“Seems we are.” My tone is sullen, and I hate it. But I can’t change it.
“You also look ridiculously sad. Are you still being a complete twat about relationships?”
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, looking around. “I think I might be.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you probably are. Didn’t you break up with a woman you’re in love with?”
“I sort of did.”
“Judging from the look on your face, that was sort of dumb.”
“Or maybe all the way dumb.”
“So why’d you do it, then?”
“We don’t want the same things.” But even as I say it, that urge to expand my family, to add a baby to the mix, doesn’t feel as important as it did when I met her. Not when faced with the thought of losing her.
He arches a brow. “Are you absolutely certain about that?”
Am I certain? I thought I was sure, but I don’t know anymore.
When I don’t say anything, Oliver fills the silence.
“It seems when you find somebody you love, really love, especially when you’ve never been in love before, you ought to try and make it work, Liam.”
There’s some serious wisdom in there, but I’m not actually sure how to mine it.
I hop on my bike and go back to work, because that I can do.
27
January
When I finish my job the next day installing kitchen cabinets for LaTanya Smith, Wednesday and I head to town, both of us on a mission.
Boba tea and YouTube channel planning for her and Audrey.
Advice and sympathy from Alva for me.
As we near the salon, Wednesday taps her wrist. “Did you know it’s time?”
“Time for what? Seeing Audrey? Um, yeah. Obviously.”
She pats my shoulder. “Ripley, Mom. Ripley. Keep up with me.”
“This weekend,” I say, doing my best to stay cheery for my girl.
When she spots Audrey snapping photos of some ducks in a pink wading pool, she waves and rushes off to hang with her bestie.
I go to see Alva at the salon.
She’s closing up, and I sit in one of the chairs, look at her in the mirror, and sigh heavily.
I’m a sandbag made of lead.
My heart is stone.
My head hurts.
“Talk to me, babe.”
The saddest sigh in the state of California falls from my lips. “I held this sweet little girl the other day, Betty’s granddaughter, and it made me think maybe I could do this. I just don’t want to lose him.”
She stares at me in the mirror, an intensity in her brown eyes as she tucks her sleek black hair behind her ears. “You shouldn’t have children for another person.”
“I know that, but I like kids. Hell, I love kids.” I don’t sound as chipper as I want to.
“No doubt there. But just because you have one, just because you love them, doesn’t mean you should have another one for a man. It’s not fair to the kid, or to the man, or to you.”
My chest aches, a nagging, insistent pain. “But I love him too, and I don’t know what to do.”
“If you don’t know if you want children, you can’t make yourself want them for him.”
“I want to want them. I think maybe I could. When I held Betty’s granddaughter, I thought maybe I could do it.”
She turns around, facing me so we’re no longer looking in the mirror. Somehow, stripping away that reflection makes the conversation more intense. She parks her hands on the armrests of the salon chair. “But you don’t know for sure, right?”
My throat hitches. “I don’t think I know for sure. But I don’t want to lose him. I love him. I love him so much. More than I thought I would. So much that I’d marry him if he wanted,” I say, and she lights up with glee. “So maybe I should be willing to have kids.”
The glee winks off, replaced by a stern stare. “Have you told him any of this? How you feel about kids? About him? About a future? Not even the marrying part, but the being-willing-to-be-a-partner part? The I love you and want to be with you always part. Have you spoken to him about how you feel?”
I flash back through our conversations, because I have a sinking feeling I’ve said the opposite to Liam.
That day at IKEA, he asked if I wanted to settle down. I said I was still working up the nerve to adopt a cat.
He asked if my life was Wednesday and me against the world.
I said yes, and I liked it that way. I can focus on my business, on my kid. I don’t have to worry about a man.
On the porch swing, he asked what were the chances of meeting someone who wants the same things you do.
I said small, and we toasted to the limited odds of it happening.
But we never really acknowledged that it could be us, that we could want the same thing at the same time.
