?
“Logan has lost a lot, you know. More than any man his age should have to lose. And yet ...”
I realize then that I actually am holding my breath, and let it out in a whoosh. Heather gets a funny half-smile on h
er face. It reminds me so much of Logan that my knees go wobbly.
“Yet I’ve never seen him like this,” she finally admits. “Even after Laura — he was in shock then, and he had a lot of anger that I’m not sure he ever really dealt with. But God, Blake, I’ve never seen him like this. He’s missing work, moping around his apartment. I don’t think he’s shaved in three weeks, and trust me, that’s not like my brother at all.”
“Really?” There’s a gleeful note in my voice. I clamp my mouth shut when Heather side-eyes me.
“Yes, Blake, really. I don’t know why you turned him down, but if for some reason it was because you didn’t think he really cared about you, you should know you were wrong. Very wrong.”
“Right.” I stare down at the counter, at the bouquet Heather had picked out, and blink back tears.
“Don’t punish him, Blake. He’s lost so much already. He didn’t get a choice when he lost Laura. That was just a cruel trick of the universe. But this — this is just stubbornness. It’s stupid. It’s …” Heather breaks off, and when she dabs at the corner of her eye, I realize she’s actually crying.
She shakes her head again, composing herself. “Anyway, he’d kill me if he knew I’d come here. I just couldn’t sit there and watch him suffer. I did that for too long. I won’t do it again. Not when you’re both alive and well and actually have a chance at happiness.”
I manage a half smile, but my stomach is rolling with a thousand twisted emotions. “Did you still want these?” I say, nudging the bouquet.
“Oh. Of course. They’re beautiful.” Heather smiles.
I ring up her credit card and watch her leave, that familiar burnished blonde hair swishing over her shoulders as she goes.
Twenty-Nine
The walls press in on me. The tall windows, with their view of the Manhattan skyline, feel cold and stark. More like ice than glass. This office, which once felt like my sanctuary, now feels like my prison.
“Your coffee,” Georgia says timidly, placing the cup carefully on my desk. She’s armed with a two-inch stack of napkins — probably remembering the last time she was in my office, when she spilled coffee all over the floor. Joke’s on her this time — I couldn’t give a shit about the coffee. I don’t even bother saying thank you, just wave her away dismissively.
Everything about being here at the office reminds me of Blake. Every time I hear a pair of women’s heels clacking on the lacquered floor of the hallway, there’s a brief moment where I can believe that Blake’s perky face, her messy blonde braid, is going to appear at my door. Then some other woman walks by, laughing in a high-pitched way or glancing nervously towards me as she picks up the pace. Every time it’s not Blake, my mood plummets. And since it’s never going to be Blake again, let’s just say my attitude’s been in the shitter.
Christine had offered to find me another assistant — an actual guy this time, the way Ed had directed me to do in the first place — but I’d brushed off her suggestion. I don’t want another assistant. I want Blake.
Only Blake.
Always Blake.
Instead, I got Georgia. Georgia, who seems to be afraid of me and can’t even look me in the eye. Georgia, who still always smells vaguely of menthol. I can hear her outside my office now, noisily unwrapping cough drops.
I run my hands through my hair and try to focus on my laptop. I’ve barely been in the office these past few weeks, although I’ve still managed to get a few things done. All things that the board will be monumentally pleased with, no doubt. I’ve closed the deal with the government of the Northwest Territories. Bought out a mining company in Botswana, one everyone said couldn’t be bought. Secured a government partnership in South America, a new avenue for us.
Six months from now, Cartwright Diamonds is going to be rolling in profits. More profits than the board could have dreamed about.
And I don’t give a fuck. Not a single, solitary fuck.
There’s only one thing I care about right now. One person. Well, two, really. Blake … and our baby.
Every day, I wake up thinking that today is the day I’m going to feel like my old self again, but I’m still reeling from her revelations. And so, every day, I’m still sitting across the table from her, in that little cafe where the air was too hot and everything smelled like cinnamon. My life changed in a heartbeat once before. I never expected it to happen a second time. But in the blink of her pretty blue eyes, Blake changed everything on me.
Of course, I’d asked her to marry me. I would have asked her, anyway, even without the baby, probably in a few months time. I know deep down that I’m in love with her. There’s no coming back from that kind of love. I’m finished.
