Grabbing my phone, I stream some music to my Bluetooth speakers and lie back down, tonight’s conversation playing in my head for the fiftieth time since she left. While she had a string of extremely valid points, the one thing that sticks out in my mind is what she said before she finally walked out the door …
She loves me.
Veronica said it a few times over the years, but she never meant it. She thought she did at the time, but we were kids. We didn’t know a thing about love. And I never could bring myself to say it back.
But I’ve been that way my whole life, one foot out the door, ready to jump at any time because the things I’ve cared about most in the world have been ripped from me when I least expected it.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that when people are in love, they make plans.
But you can’t break plans if you never make them.
I roll to my side, staring at the empty half of the mattress where just twenty-four hours ago she slept beside me.
Maybe I should’ve stopped her from leaving. Maybe I shouldn’t have stood there like a schmuck, letting her walk away, but I’m a selfish bastard and that’s exactly the kind of thing selfish bastards do. I figured if I allowed myself to be with her, sooner or later she’d realize I’m not all that great, and she’d leave and it’d be the worst hell I could ever imagine.
So yeah. I let her go.
This way no one gets hurt.
Someone told me once that the way a heart breaks depends on how hard it was dropped. Some breaks are clean—and some shatter, sending millions of shards everywhere, shards so small you can’t see them …
…but you always feel them.
My god, do you feel them.
I can only hope—for her sake—this was a clean break.
41
Brighton
I keep my eye on my bathroom door Saturday morning as the timer on my phone counts down from two minutes. The pregnancy test I bought at the pharmacy on the drive home from the gym earlier today is still processing …
I’m convinced my mother’s going to barge in here at any second for some random reason and see the Dixie cup and white stick and start freaking out.
My phone chirps.
Two minutes are up.
Fingers crossed there’s nothing for her to freak out about …
Pulling in a deep breath, I walk to the counter and glance down at the test, prepared to be greeted with my fate.
Pregnant.
I take a seat on the lidded toilet, the positive test in my hand.
Great.
If my parents didn’t hate Madden before, they’re definitely going to hate him now.
I have no idea how this happened … we were always so careful. I’ve always been religious about taking the pill. He always used a condom—except that one time in his shop. But he pulled out. And that was so recent …
I wrap the test in several layers of toilet paper and place it at the bottom of my trash can.
I have to tell him.
He needs to know.
I didn’t get pregnant alone, so I’m sure as hell not doing this alone.
Resting my elbows on the tops of my thighs, I bury my face in my hands and practice slow, grounding breaths. Eyes closed, I try to picture us as a family, which I know is ridiculous. It’s nothing that he wants and it’s nothing that I wanted at this point in my life. I’ve always wanted to be a mother … just not like this.
In my little fantasy, I picture a baby with my hazel eyes and his thick, dark hair, but that’s as far as I get. The logical half of my brain kicks in and puts a stop to the whole thing because the three of us being a family will never happen. If he doesn’t love me, if he doesn’t want to be with me, a baby’s not going to change that.
Sitting up, I gather my composure and accept the facts.
I’m pregnant.
And I’m pregnant with the baby of a man who doesn’t want to be with me.
I park outside his apartment shortly after ten o’clock Saturday night, hoping I can catch him after he closes up the shop and before he heads over to Pierce’s or wherever he plans to celebrate the fact that he’s no longer chained to one woman anymore.
The shop is dark, nothing but a neon “Closed” sign hanging on the door, but the light above is lit, so I know he’s home.
My heart starts and stops a few times before I so much as make it out of my car. I have no idea how he’s going to react or if he’s going to think I’m just some crazy, dramatic wannabe girlfriend pulling some stunt to try to salvage what we had.
I hope he knows me better than that.
I thought about texting him before coming over, but the way I left things yesterday, I didn’t want to seem like one of those girls who are all over the place emotionally. I didn’t want him to think I was playing games or trying to reel him back in.
This is serious.
And this isn’t about me.
I place my hand on my lower belly. I’m sure this baby’s no bigger than a poppy seed but in the few short hours I’ve known of its existence, it’s already become my entire world. I spent the better part of the day concocting some kind of way to make it on my own. As much as Madden adores his sister, you’d think he’d be even more involved in this baby’s life, but I don’t expect anything from him.
And I don’t want to get my hopes up all over again just to get burned.
I make my way to the side entrance of the building and then to the stairs that lead to his door on the second level. With each step, my pulse whooshes in my ears. My mouth is dry and my stomach is in knots, but as soon as I get this over with, I can be on my way.
I’m five steps from the top landing when I notice his door is ajar. Two voices trail from inside … one his … one definitely … not his.
It’s a woman’s voice.
Distinct. Babyish almost.
