by Shayla Black
As we leave late that night and head back to Harlow and Noah’s, I’m wondering if I’ve miscalculated or misstepped along the way. I’m out of ideas. As Nia disappears into her solitary bedroom and asks for some time alone, I hold in a curse. What the hell is it going to take to make her change her mind?
Thursday, November 23
The next day, Nia and I sit down at the table with my siblings and their spouses for a big Thanksgiving. Around me, there’s laughter, teasing, real happiness. But beside me, Nia is subdued, her smile stilted as she speaks, but only when spoken to. I’m preoccupied and, I admit, taciturn. She didn’t refuse my proposal…but she didn’t accept. Nothing—not a beautiful diamond, a gorgeous house in paradise, nor my pledge of undying fidelity—could distract her from insisting that I declare my till-death-do-us-part love. What void does she think my promise of an emotion that’s neither tangible nor valuable will fill in her? Is she looking for adoration? Belonging? Security?
About halfway through the meal, I’m still in thought when Noah’s younger brother, Trace, barrels through the front door, schlepping a huge tote on one shoulder covered in stars and rocket ships. In his other hand, he grips a baby carrier.
“Hi, gang. Sorry I’m late. Someone didn’t want to wake up from his nap.” He turns the carrier toward the crowd gathered at the table to reveal his infant son.
“Oh, he looks so precious,” Harlow arches out of her chair and onto her feet, busting across the floor to lift the boy into her arms.
“He is.” Trace looks absolutely enthralled by his newborn son. “Good eater. Good sleeper. This single-parent thing isn’t so bad so far.”
I know this story, mostly because Harlow has been keeping me up to date over the months. Trace met a woman named Mercedes at Noah’s final Super Bowl victory party, just before he announced his retirement from football. Mercedes assumed Trace was Noah. It’s an easy mistake since they look a lot alike. When she found out she was pregnant, she publicly named Noah as her baby’s father. The accusation nearly tore Harlow and Noah apart. Finally, Trace realized he had fathered the boy that drunken night. When Mercedes caught wind of the fact her baby daddy was no meal ticket, she signed over her parental rights hours after giving birth to Ranger. Since then, Trace has been getting the hang of caring for an infant, apparently with a lot of help from Britta, who also cared for her infant son solo a few years before she and Griff reconciled and married.
The baby fusses a little, then quiets, seeming to stare up at Harlow with solemn eyes already turning dark. He looks exactly like his father, all the way down to the thick black hair and square chin.
If Becca were still here, our son or daughter would be this age.
I swallow, stare. My appetite disappears. My mood blackens.
Beside me, Nia rises to stand beside my sister, suddenly wearing a bright-eyed smile. “Oh… What a cutie. You’re going to be a heartbreaker. Aren’t you, big boy?” Then she looks up at Trace. “Sorry. We haven’t met. I’m Nia.”
“I have terrible manners.” Harlow laughs at herself. “Trace, this is Evan’s girlfriend.” She turns to Nia. “This is Noah’s brother.”
“Good to meet you.” Trace divests himself of all the baby accouterments. “And you’re right about Ranger. He’s already a heartbreaker. He and Daddy get along pretty well, but the minute a woman shows up, he smiles and flirts shamelessly. I could probably take tips from him.”
“You know when babies are only a couple of weeks old the smiling is probably the relief of passing gas,” Britta drawls.
Trace looks totally blindsided by that comment. The table erupts with laughter.
“Really?” Griff turns to his wife. “You’re serious?”
She grins his way as she rubs her distended belly. “Just wait. Parenting a three-year-old is full of challenges, as you’ll be reminded the minute Jamie wakes from his nap. But newborns? A whole different game…”
Suddenly, Griff looks nervous.
“Can I hold him?” Nia asks Trace.
“Sure. Just don’t be surprised if he flirts with—or farts on—you, too.”
With a laugh, she lifts the boy into her arms.