But then she’d said no. And I couldn’t bring myself to say the three little words that might have made her reconsider. Why couldn’t I just tell her that I loved her? I wanted to. The words were there, bubbling up inside me. But every time I tried to say them, they stayed stuck in my throat.
To be honest, I’m fucking terrified. From day one, things with Blake have been different. I never feel like I’m on solid ground when I’m with her, but rather like I’m being shot into the deepest recesses of the known universe. Maybe while riding in a mangled cardboard box with fuel canisters duct-taped to the side.
I feel unmoored when I’m with her, and the way I love her is like the universe. It’s like the stars in the sky. It’s deep and terrifying and unknowable.
The way I’d loved Laura wasn’t anything like that. It was simple. I was in my early twenties when we met, already being groomed to take over for my father, and love meant finding someone compatible, someone of the right pedigree, someone I could show off at fundraising dinners and at the country club.
I would never dishonor her memory by saying I didn’t love her — because I did, in my way. I’m sure of that. As much as I was capable of loving someone when I was that blithe golden boy, untouched by tragedy.
But what I felt then is nothing compared to what I feel now. To the unfathomable skies of my love for Blake. How can I tell her I love her when I barely understand it myself? How can I tell her I love her when I have no idea what’s at the edges of this universe?
Her news had shocked me. To the core. And in that moment, the universe rippled. I was back there again, hearing some hook-nosed doctor tell us that Laura was dying. A baby is nothing like finding out you have cancer, of course. When I step back to think about it, I’m downright delighted at the thought of being a father. But that isn’t the point. The point was the shock of it. I wanted my control back. But there’s no controlling Blake. There’s no controlling life, it seems.
Which is why everything feels different since I got back from Connecticut. It’s like walking on land after being in zero gravity for weeks. My legs don’t feel acclimated to solid ground. Everything seems too hard. Too landlocked.
Stunted. I think of Heather’s word for me. I guess she was right.
I keep thinking that if I could just talk to Blake, I could make things right. Make her see that I’m at least trying to do the right thing. I’ve tried calling. Texting. Emailing. Three days after I got back to the city, I got her work phone Fed Ex-ed to me here at the office. All of my messages were still marked as unread. The handwriting on the envelope was hers. I still have it, tucked into the top drawer of my desk. How fucking pathetic is that?
Things haven’t been pretty since then. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m not the kind of guy to spend my time moping, but damn if I haven’t been watching a lot of the shopping network and eating cold cereal. Drinking too much scotch and sleeping too late. Not working.
Ed called me earlier this week and told me it was time to get back to work, that the board was getting nervous about my extended absence. That’s the only reason I’m here now. I might not know what to do about Blake, but I definitely know how to handle my board.
This time, though, I’m not going through Ed. I’m going straight to the rabble-rouser himself.
Georg
ia pokes her head into my office. “Ray Kellerman is here to see you.”
Perfect timing. “Thank you, Georgia. Send him in.”
She looks relieved at having escaped her encounter with me unscathed. She nods furiously and then disappears again. A minute later, Ray strolls into my office.
“Logan, good to see you.” He reaches a hand out, and I ignore it. I’m in no mood to make nice. He’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch — but if it wasn’t for him, I might not have accidentally hired Blake, thinking she was a guy.
Like I said, it’s a stretch. But I’m pissed, and Ray seems like an easy target for that anger. I’ve never liked the guy or his stupid face. Too jowly. Too much like a bulldog.
Ray quickly withdraws his hand, trying to brush off the slight. “Busy man. I get it. What is it you wanted to see me about?”
I pin him with a glare, one that probably makes his dick sweat turn to ice. “I run this company, Ray. I run it well. If you have a problem with that, I will gladly relieve you of your position on this board.”
Ray throws his hands up, a look of surprise on his face. “Hey, no arguments here. Love what you’re doing with the place. Profits are at an all-time high. What the hell would I have to complain about?”
“That’s what I was wondering.”
Ray looks truly confused. “Logan, I’m sorry. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? That’s not what I heard. I heard you were whipping the board into a frenzy, telling everyone that my personal life was going to get the company in trouble.”
Ray scratches his head. “Why the hell would I care what you do with your personal life? Long as the quarterly reports look good, I’m a happy man.”
It’s my turn to look confused. Ray isn’t the most trustworthy person I know, but he’s also not the best liar. Right now, the way he’s rubbing his jowls, I don’t know — I believe him.