With a held breath, I peer through the three-inch opening in the door and see him standing near the kitchen table next to a woman with jet-black hair, tattooed arms, and bright red lips.
Veronica?
“God, I’ve missed you, baby. So much. You have no idea.” She cups his face in her hands. “Seeing you with that other girl was fucking torture. I’m glad you finally came to your senses.”
The woman throws her arms around Madden’s shoulders and my stomach twists, the threat of bile burning the back of my throat. I can’t watch another second of this. Dashing down the stairs, I flee the building and return to my car.
I’ll tell him another time. After I’ve calmed down.
Tears cloud my vision the entire way home and my chest tightens so hard it feels like it could burst, but this is exactly what I wanted, isn’t it?
The highs and the lows.
The ups and the downs.
I just didn’t know the lows and the downs would be the worst pain I could ever imagine.
42
Madden
I slip Veronica’s arms off my shoulders and take a step back. I still don’t know what the hell she’s doing here. The only reason I got the door was because I’d ordered some takeout and she happened to show up at the same time.
I’m not sure if it was lucky timing on her part or what, but she barged her way in while the delivery guy was standing there and she hasn’t left since.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say when I’ve had enough of her baby-voiced bullshit. She didn’t love me then, she sure as hell doesn’t love me after three years of no contact. I’m sure there’s an ulterior motive somewhere in there, knowing her it’s purely financial, but I don’t care enough to find out what that is because it’d require her sticking around and quite frankly, it’s been maybe five minutes and I’m already tired of looking at her.
“I have to say, I was shocked when I heard you were seeing somebody,” she says. “And then I saw the two of you once. You were driving somewhere on a Saturday, I think. She’s real pretty, Madd. Tell me … did you dump her or did she dump you
? Because I’m curious. I know you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but she also looked high maintenance as hell and you’re not into that so—”
I almost begin to stick up for Brighton, to tell Veronica how fucking incredible she was, but then I stop myself because none of it is any of Veronica’s business.
“Leave.” The boom of my voice startles her.
“Madden …” she uses her whiny voice and puppy dog eyes and pouts her red lips. There’s nothing cute about a twenty-eight-year-old woman using infantile tactics to win back a guy who stopped wanting her a lifetime ago. “Don’t be like this …”
She slides her hands over my shoulders, but I step away.
“We always said we were soulmates. That no matter what happened, we were going to end up together in the end,” she reminds me.
I’m sure I said something like that—when I was a punch-drunk teenage kid mourning the loss of my brother and clinging onto anything that remotely felt like a safe place to land.
“People say things they don’t mean all the time. Now get the fuck out.” I point to the door. “Now. Or I’m calling the cops.”
“Did you ever think about me?” she asks, slinking to the door. “When you were fucking her?”
Never.
Not once.
“Out.” I raise my voice again.
She hesitates for a second, her hand on the door knob. “Whatever, Madden. Your loss.”
When she’s finally gone, I head to the window, watching to make sure she actually leaves, only for the shortest of seconds I swear I spot a white Volvo driving away. It’s too far off for me to tell for sure.
It’s probably just wishful thinking.
43
Brighton
“Brighton, could you come in here please?” my mother’s voice calls from the dining room when I get home from work Monday night.
I spent all day in a fog, distracted and preoccupied. Twice I messed up the final numbers on the Trilintix spreadsheet and caught them in the seconds before I emailed them to our team leader for the final report.
At one point, Thom asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, just tired. He left on his break and came back with a triple espresso for me. It was the sweetest gesture, but I poured it out as soon as he wasn’t looking. I know caffeine in large amounts can be dangerous during pregnancy.
All I keep thinking about is this baby …
And Madden and Veronica …
I leave my bag on the kitchen island and head into the dining room where my parents are seated at the far end.
There’s no food in front of them, and in fact, the kitchen is dark and empty—they must have given the chef the night off.
“Have a seat, please, Brighton,” my father says, though I can’t help but notice he won’t look at me.
It isn’t until I’m pulling out the chair across from my mother that I spot a Ziploc baggie resting in front of her holding none other than my positive pregnancy test.
I have no idea how she got that … Eloise must have found it while emptying out my trash today? Though that isn’t like her to go snooping or rifling.
My mother’s fingers rap on the polished mahogany dining table.
Perhaps it wasn’t Eloise at all.
“Is this why you came home?” my father asks, cutting to the chase. “Because you’re … in trouble?”
In trouble? What is this, the 1950s?
“For the record, I think it’s abhorrent that you went digging through my trash,” I say, speaking directly to my mother. “And you wonder why I left the first time.”
She looks to my father, then down at the test.
“Brighton.” My father’s voice bellows, echoing off the high ceiling above. “Answer me.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not why I came home. I didn’t know I was pregnant until two days ago.”