She coos at Ranger and strokes his cheek. I see warmth in her eyes. Her yearning. Her heart. My gut churns. Yes, Nia told me she wouldn’t be content to remain childless. Some women are, and I’d hoped… But the way mine is immediately enthralled by the baby tells me she really will want at least one of her own—sooner rather than later.
Gulping, I stare. Today I’m supposed to give thanks for everything in my life. But what the hell do I have? Money and success, sure. Intelligence? I’m told I do. But my wife is gone, my son or daughter died before he or she had any chance at life, and now I can’t convince the one woman I want to fill the emptiness to marry me. Looking at Nia with Ranger, I’m beginning to wonder if I could even make her happy.
“Wow, he’s heavier than I thought,” Nia remarks. “How much does he weigh?”
“Isn’t he a chunker?” Trace laughs. “We saw the doctor yesterday, and he’s already twelve pounds, two ounces. He’s at the top of the height and weight chart, and he won’t even be three weeks old until Saturday.”
I do some mental math. Shock decimates me. “He was born November fourth?”
The question slips out before I can stop it.
Trace turns to me. “Hey, Evan. How you doing, man?”
When he sticks his hand in my direction, I stand and shake it. But I’m desperate for the answer to my question. I don’t even know why. It shouldn’t bother me that his son was born the day mine should have been. It’s coincidence. Ranger isn’t the child who was growing in Becca’s womb. His birth won’t bring my baby back.
But the something buckling my chest and smashing my composure isn’t hearing logic.
“I’m good,” I finally choke out. “You?”
“Better than expected. Yeah, November fourth. I took him home from the hospital the next day, and we’ve been baching it ever since. Haven’t we, Ranger?” Trace glides a gentle finger over his son’s cheek.
As the boy gurgles, the love on Trace’s face is so obvious and naked. I frown, trying to understand my reaction. I’m both envious of his son yet determined not to have one of my own? I can’t remember ever being this contradictory. I see things one way. It is or it isn’t. It’s light or dark. It’s black or white. It’s up or down. Nothing lies in the middle, and I never find myself of two minds about anything.
Except…I’m conflicted about having a child.
Keeley rises from her chair and elbows her husband, who gets to his feet, too. Soon, Trace has a place at the table, a cold beer, and a plate of food. He sits to eat while everyone passes his son around, bouncing him in their arms while making nonsensical sounds and comical faces for the infant’s entertainment.
I push away my plate, any semblance of appetite gone. Before I can make an excuse and leave the scene, Griff turns to me, bundle of boy in hand. “You want to hold him?”
A big “no” sits on my tongue, ready to snap out like the crack of a whip. But everyone is staring at me, most wearing expressions of pity. They know that, if not for that rainstorm and the slick streets that April day in Seattle, I would have been a father by now. And they’ve all pegged me as concealing emotional wreckage I don’t comprehend. If I refuse to hold Ranger, it will confirm their suspicions.
That bothers me. I’m not sure why. But it’s a feeling, so it isn’t real. I try to shake the annoying emotion away. But all the usual methods of focusing—mentally solving complex math problems, reciting the periodic table, or writing JavaScript in my head—aren’t working.
The silence in the room seems oppressive. I’m aware of every eye on me, especially Nia’s. I look at my brother holding the baby out to me, then the boy’s little face. I swallow. I sweat.
I can’t do it.
Scraping my chair against the floor, I stand. “No, thank you. Excuse me.”
It’s unreasonable and fool
ish to flee the table. Ranger is a human being, as is everyone else in the room, just a smaller version. What harm could come from holding him?
I don’t know. I simply know the thought of doing it is more than I can manage. I haven’t been blindsided by this kind of crushing tumult in months. Why is it back now, pressing down on my chest?
Once I’ve trekked out of the dining room and onto the patio, I drag in the scent of sunshine-filled salt, listen to the crashing waves, and head toward the beckoning ocean, desperately seeking my personal homeostasis.
What the hell happened just now? I really don’t know.
