by Beth K. Vogt
“But you don’t have to—”
“But I’m going to. There are plenty of single moms who raise happy, well-adjusted children.”
“Don’t tell me about kids being fine with a single parent. We both know a child does better with both parents.”
“It depends on who the parents are.”
For every time Beckett pushed to be involved with our . . . with my baby, I’d push back. Harder.
We passed a group of teen girls, laughing, talking. Happy. If I could, I’d tell them to stay away from boys. They weren’t worth the trouble. But I needed to be courteous with Beckett—courteous, but firm—and then go home.
“Can we stop walking for a minute?” Beckett placed his hand on my arm.
I put distance between us. Again. “Fine.”
We’d managed to stop at the center of the mall, near the display of faux rocks and foliage and water. Not as nice as the one at Mount Columbia, but it was a pretty spot in the middle of the enclosed mall.
Beckett stood with his back to the small pool of water. “I don’t think I ever talked about my family much when we were together. About my parents’ relationship.”
“You mentioned your mom on occasion.”
“My dad was career military. Marine. We weren’t a typical military family.” His lips twisted. “The first time my dad went overseas, my mom moved back to California with her parents. And after that, she just stayed. Said it was better for us.”
“Your dad moved with the military—”
“And Mom and I lived with her parents. Eventually Mom and I got our own place, but only a few blocks from them.”
“Your parents never divorced?”
“No. Never divorced. Never separated. They just lived apart more than they lived together.” Beckett stared at his feet for a moment before continuing. “They both seemed happy that way, and I got used to my dad coming and going.”
“They lived together some of the time?”
“When my dad had leave. Sometimes. Other times my mom went to visit him. Sometimes she took me, sometimes she left me with my grandparents. When I got old enough, I stayed by myself.”
“They must have loved each other a lot, despite—”
“Sure. Right. Every kid wants to believe that about their parents. It doesn’t make any sense now, you know? But that was my family. My normal. When I grew up, I joined the military. I kind of thought it would connect me and my dad.” Beckett gave a brief laugh. “He told me that I joined the country club branch of the armed services.”
“What an awful thing to say.”
“Yeah, well, that was my dad. He didn’t pull any punches.” Beckett fisted his hands by his sides.
“But your dad’s dead—you don’t have to deal with him anymore, right?”
“Now that’s a fun story.” Beckett stared straight ahead as if mesmerized by the display of women’s summer clothes in the store window across from us. “He died overseas when I was twenty-three. Nothing heroic. Choked on a chicken wing watching the Super Bowl.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
Beckett dismissed my sympathy with a quick shake of his head. “Want to know the ironic thing? I’m his beneficiary—not my mom. I don’t know if he wanted to help me out or just stick it to Mom after all those years she refused to be a good military wife. I’ve never touched his money. I’m doing fine on my own. I’ve invested it, and I give the interest to my mom.”
I hadn’t felt any sort of kinder, gentler emotion toward this man, who stood half turned away from me, in months. But this brief glimpse into his life made me wish I’d known more about him while we’d dated. Maybe I would have understood him more. Recognized our “No pressure and plenty of space” motto meant something different to Beckett than I’d realized. That in a sense, he was modeling what he grew up with.
And unknowingly, Beckett had proved my point because he knew what it was like to be raised by a single mom. He knew it could be done.
“I haven’t asked you for any money, Beckett.”
“I’m not offering you any, although, like I said, I’ve got it.” Beckett straightened his shoulders. “I want this baby to have both parents involved in his . . . or her . . . their life.”
“Beckett—”
“Hear me out. I know you love living in Colorado. I can get assigned here. Or retire here if the assignment doesn’t work out. I can be near my child while he’s growing up. I can do better than my dad did for me.”
Beckett’s words created a bitter taste in my mouth, causing me to draw away from him. “That’s what this is, then? Proving something to yourself?”
“This is about being a dad. A good one. I’m not saying that I don’t have a lot to learn. But I’m willing to try.”
I’d never seen Beckett so earnest, but then again, was it all for show? All those years I’d asked him to move to Colorado and he’d never been willing to do it for me. If I couldn’t trust him with my heart—to be there for me—how could I trust him to be there for our daughter?
He brushed the back of my hand with his fingertips and I jerked away. The man needed to remember he had no right to touch me.
This was a greater risk than before.
“I—I don’t know, Beckett. This could get messy. What if I get married . . . or what if you do?”
“We’ll deal with it one step at a time.”
“I’d have to discuss this with a lawyer. And you don’t get to decide how things go.”
“I am the baby’s father. We probably both need to talk to a lawyer—”
“If I say you can be involved in any way, then you have to agree this is not a fifty-fifty relationship.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“Don’t talk to me about life not being fair, Beckett. Not after what you did to me.”
“Stop throwing that in my face like it’s some unforgivable sin.”
“Maybe to me it is. Did you ever think of that?”
