All I Want (A Farmers' Market Story)

by Helm, Nicole

  Pregnant.

  With his baby.

  “I only meant to set up a time to talk, but it just...” She waved at the air around her, pacing under the tent that shaded her inventory of soaps.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say, or do. He couldn’t wrap his head around this at all.

  Someone cleared their throat—an older woman, looking between the two of them as if she could read between the lines.

  How could she? He couldn’t even read the actual lines here.

  “You have a customer,” he managed, when it was clear Meg hadn’t noticed.

  She jerked, and for the first time in the ticking minutes between her dropped bomb and now, he finally saw something he recognized.

  It was a look that accepted life was not what you wanted to be, and the acceptance you had to move forward anyway.

  He’d seen that look on the face of just about every person he was related to, except maybe Kenzie. God knew he’d never seen that look in the mirror, because when life didn’t give him the things he’d wanted, he’d forced himself to want something else.

  He’d never accepted that things might not go his way. Never rolled with a punch, knowing or accepting he was felled. No, he’d kept punching. Kept fighting. Kept fooling himself into thinking he was exactly where he wanted to be.

  He’d called all that strength. Sense. Determination.

  But it wasn’t. He could see it so clearly as he wordlessly watched Meg help her customer, dull smile firmly in place.

  He didn’t know her. Had very few clues about the life she led day in and day out, aside from milking goats. But he could tell the acceptance—worried and freaked-out as it might be—was far stronger than the fight.

  Far, far stronger than pretending failures didn’t exist, or were only steps leading you where you wanted to be.

  He didn’t want to be here, now, with this information, but nothing could change the fact that he was. He couldn’t keep moping around, acting like some version of a whiny teenager, with or without a child. A child.

  That’d never been him. He met challenges. He crushed them. But this wasn’t one he could carefully maneuver around or through. It involved people. It involved a child. His child.

  Single. Drunken one-night stand. Tattooed goat farmer. He felt more than a little dizzy over the whole thing, and the next time he glanced at Meg, she was looking at him, big blue eyes solemn, but there was also something in them he didn’t understand.

  “I’ve had some time to think about it. You should take some time too.”

  “To think about it?”

  “Yes. How involved you want to be. If you want to be involved. Like I said, I’ve had time to think about it, crunch the numbers. I can raise a kid.” She said it almost defiantly, chin raised, just daring him to argue with her.

  But why would he argue with her? What did he know? Clearly he knew very, very little. Life had decided to finally show him just how little.

  “So, if you’re not interested, that’s your choice. But it is your kid, so I wanted to give you a choice.”

  “A choice.”

  “Yes.”

  “In how involved I want to be. With my...” He couldn’t form the word. Not with his mouth, not so it echoed down the aisle of a crowded summer afternoon at the farmers’ market. He didn’t belong here. He took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. Nothing about the self-centered pity party of the past month really mattered, not when he was faced with this.

  “It’s a lot to process. Take some time, and when you’re ready...” She offered him a card, which he stared at without taking it. Because she’d handed him her card before. He fished his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and thumbed open the crease.

  There was the card. He hadn’t been able to throw it away. So it had sat there. In his wallet. Like a very weird omen.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, his voice sounding rusty and out of place.

  When he looked up from the card to her face, her lips were curved. But she didn’t say anything, just gave a little nod.

  “Moonrise,” he blurted, shaking his head at the total lack of finesse he was doing this with. “What time could you meet me at Moonrise Diner?”

  She glanced at the delicate watch on her wrist. He’d held that hand, had sex with this woman—made a child, and he only remembered bits and fuzzy pieces. He’d been struggling to accept that before, but now?

  “One thirty? But I’ll only have about half an hour before I need to get back to the farm.”

  “It’ll be a start.”

  It would have to be a start.

  * * *

  MOONRISE DINER WAS one of Meg’s favorite places in New Benton. While she’d had this picture of idyllic small-town life growing up in well-to-do suburbia, New Benton hadn’t lived up to most of it.

  It was old and run-down, and a lot of the people weren’t sweet, quirky characters from a sitcom. They were rough, they were hard and they didn’t much give a damn who you were or where you came from.

  But Moonrise was like something out of a movie. A diner still firmly planted in the past that did a bustling business to locals and very little else. The waitresses weren’t overpolite, more harried than charming, but she stepped into the bustle and felt like she’d found something.

  Community, in a loose way. The waitresses knew her name. Some of the ladies would ask her about her goats or her soap. If she saw Dan, she always bought him a cup of coffee, and while she didn’t feel that sort of warm bloom of instant belonging she’d hoped for when she set out on this road, she didn’t feel like a stranger either.

  So much of her life had been about feeling like a stranger. In her own home, to herself when she was high, to the friends who didn’t want out of that ugly cycle and to the friends who didn’t want to look her in the eye because they might remember and want a hit.