“Evan?” Nia wraps soft fingers around my shoulder.
I stiffen, wishing she wasn’t touching me while I feel so weak. Her gentle caress dissolves my composure even faster. This turmoil makes no sense, and the last thing I want to do is face her or try to explain why my mood is so foul. Why I didn’t want to hold the baby.
“Go finish your dinner,” I say finally, keeping my back to her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And I’m not leaving you to grieve alone.”
“I’m not grieving.” Am I?
She sighs. “You don’t like to admit to having feelings, I know. They don’t make sense to you, but—”
“The only feeling I’m having is regret that a different decision on my part might have meant Becca and my child would be here with me.”
“You don’t know that. If you’d gone with them, you might have died, too.”
I pause for long minutes. I don’t want to talk about this. But I know Nia. She won’t drop the subject simply because I want her to. My better bet is to reassure her that nothing is wrong. I’d much rather have her apply her mental energy toward deciding she should marry me.
“I’ve had similar thoughts. Maybe you’re right. Obviously, we’ll never know.”
“We won’t. I know you miss them, and I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry I can’t be the woman you want to celebrate Thanksgiving with, but I’ll do whatever I can to cheer you up.”
I cast her a frown over my shoulder. “You are the woman I want to be with.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize I’ve admitted—both to Nia and myself—that I would rather be sharing today with her than my late wife. It shocks me. So does the realization that I meant what I said.
I whip my stare back out to the foaming blue waves. Nia may not be able to see my face, but I can’t hide the truth. As time has marched on, Becca has faded from my memory. I can’t recall her scent anymore. I can no longer recollect the exact blue of her eyes. Weeks ago, I heard a woman in the office with a laugh much like hers…then second-guessed myself. Had Becca sounded like that at all?
“Evan, I want to be here with you, too. I want to be here for you.” Nia squeezes my shoulder, her voice so soft I barely feel it slicing me open. “I know you’re hurting.”
“I’m just in an odd mood. Join the others. I’ll be inside soon.”
I hope more than expect that she’ll release me and return to the house with my family. Becca would have. Funny how I remember the way her mind worked more than the woman herself. But Nia… I already know she’ll make a completely different choice.
“It’s time we cut through the crap and have some straight conversation.” She tries to turn me to face her.
I shrug off her touch, refusing to budge.
“Leave it,” I tell her. Hell, I’m warning her. If she treads here, as agitated as my churning gut and boiling blood seem, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“No. Becca may have let you brood. Maybe her apathy didn’t bother you. Maybe you were even grateful. I’m sorry she’s gone, and I’m glad you want to be here with me. But there’s no way I’m leaving you alone now. And there’s no way I will believe for one minute that you aren’t hurting.” When I still don’t reply, Nia huffs and marches around my unmoving form to plant herself in front of me. “You lost almost everything that meant something to you in a single afternoon. Grieving doesn’t make you weak. You cared for Becca. You wanted your baby. Of course your first holiday without them is going to be difficult. Of course seeing a child born on the very day yours should have been is a shock.”
How did she anticipate everything that would impact me when I didn’t see those blows coming until they’d sucker-punched me?
I lick my suddenly dry lips and force myself to look at her. “It’s illogical.”
“It’s normal,” she argues. Her passion is persuasive, compelling, especially when she gives me a little shake. “There isn’t a single person here tonight who doesn’t feel your ache and doesn’t wish they could make it better for you. It’s okay if you weren’t ready to hold the baby. No one blames you.”
For some reason, her speech stirs up my anger. “They all stared, waiting, wondering, obviously thinking I’m a train wreck. I don’t want their pity. I don’t need yours, either.”
“I don’t pity you,” she murmurs. “I love you. That means I’m concerned about you. I’m in your corner. I’m willing to listen whenever you want to talk. I’m here for you.”
As I blow out a breath, I try again to tamp down my anger. I can’t be mad at Nia when she’s only trying to help. In fact, I should be grateful she even cares about this wretched mood of mine. But her words illuminate parts of my past I wish I could keep dark.
