by Helm, Nicole
But he had some judgments now, and they weren’t all based on what little tidbits Meg had told him. It was the way the man held himself, the way he surveyed Charlie as though he were a thing rather than a person, let alone the father of his grandchild.
This man would be his child’s grandfather. It was deeply unsettling.
“I don’t blame you for being uncomfortable.” Jeffrey lounged in the booth Meg had vacated with a simple kind of ownership. A sense of rightness about his sitting there.
Charlie had to fight not to sneer.
“I’m sure Meg’s filled your head with all kinds of stories. Her childhood was most definitely not an easy one, and she’s found that the best target of blame for much of what she brought upon herself is...well, us.” There was such a calculated way he looked across the table, as if he was trying to size up just what Charlie knew, what he felt.
It was uncomfortably familiar to the life he’d been leading not that long ago. Sales was about reading people, finding their weaknesses, using them against them. He’d never put it in quite those words before, and Mr. Carmichael wasn’t a salesman, but...
It felt the same. It felt grossly the same.
“It’s difficult to watch your child struggle the way Meg struggled.”
Charlie wanted to believe it was a genuine statement, but he couldn’t get past the way this felt like chess. Like a game. If his parents had talked about one of their children’s struggles...his mother would have been visibly emotive—not casual. His father would have been tight-lipped and hard, but not...assessing.
Whatever Mr. Carmichael was getting at, it was to get a response, an answer, something.
There was one positive to Charlie having been like this man, even if only a little bit. He knew how to play the game. He knew how to give away nothing.
“I’m sure it is,” he said. The best play was always to say as little as possible, to force the other party into the moves. Because the more they moved, the more you could dodge.
The old tactics came back so easily, and yet he didn’t feel good about it. He felt a little sleazy. He’d been a good salesman, and he hadn’t bent the rules or played dirty. He’d never compromised his morals.
But that didn’t mean some of the tactics he’d employed weren’t problematic when you used them in real life. Actual life with actual people.
He could see how he’d always done that, without meaning to, without purposefully thinking to. It had just...been easy.
“You see, we poured a lot of money into—”
Mrs. Carmichael huffed back to the table, slapping her purse onto the smooth top, making the silverware rattle.
“She said she’s fine and she’ll come out in a moment.” Mrs. Carmichael scowled at Mr. Carmichael. “She literally tore the picture from my hands.” She gave an injured sniff before turning her cold blue gaze to Charlie.
She looked like Meg, but she was different too. Something cold and hard ran underneath this woman, and even when Meg was closed off or changing the subject, she was never cold. She was never hard.
It was the thing that drew him to her the most. Her warmth. Her light. Even when she was struggling, she was like...home. Something comforting and where you were supposed to be.
He knew he couldn’t sit here anymore. He couldn’t take this. He had to get to Meg.
* * *
WHEN MEG MANAGED to step out of the bathroom, Mom and Dad were sitting in the seat she’d vacated. Sitting at her table. With Charlie.
She nearly doubled over and wretched again, but Charlie was too quick. Before he’d even looked up to see her step out of the bathroom, he’d been out of the booth and on his way to her, quickly taking her by the arm as she approached.
“Tell me what I need to do.”
“Just get me out of here.” Far, far, far away. “Home. Please take me home.”
“Are you hurt? Are you okay? Should we go to the doctor?”
She felt like she’d been physically assaulted even though Mom hadn’t deigned to walk into the stall. That was Mom’s specialty. To peck away until Meg felt like she’d been stabbed, over and over again.
You really think you’re capable of raising a child? You really think he’ll let you keep that child if he knows you’re nothing but a drug addict? When he knows, because I can assure you, Meg, no grandchild of mine will be raised by you. This baby is a Carmichael.
She was too numb to cry. Once upon a time she would have numbed her pain with alcohol or drugs, bad decisions certainly, but she had Charlie supporting her and moving her toward the door, the ultrasound picture tucked securely in her pocket.
Meg straightened as they passed where Mom and Dad were now standing, arguing with a waitress.
She was going to be a better parent. She was going to give her child everything, everything. She’d never believed in the surface world her parents worshipped like a religion, and she never would value anything over her child like that.
They’d be dead sorry if they ever tried to take Seedling from her.
Dead sorry.
Though Mom’s words had crawled into her, were likely doing damage even as she walked into the sunny summer afternoon, arm tucked into Charlie’s, she felt...strong. She felt sure.
She would fight anyone and anything to keep her child safe. Healthy and safe and loved.
Charlie led her to the car, but by the time they’d reached it she could walk fine on her own. The initial shock might have cut her off at the knees, but grabbing the ultrasound picture back from Mom while Mom had gone through a veritable list of why she wasn’t capable of being a mother...
But she was a mother. She slid into the passenger seat, resting her palms over her stomach. She couldn’t help wishing she could feel something. The picture helped—to know something really was in there, living, moving, heart beating.