  Meg blew out a breath as she slid into an empty booth. Between Grandma and pregnancy, all the old crap was getting stirred up and she needed to get a handle on it.

  It hit her then, like a bolt of lightning straight through the diner roof and into her chest. She’d lost Grandma and created a life within the same week.

  She placed a hand over her belly, where everything she read told her what was growing inside her was barely larger than a speck.

  She’d lost one light and been given another. She had to believe that. It solidified her resolve, the choice she’d made. And if you’re a girl, your name will be May. Which was more than likely getting ahead of herself, all things considered. But it was only right. It had to be right.

  She blinked at the tears, hoping to have them under control before Charlie arrived. She was going to have to come to terms with the fact that tears would be part of the next eight months. That was okay, but for the next however long Charlie wanted to talk, she needed to be in control.

  She didn’t know Charlie. The kind of man he was. If he’d want a piece of this responsibility. She thought it might be easier if he didn’t, but that was easier for her and she understood that some of the choices she was going to have to make in the next few months were about her child—not her.

  She had a responsibility to protect both of them. It had to be the mantra she held on to while she navigated some really tricky and unknown waters. She wouldn’t let that spiral her back to where she’d come from, and she wouldn’t let a few mistakes break her down.

  She had to be calm, rational and above all...a mother.

  A mother.

  Better than my own. I will be better than my own. She would love this child no matter what he or she looked like, or acted like, or wanted out of life. She would always love them so much more than she cared about her reputation or image. Always.

  If that was the thing that kept her going, so be it.

  She glanc
ed at her watch, trying to calm her nerves and her worries with the prospect of the business at hand. It didn’t surprise her that just as the second hand hit the twelve to make it one thirty exactly, Charlie walked through the front door.

  He seemed like that kind of man. Prompt and responsible and dutiful. At least in business. Her father’s ethics and morals had lacked plenty, but he’d never been late to a meeting. Never shirked a business responsibility.

  She hoped against hope that Charlie was a better man than her father.

  He gave her a slight nod and walked to the booth, all seriousness.

  He was handsome. The nice jeans, the preppy fashionable sneakers, the T-shirt he’d probably bought from some high-end department store—none of it detracted from the way his face was put together. Strong jaw, sharp nose.

  He didn’t ooze charm like his brother had at the market, but there was something attractive about his self-assurance. The way he moved like he knew exactly where he belonged.

  It disappeared the moment he sat down, and she found that endearing too. Because God knew she was working with a big old question mark. The least he could do was feel the same.

  “Hi,” she offered.

  “Hi. Are you eating?”

  She glanced at the counter, where Mallory was chatting with some customers. “Maybe.”

  He gave a slight nod.

  And then there was nothing but silence.

  Meg waited, searching her mind for some way of bringing up the pregnancy in a way that would be fruitful instead of “what the hell are we doing?” and “how did this happen?” Because her brain had done enough of that, and she was ready for the part where they moved forward.

  “It’s a lot to take in. If you need more time—”

  “What are your plans?” he asked, and she might have gotten offended by the demand in his voice if he hadn’t winced after he said it.

  “My plans?” she repeated, because even with the wince she wasn’t quite sure what he was after.

  “I mean, insofar as you’ve had more time to think about this than I have, what is your current plan of action?”

  Plan of action. She wanted to be calm. She wished she were the type of woman who could hide the look of disgust that passed over her face, but it was a part of the reason she’d never fit in her parents’ world. She didn’t have a poker face. She didn’t have a coat of armor to put on over herself when the vultures were circling. Everything she was or thought was there, and she didn’t know how to hide it.

  “So you haven’t thought that far ahead,” he said gently.

  A gentleness that made her stomach turn. It reminded her of the teacher in school who assumed she was dumb. You just don’t understand. That’s all right.

  No, she understood. She understood this better than him. She had a plan of action, but it was her own and her own way, and hell if she’d let a stranger wreak havoc on the sliver of confidence she’d built for herself.

  “The plan of action, Charlie, is to spend the next eight months growing a life inside me. And then push it out my vag—”

  He held up a hand, the expression that passed over his face so very much like her father she really thought she might puke.

  “That’s not quite what I meant,” he continued in that frustratingly even tone. “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant, and what I mean is that this is the plan. To have this baby. That is my action plan. That is the only plan of action. This isn’t some kind of business merger we’re going to bang out the details to in a few calm and prepared meetings.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything to that. He sat opposite her in the booth, his expression blank and a little hard.

  She didn’t know him. She didn’t know him at all. She’d created a child with him, but she didn’t know him, and that hurt.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE’D COME TO Moonrise prepared with a million little speeches, a million little plans, but as he stared at Meg across the old, chipped table, all he could think was, this woman was a stranger.