If Becca loved me too, why wasn’t she ever willing to hear me when I was troubled? I excused her disinterest in my frustration during Stratus’s early days as her lack of understanding about my business. Since she and I rarely fought about our personal life, I assumed she either walked away or acquiesced before disagreements got truly heated because she loathed conflict. Looking back, I wonder why she never fought for herself. For me. For us.
Did she ever really care at all? Or was I merely the protective barrier between her and the rest of the world?
“Evan?”
Nia is still waiting. She’s done nothing but try to help. Whatever is plaguing my mood isn’t something I can take out on her.
“It was a shock,” I admit in something just above a whisper since I can’t seem to find the rest of my voice. “I wasn’t ready to hear that Ranger had been born the same day my son or daughter should have been.”
“I know. But if things work out between us, we can have children.”
“I don’t want them.”
“You say that now. The pain of your loss is still too fresh, so you’re not ready to take a chance yet—”
“I doubt I’ll ever be ready. It’s not worth the risk.”
“That’s your grief talking.”
Normally, I would have refuted her, told her that was my logic asserting itself. This time, I pause. Examine. I frown. Is she right?
“Maybe. But I don’t think I’ll change my mind, Nia.”
And I worry about where that leaves us…and our future.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Seattle, Washington
Saturday, November 25
By mutual agreement, we decided on Friday morning to head back to Seattle, rather than staying in Maui for another nine days. My siblings and their spouses were sorry to see us cut our visit short, but no one pressed us to stay, as if they understood that Nia and I need the time to figure out our next steps.
We arrived home to rain that hasn’t let up since we landed. As we settle into the car, not many words pass between us. Nia isn’t silent out of anger. Neither am I. It feels more like we simply don’t know what to say.
As I near her house, I try to shake my lingering, puzzling disquiet. “What are we doing?”
“I assume you’re taking me home.”
“And then what? What’s going on with us?” So much is unsettled. December is days away, and at its end I don’t know whether she’ll be working with me, living with me, marrying me—or completely out of my life.
Nia takes in a deep breath. “We continue as planned. You gather some things and move into my place when you’re ready. We go back to work as sched
uled. We spend the next five weeks together and figure out where we go from here…or if we call it quits. At some point, I guess you’ll sign the papers to sell Stratus to Lund.” She shrugs. “That’s it.”
That’s not much of a plan. There’s so much open-ended. My practical side rails, but I can’t think of a better suggestion.
Will I be able to make Nia happy if I won’t give her the love and children she craves? And if that’s the case, should I be doing my damndest to marry her?
Maybe not…but I can’t bring myself to let her go, either. Even considering it hurts like hell. Imagining life without her feels like a piece of myself is missing, like I’d become an emotional amputee.
I drop her off at her cottage with a promise to see her soon, then leave her with a kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t press for more or even ask when I plan to show up at her door, suitcase in hand. I’m not terribly surprised. Nia knows me well. She must know I need the time alone to examine what I’m doing with my future and why. Hell, she probably knows that better than I do.
When I let myself into my apartment with a weary sigh, it feels immediately dark and still, heavy. Opening blinds and flinging back drapes to the stormy night does nothing to lift the oppressive air around me.
As I stand in the middle of my stark gray living room and stare out over the rainy bay, I feel alone. I can’t remember ever feeling this isolated or gloomy. Not when the social worker dropped me off with my first foster family, who barely took notice of me. Not when I locked Diana’s door behind me the morning of my eighteenth birthday with a duffel full of my things and one hundred twelve dollars to my name. Not even when I returned here after Becca’s funeral and it finally hit me that she was really never coming back.
My sense of solitude now is gloomier. It’s bone-deep. I don’t know why this nagging misery followed me home from Maui, but staring out my twelve-foot wall of windows and onto the churning bay below magnifies it, along with my every concern, by reminding me precisely how alone I am.