But still, she’d love a little comfort, a little surety. Something she could feel.
Charlie climbed into the driver’s seat. He was silent, and she was glad. There was so much going on in her own head, her own heart, she didn’t know how she’d answer any questions he might have.
He started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, not uttering a word until they were on the highway, on the way home. Home. Home, where all the poison couldn’t touch her.
You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?
Charlie flicked her a glance, and she couldn’t read the expression on his face. “You’re all right, then?”
Meg looked down at her stomach. All right? Probably not, but... “I didn’t cry in front of her, isn’t that something?” She laughed, the sound escaping her mouth. Part giddy, part probably insane. “I mean, I cried, don’t get me wrong, but once I heard her voice, I didn’t cry. I didn’t cower. Because I wanted to protect Seedling more than I wanted to...” She couldn’t finish that sentence. It gave her away.
Maybe she wasn’t that strong at all, because Mom’s words had penetrated. They’d left their mark. Things she’d already thought—do you think he’ll let you keep that child if he knows you’re a drug addict?
You are. She’d wanted to tell Mom she had been, not currently was.
Suddenly she knew what she had to do. “Do you still want to get married?” Because that would offer a certain blanket of security. If they got married, and he found out about the drug addiction...maybe that would make it okay. He could trust her if they built a marriage.
Charlie’s already tight grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I don’t think this is the time to talk about it.”
“It’s the perfect time to talk about it.” Panic beat through her, determined panic. Her parents couldn’t—and even more maybe wouldn’t—touch her if she was married to Charlie. “They’ll leave me alone if they think I’m married to the likes of you,” she said, more to herself than
Charlie. More because the plan was brilliant and she couldn’t keep that inside.
This would solve all their problems. Maybe not permanently, but she couldn’t think about the big picture when her mother’s words were echoing in her head. It was just important to get this sorted now. To protect herself and Seedling now.
“The likes of me,” he echoed.
“You talked to my father.” She didn’t mean it to sound so accusing, but he seemed hurt by how she’d phrased things and that wasn’t fair. He’d been sitting there talking to her parents.
She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to know what they might have talked about, what might have been said. She didn’t want to know what Mom might have offered in the seconds she’d been with them.
She didn’t want to know anything about what they might have told him, or what Charlie might have told her parents. She wanted to pretend that had never happened. That these separate worlds had not collided.
They could do that. They could—
“I know your father.”
Her skin went cold, that numb feeling spreading farther, deeper. He knew her father. So he had worked with him. Grocery contacts rang in her head, over and over again.
“He recognized me,” he continued, each word pushing that cold deeper and deeper into her chest. “Maybe not enough to put a name to a face, but he recognized who I was.”
“Because you know him,” she echoed stupidly.
“I golfed with him once. I let him win, of course. He was the customer. The customer is always right.”
The silence that followed was heavy and dark. The kind of silences Meg remembered from her childhood, when everyone was hurting and broken, and silent with it. Drowning in it.
“You don’t want to marry the likes of me, Meg,” Charlie said at length, such contempt dripping off those last words. “We’ll get you home to your goats and you’ll realize it soon enough.”
She stared at him, the way he held his jaw so tight it must hurt. He must be grinding his teeth to dust. Handsome and hard, and so many sides to him. So much depth and strength to him, and she wasn’t so certain she didn’t want to marry him—at least in part—because of him. Because of who he was, because of what he gave her.
“A few weeks ago it didn’t matter what I wanted,” she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Little more than pleading. “You thought it was a plausible solution for the both of us. I like you, Charlie. I’ve grown to...” She struggled with the words, the feelings, how they all mishmashed in her head. So many doubts undercutting so many feelings. “It isn’t the same as a few weeks ago.”
“Isn’t it? I know your father, Meg. I golfed with him. The fact of the matter is, I don’t know you at all.”
Which shouldn’t hurt, but it did. Because he knew all about her life now, the life that mattered. They’d been in each other’s pockets for weeks—how could he not know her at all?
She pressed her forehead to the cool of the window and closed her eyes.
Her parents hadn’t even tried that hard and they’d still ruined something.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHY WAS HE BALKING? Charlie didn’t have a clue. His marriage proposal all those weeks ago in Moonrise hadn’t been made out of any foolish thoughts like love. It had been made because he thought it would offer them the best environment in which to raise the child they’d created.
He’d only ever suggested it because it was a solid plan, a route from A to B, and the one he’d always assumed he’d follow.
Now she was seeing it for what it was, and agreeing. And he didn’t know why he suddenly wanted nothing to do with it, why he could only wish she’d never uttered those words.
He should be agreeing. They should be driving to the license office right now. They could be married within the week.
But all he could think was not to the likes of you, and no matter how he tried to reason and rationalize himself out of the hurt—it pounded and echoed through him.