  She was carrying his child and he didn’t know or understand a thing about her. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. That wasn’t how you were supposed to start a family.

  It wasn’t part of the plan.

  “What can I get you two?”

  He glanced up at Mallory, who’d been a waitress at Moonrise for at least the past ten years. She met his gaze, then looked at Meg, and though she was obviously filing away the information of the two of them together, she didn’t say anything.

  “You know, I think I’ll have a piece of cherry pie.”

  “We’ve got the house stuff, or Cara’s Local Pies for a buck more.”

  Meg smiled, the kind of smile that could almost make him forget she’d looked at him like he’d suggested harvesting her organs. Horror, disgust, complete with physical recoil.

  All because he’d asked about a plan. It wasn’t as though he’d judge her if she didn’t have one. This was quite the wrench. He’d only asked in case she did.

  And because if she didn’t have a plan—which she didn’t seem to, not a real one—he had one. And it would solve everything.

  “Charlie, you want anything?”

  He refocused on Mallory and managed a smile of his own. What would be good for a pregnant woman to eat? Probably protein. And some vegetables. He felt like maybe she was ordering pie to somehow poke fun at his mention of having a plan, and he simply wouldn’t allow that.

  Something in his gut felt a little off at that point, but he wasn’t planning on listening to his gut when so many important things were at stake. He had to listen to his brain. “I’ll have a grilled chicken sandwich. Whatever steamed vegetable you’ve got on the side. And a large glass of water.” He’d try to get her to eat some before she dug into the pie.

  “Oookay,” Mallory mumbled, marking it down on her pad before she walked away.

  When he returned his gaze to Meg, she was scowling. It was an odd expression on her. He’d seen her sad and nervous. He’d seen her smiling and flirtatious. Irritated and possibly a little angry didn’t suit her. It didn’t seem to naturally fit her.

  He needed to continue to be reasonable. Reason always won. If he laid out his plan, explained it, she’d have to realize it was a good one. If she had a few caveats to add, he’d be happy to listen.

  There was a lot of compromise that lay ahead, and he was willing to bend when necessary. Okay, maybe not always happily, but he wasn’t going to be unreasonable.

  “So, listen,” she said. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. I think plans of action are a little premature.”

  “A plan is never premature.”

  This time she rolled her eyes and he had to bite back the irritation. Because this was irritating, but he was going to accept it, handle it, deal with it like a responsible adult. Like a father.

  That was the point. Not that they hadn’t planned this, but that it was here and they were going to deal with it. As parents.

  “I realize we don’t know each other very well,” he continued. “And yes, this is a surprise, but there’s really only one solution I can think of that makes any sense.”

  She leaned back in the booth, crossed her arms over her chest. For a second all he could think was he’d created a child with this woman and he didn’t even remember what she looked like naked.

  But for a fleeting second he thought he could remember the feel of her skin under his palm, the sigh of her breath against his neck and something uncomfortably like belonging.

  But that was some figment of his imagination—or the alcohol’s imagination.

  “Okay, so what is this only solution?”

  He knew she was determined not to like it, and that made him hesitate. Maybe he should be broaching this subject somewhere else
. Somewhere more private. After more discussion about what her plans were.

  But she’d made it clear she had no plans for the future; everything she’d talked about was centered on just getting to the point where the baby was born, and there was so much more to worry about. So what was he supposed to do? He knew this was the right plan. The right course of action. He couldn’t keep it to himself.

  “We should get married.”

  It had to be his imagination that the entire diner went silent, that all eyes were on him. Really, it was just Meg’s two eyes. Big and blue and amused. She actually laughed.

  “Is something funny?”

  She choked, coughing a few times. “Oh my God, you’re serious. You’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. It makes financial sense, and it’ll offer everyone a sense of security.”

  She laughed again, so hard she had to wipe her eyes. Charlie found none of it amusing, but he’d as soon let her get it all out before he tried to speak again. Maybe he could attribute this whole response to hormones. To the shock of the situation.

  “I’m sorry you’re irritated,” she said after taking a deep breath. “And I know this looks like the fifties, but we live firmly in the twenty-first century. I don’t know you, Charlie. I only know your name because Dan said it...after we had sex and woke up not remembering said sex.” She grew more and more serious and angry with every word. “I’ve got all the financial sense I need, and I can handle my own damn security. What we’re talking about here is how much you want to be involved in this child’s life—not mine. I’ve had my fill of self-important businessmen who think they can plan everything into the ground.”

  It was a wonder that it hurt, because why should something said by someone who was essentially a stranger bother him? But it did. It cut, the same way Dell’s dismissals of his offers for help years ago had cut.

  When all you wanted to do was help, and people couldn’t even take that seriously, or got offended by it, how could it not hurt?