“Then why are we even talking?”
“I didn’t plan on ever talking to you again. I didn’t plan on getting pregnant—”
“Are you blaming that on me, too?”
Our conversation would be laughable if it wasn’t so sad.
“We were two consenting adults, Beckett. I am not blaming either of us for this pregnancy.” What a conversation to be having in the middle of a mall, while small children ran up to the water display, wanting to toss pennies into it. “Are you asking if I can forgive you for being unfaithful with I don’t know how many women? No. No, I can’t. I loved you, Beckett. Yes, I know we had a long-distance, long-term relationship. But I didn’t mess around behind your back—and believe me, I could have.”
At last, I was having the conversation I’d rehearsed in my head for weeks after breaking up with Beckett. Saying the words, as true as they were, gave me a brief sense of victory.
And then a petite brunette walked by. Took a second glance at Beckett. I’d been blind before, but now my eyes were wide-open. I didn’t want to be in a relationship where I always second-guessed what a man was doing when he wasn’t with me . . . and who he was doing it with.
“I’m done here.”
“What? We’re still talking.”
“No, we’re not. You’ve had your say. I get it. You want to be involved.” I was already putting distance between us. “Go ahead and talk to a lawyer because I’ll be doing the same thing.”
For once, Jillian had fallen asleep at a reasonable hour—before midnight—and stayed asleep.
But now something . . . something had woken her up. What was it?
There.
Her phone lit up on the bedside table and buzzed again, Geoff’s face on the screen. Jillian sat up, shoving her pillow away. “Hello?”
“Jill, did I wake you up?” Geoff whispered.
“It’s one o’clock in the morning.” Jillian rubbed her hand across her face, stifling a yawn.
“I know, but you haven’t slept well in months, so I thought you
might still be up.”
He had a point.
“It’s fine. Is something wrong? Is Winston okay?”
Winston? Had she just asked about Winston?
“Brian’s here.”
The name didn’t register in her foggy brain. “Who?”
“My older brother. He showed up.”
Geoff wasn’t making any sense. She grabbed the pillow she’d shoved aside and snugged it close against her body.
“Your brother showed up? Where?”
“At our house.”
“How did he find out where we live?” She smothered another yawn behind her hand.
“I didn’t ask.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants a relationship with me again. That’s a direct quote.”
“Oh, Geoff, what are you thinking?”
“What am I supposed to think? He walks out . . . disappears for years . . . and then shows up and wants to be brothers again. I don’t think so.”
“Has he contacted your parents?”
“No.” Geoff’s reply was muffled, as if he’d covered his face with his hand. “He said he wanted to see me first.”
“How do you think they’ll react?”
“My parents wrote off Brian years ago.”
Geoff’s mother . . . yes, she was a “This never happened” kind of person. Jillian still remembered their tense conversation on Christmas morning, when Jillian had tried to talk to Lilith about her lost sons. The woman had shut her down and shut her out.
There would be no welcome for the prodigal from either the parents or the brother.
The air-conditioning chilled her skin with an unwelcome caress.
More complications for them with the appearance of Brian. Something else she couldn’t fix.
Common ground.
Maybe this wasn’t about fixing anything, but about showing Geoff that she loved him.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can figure out a flight.”
“You’re coming home?”
“Yes.” This was right. “I’m coming home.”
Geoff’s exhale sounded as if he’d been holding his breath ever since she’d left for North Carolina.
Jillian tried to figure out what she needed to do next. “I’ll start looking at flights right now.”
“You don’t have to do that. Get some sleep and look when you get up.”
As if she’d get back to sleep now.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I have my flight figured out.”
“I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“Okay.” Some detail—an important one—rose up in her mind. “Wait. My car’s parked there, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Try and get some sleep, Geoff. I’ll be home tomorrow . . . I mean, tonight or the next day . . .”
“Thank you. Thank you for coming home.”
“Of course.”
“I love you, Jilly.”
“I love you, too.”
No matter that she was thousands of miles away from Geoff, sitting half-asleep in Harper’s condo. Not sure how she and Geoff were going to repair their relationship. The words were true. They had to be true. They were her first steps onto the common ground Harper had mentioned earlier.
Her open suitcase sat off to the side on the floor. She’d never unpacked. She could have put her clothes in the dresser. Made herself comfortable. Acted like she was staying.
But she’d known all along she wasn’t.
It was time to return to her real life. It was time to go home.
Instead of packing, Jillian found herself sitting on the balcony in the dark. Storing up the whisper of the ocean against the sand. The scent of salt carried on the breeze.
At least, for a few hours more, she didn’t have to be anyone. Geoff’s wife. Johanna’s sister. Payton’s sister. She didn’t even have to be a cancer survivor.
She could be just Jillian.
And for once, those two words didn’t lash out against her sense of worth.
She was choosing the label. Choosing to be Jillian without anyone’s expectations on her. Something shifted inside her, allowing her to be herself in a way she hadn’t been before that moment. To like herself.