So he didn’t say anything. He left it at not knowing who the hell she was, because it hit him hard—how little he knew. It hit him hard that he wanted something she wouldn’t offer. It hit him hard that he wanted more than he’d thought he did.
He knew nothing about who she’d been or what made her parents her own personal demons. He only knew he’d been going along happily thinking that marriage of any kind was the end result he was going for, and finding...
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
The person he knew—the parts she was willing to show him—he liked that person. More than he could remember liking much of anyone. He liked her laugh and the way she never made him feel like a robot.
She brought something out in him he’d always known was there, but had struggled to show. Always. To everyone. Even his own family. He joked with her and he laughed with her and he comforted her and she...
Let him. Wanted him. Accepted him.
He didn’t want her marrying the likes of him.
But you should. That’s the whole point.
Charlie let out a breath, slowly, carefully, trying not to draw any attention in the heavy silence in the small space of the car. Heavy, oppressive silence that felt like cinder blocks pressing down on his chest and lungs.
The highway he’d driven to and fro to get to home most of his adult life seemed more interminable than it ever had, and there’d been a lot of interminable trips. But this one stretched long and painful.
When he finally crossed the limits of New Benton, it felt like the sky should be dark. Like sheer days had passed since they left, near sick with nerves and hope.
Such a stupid thing to feel defeated. To feel beat down. His child was viable. Perfect. Real and alive and next year he or she would be in his arms.
None of these other things mattered. Not really. What mattered was that child. And the fact Meg hadn’t had a chance to eat.
“We should get you some food,” he said, his voice rusty and forced.
“I have food at the house,” she replied, her voice sounding as ill-used as his.
He nodded. What else was there to do? Agree. Take her home. Marinate in his misery and stupidity. So he drove and he drove, and the fifteen minutes it usually took from the edge of town to her place felt like it was about fifteen hours of silent torture.
He should say something. He should do something. He should find the words for what was going on inside him.
But he didn’t want to, he found. The words were there, all the hurt, all the frustration, all the need, but he didn’t want to give it to her. Not when she couldn’t seem to give him jack shit.
He drove her home, and he didn’t make a move to get out when he stopped. He stared at the steering wheel.
“Thanks. For the ride,” she offered, pushing the door open and starting to step out.
“Anytime. Every time, really.”
She didn’t say anything and he didn’t dare look at her as she closed the door. All there was left to do was drive away.
But they couldn’t leave it like this. They...couldn’t. Something had to be said. Some conclusion had to be drawn from the situation. So, he pushed out of the car.
And stood there, because she was looking up at him with that wide-eyed terror thing going on. Like she was afraid of him, or at least his words, and he didn’t know what he’d done or what she was so afraid of.
That was the thing. The only possible reason for it was that she didn’t want him to know, and he didn’t know how to jump that hurdle.
“I should go.” Because he was stupid. Clueless. And nothing made him angrier than standing here in front of her not knowing how to reach her, how to give part of himself so she could reach.
She stared at him, the watery blue of her wide-eyed gaze just eating away at him. But what else could he do?
What the hell was he supposed to do with all this hurt?
She just stared and didn’t offer a thing, and he wanted to rage. Pound his fists against something. But he was Charlie Wainwright, so his balled fists stayed at his sides. Because he wasn’t that kind of man.
What kind of man are you?
He had no idea most of the time, and every time he thought he might, he grabbed on to it and something swept it away again.
But no. He knew what he was. Who he was. Organized, responsible, dependable Charlie. He just needed a plan. Somewhere under all the stupid emotion there had to be a reasonable, rational course of action.
“I’ll be by tomorrow. To work.”
“Okay.”
He rolled his eyes. At her. At himself. At the whole damn thing, and he turned to go because they couldn’t seem to find words today, and maybe that was all they had. Crappy words and heavy silences.
“Charlie, I...”
She stepped forward and he held his breath. He wasn’t sure why or even what he was hoping for, he just needed...
She pulled the ultrasound picture out of her pocket and then took a few steps over to her truck. She pulled out a tool from the back of it that looked like pruners or wire cutters and carefully and precisely cut the line of pictures in half so there were two sets of pictures.
She held one out to him. “Here. We should both have them.”
He took his half of the pictures. BABY CARMICHAEL in capital letters across the top.
She’d cut it in half. As if they were two separates. If it wasn’t an image of his child, he would have crumpled it. He would have done a lot of things, because this impotent anger bubbling inside him needed an outlet.
But even in picture form, he wouldn’t take his anger out on his kid. Not ever.
“We’ll have to talk about last names at some point,” he said, because he was a dick.
“Yeah” was all she said, and she turned around and walked away. Into the house, the closing of the door a resounding snap amid the goat bleats and the quiet summer evening.
He was left standing in her yard, clutching a picture of his baby, not having a clue how he got here. It felt like every other breakup he’d ever had.