My father’s fist is balled and he’s breathing so loud I’m sure the neighbors down the street can hear him.
“And what are you going to do about this little problem of yours?” he asks.
“A baby isn’t a problem,” I say. “This pregnancy might be an inconvenience, but I refuse to call it a problem.”
“Then how do you intend on providing for this child? You can’t even provide for yourself,” he says. “If you ask me, that sounds like a problem.”
“I have a good job,” I say. “And I’m moving into an apartment at the end of the month. I’ll just have to get a two-bedroom unit.”
“And how will you pay for childcare?” my mother asks. “Do you have any idea what a good nanny costs in this town?”
“I’ll use a daycare center,” I say, not that I’ve thought that far out.
“And what does Madden say about all of this?” she asks.
I glance down at my lap for a moment. “He doesn’t know. Not yet.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t know?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” I leave out the part where I drove to his place Saturday night and caught him in the arms of his ex. “I will. I just want to go to the doctor first. Have an actual ultrasound. That kind of thing. I have an appointment this Friday morning and I’ll go from there.”
“What time?” my mother asks. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to …”
“Brighton, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going alone,” she says.
Dragging in a ragged breath, I offer a, “Fine. It’s at eight thirty. But you’ll have to drive separate because I’m going straight to work after.”
“All right,” she says. “That’s not a problem.”
Standing, I say, “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to head up now and lie down for a bit. I’ve had a long day and I—”
“Not yet,” my father says. “Sit back down.”
I have no idea what else he could possibly need to discuss with me, but I’m too tired to put up any more of a fight, so I take a seat.
A stack of papers rests on the corner of the table, and he slides them closer.
“There’s something I think you should see,” he says, pushing them toward me.
Examining the papers, I spot a logo across the top, some background check agency, and then beneath that is the name MADDEN RANSOM along with his date of birth and what appears to be a driver’s license photo.
“You did a background check on him?” I ask. I don’t know why any of this surprises me because my parents are certifiably insane when it comes to anything involving me, but here I sit in disbelief.
“Keep reading,” my father says.
Beneath his name is a list of what appear to be criminal charges.
“Burglary,” I read out loud. “Stalking? Harassment?”
None of this is the Madden I know.
“That man is a liar and a con.” My father presses his index finger against the top sheet of paper. I flip it over and the list continues. Misdemeanors. DUIs. Everything under the sun except murder. If what I’m seeing is true, it would explain why he never wanted to discuss his past.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “He’s not like this …”
“How well do you really know him, sweetheart?” My mother takes the gentle approach, though I suspect it has more to do with my “delicate condition” than anything else.
“Ten years ago, he changed his name,” my father says, pointing to a spot on the third page. “He used to be Madden Kramer. Changed it to Ransom when he turned eighteen.”
“Changing his name doesn’t make him a bad person,” I say, though I can’t believe I’m defending him.
“His father,” my dad begins, “is Rodney Kramer … the Rodney Kramer who killed your grandparents.”
Sinking against the back of my chair, I stare at the words on the papers in front of me until they become nothing but random letters that don’t make an ounce of sense.
Did he know?
Is that why he pushed me away?
I think about that night in the car, when we drove to
Hidden Oaks and I showed him my grandparents’ house and told him about the night they were killed. He was quiet after that—more so than usual. Looking back, I bet he was putting it all together.
He knew …
But I don’t understand why he kept it from me.
“Madden Ransom is a con and a criminal and the son of a murderer,” my father says with the confidence of a prosecuting attorney. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way … especially given your … current condition.”
A flash of nausea hits me. I’m not sure if it’s morning sickness or fifty thousand emotions coming to the surface all at once, but I run to the hallway bathroom, knocking over my chair in the process, and fall to my knees in front of the white porcelain bowl.
When the contents of my stomach are empty, I push myself up and wash my hands and face. I don’t want to believe any of this. The Madden that I knew had a big heart. He was quiet and contemplative. He would never hurt anyone, never get into mischief.
But then again, how well did I really know him?
Apparently less than I thought.
44
Madden
She’s been gone a week now, and I hate to say it, but it’s been the longest week of my life.
I check my phone for the tenth time today. I sent her a couple of texts this week, seeing if she’s okay. I thought for sure I’d have heard from her by now. I thought for sure when she stormed out of my place that night she was overreacting and that she’d come back once she cooled off.
But she’s gone.
She’s really gone.
And I can’t stop thinking about her. Not for one damn minute. In fact, it’s so bad I’ve almost screwed up a couple of tattoos this week. In the number of years I’ve been open, I’ve only cancelled on my clients maybe two or three times and never by choice, but today I decided to give myself a mental health day. I had Missy reschedule everyone on my books today, and I headed across town to Mom’s place to hang out with Devanie.
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