Could she bring that acceptance back home with her?
18
IT WAS TIME to figure out what I was going to do with the spare bedroom in my house.
Of course, it wasn’t truly a question of what I was going to do with the space—it was more adjusting to the unexpected change of theme. “Nursery” had never been even a slight option for this room when I’d ignored it and concentrated on decorating the rest of the house. Each area in my house was well-thought-out—from the paint and the light fixtures to the furniture and any embellishments. All of it had required time, attention to detail, and a decent investment of money, too, so I took it slow. One room at a time. My guest bedroom had been relegated to last on my list because, well, I didn’t entertain overnight visitors often—except for Beckett.
And there was no need to think about him.
I stood in the empty space located as far from my bedroom as possible. Not very practical to have the baby here and me all the way over on the other side of the house, but moving the location wasn’t an option. I wasn’t disrupting my study by changing it into a baby’s room. This was why parents invested in baby monitors.
The decent-size room was a blank canvas. Four walls, a wood floor, one window, and a basic closet. All I had to do was determine . . . everything else.
I retrieved my laptop from my office and settled on the couch. I wasn’t one of those women who spent hours on Pinterest. Days went by when I didn’t even pin anything to the few boards I had created. But the site was probably the best place to peruse a variety of potential ideas for a baby nursery.
Girl nursery ideas was easy enough to type into the search engine. And then a myriad of images appeared. So many different approaches for how to decorate a baby girl’s room.
I was not doing pink, even if my own bedroom had subtle touches of the color. If my daughter wanted pink, she could choose it for herself. Her room could be feminine without being pink.
I scrolled through different pins, waiting for something to appeal to me and my sense of style. Jungle theme. No. Alphabet. No. Floral . . . hmmmmm. Maybe soft-gray walls with white furniture. A sleek upholstered rocking chair. And botanical prints.
I created a board, adding items, imagining the finished room blending with the rest of my home. It was time to make a list of items to purchase—maybe even figure out the specific rocking chair, crib, and dresser I wanted to order. No need to wait if I found what I wanted, even though I had plenty of time before my due date.
I’d narrowed my choices down to two cribs when my cell phone rang. Once again, Beckett managed to disrupt my concentration.
“Yes?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“I’m busy, Beckett.”
“And being busy means you don’t have time to be polite?”
I didn’t have time for Beckett’s supposed sense of humor. “Hello. What do you want?”
“I called to tell you something.”
I waited for the “something,” but Beckett had gone quiet on me.
“Are we playing twenty questions now?”
“No. No twenty questions. I’ve got some news—”
“That you called to tell me. Right. I’m listening.”
“I had a long talk with the academy superintendent today and there’s no assignment available for me in the Springs.”
So much for Beckett’s plans to be around for the baby.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to fix this.”
“There’s nothing you can do if there’s no assignment—”
“We figured out another option.”
“Beckett, you’re not going to retire. That would be ridiculous to walk away from your retirement benefits.”
Not tha
t I cared about Beckett or his future.
“I’m doing an early-out option. The military is trying to get higher-paid officers out to cut the budget. I’ll still get a retirement, just not the same as what I’d have received if I’d stayed in for the full twenty years.”
And now I was supposed to say something. Congratulations. Or thank you. But I knew what this was about. The baby. And Beckett’s father.
Not me. It was never about me.
“You plan to be unemployed?”
“Very funny, Johanna.” Beckett didn’t sound amused. “I’ll be looking for another job—a civilian job—here in the Springs. There are plenty of those.”
“Right. And what if you can’t find a job?”
“Have a little faith in me, will you?”
I chose not to reply.
“You still there?”
“Like I said, Beckett, I’m busy. Thanks for the update. And good luck with the job search.”
I didn’t say good-bye. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I said good-bye to him, the man always showed back up in my life. And this baby . . . my baby . . . our baby . . . guaranteed he wasn’t going to stop trying to be involved in my life now and in the future, for years to come.
19
JILLIAN WAS HOME.
Sort of.
Arriving at the airport terminal in Denver still meant she faced a good hour and a half drive, once she retrieved her luggage.
But she was back in Colorado. The land of no humidity and an expansive view of the mountain range she had to remind herself to look up and see on a daily basis, instead of becoming immune to its beauty. The never-the-same-twice sunsets she took photos of with the camera on her phone.
She’d caught an early flight Monday morning, the best she could do on short notice. Exhaustion caused her to lag behind the other passengers as they exited the plane. To sit at the back of the shuttle to the terminal. To cling to the side of the escalator, allowing others to stride past her, shoulders jostling her, luggage banging against her legs.
Let everyone else be in a hurry.
She was just another traveler who was home at last. Or rushing to make a connecting flight.
How ironic. Making a connection. That’s why she’d gone to Harper’s in the first place—because she and Geoff weren’t connecting.
