Page 61 of Love What's Left
“He paid for my apartment? Not a housing stipend from work?Him?” That doesn’t sound like me. Even if we were together, I can’t see myself trusting anyone like that unless I had some kind of contract in place.
“Yup. If someone asked a question about the other one, somehow, you magically knew the answer. Why did you know Gabriel’s blood type? For what reason? How would he know what brand of shampoo you used if you weren’t together? But anytime someone asked, both of you came up with an excuse. Driving together was convenient because you lived in the same building. Sneaking off at the same time was a coincidence. But the chemistry was electric. And Gabriel, who was once the biggest dam—I meangosh darn—player on the planet, cold-turkey stopped flirting with other women. No dates with anyone else. Not ever.”
She huffs. “He said he was ‘finding himself.’ Foryears. Then, finally, you two show up at one of Bronwyn’s weekend house parties, together, as usual. But this time, you’ve got an engagement ring on your finger.”
“What happened when we announced our engagement?”
“His mom said, ‘Oh, good. We’re done pretending you’re not in love with each other.’”
Guilt burns through me as I wipe away the last residue of flour from the countertop.
Franki must misinterpret my expression because her voice softens. “You’ll remember it all. Just like you’ll eat on your own again.”
She doesn’t understand. Ihaveto regain those memories, but the more I learn about myself, the more afraid I am of who I was.
“Does Gabriel know what you’re doing today?”
It takes me a moment for her question to sink in. “I don’t want him to be disappointed if I fail. He knows Dave took me shopping, though.”
“He’ll be proud of you for trying.”
“The way I’m doing this doesn’t address my lack of trust. It’s more of a workaround, but, ‘It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get ya.’” My joke goes over like a fart in church. Not only doesn’t she smile, a set of shallow dents appear directly between her eyebrows.
I wash my hands and dry them before admitting the real reason I’m doing this. “If something happened to him because he was tasting food for me, the guilt would eat me alive.”
“I believe everything in this house is safe. Nobody’s getting in here, but if I were in your shoes, I’d do the same thing you are.” She scrunches her face. “Maybe not exactly the same. Henry is a much better cook than I am. I’d have to live off salad. Where did you learn to make homemade pizza dough?”
“When I think about it, I get this image of a little round lady barking orders at me, but . . . nicely?” I hold a hand up to indicate someone who doesn’t quite reach my collarbones.
“I bet I know who you’re remembering. Do you mind holding Ian for a minute?”
“DoI—Gimme my nephew,” I say with so much enthusiasm that she laughs.
The one time Ian wrapped his fist around my finger, Henry hovered over me with both hands held in midair like he was ready to snatch the baby out of my evil grasp at a moment’s notice.
The thought pulls me up short, and I freeze. “Are you sure it’s cool with Henry?”
“It’s fine. You should have seen him with the labor and delivery nurses in the hospital. It’s not you. It’s just new dad jitters.”
When they arrived a month ago, I didn’t trust myself with Ian. But I’m stronger physically and mentally now. I’ve had many new memories, but no more meltdowns or flashbacks since the one with the psychiatrist. I can support his weight for a little while if I hold him against my body.
“He’s growing so fast, but we still support his head unless he’s lifting it himself—Oh. That’s right. I forgot what a pro you are with the babies,” she says as I naturally crook my elbow to support him as she passes him into my arms.
“I babysat a lot when I was in the foster system. There were always little ones around.” I smile down at Ian in my arms, and he responds with an open-mouthed, toothless grin and grabs my braid.
“He does that to me too. When I wear my hair down, he uses it like a bell pull,” she says.
“I don’t mind. I hope I have kids of my own some day.” I smooth down the wild tuft of caramel-colored hair on the top of his head. “Sweet little babies like you,” I coo in a singsong voice.
“I thought you didn’t want children,” she says, surprise evident in her tone.
I look ather in confusion. “A lot can change in ten years, but I can’t imaginethat.” I’ve always wanted a family. I desperately wanted children I could give everything that I didn’t get. Love, attention, support. A home.
Franki shakes her head. “You told me on your wedding day that you and Gabriel had zero plans to be parents. Ever.”
My stomach swoops toward my feet. “Maybe he didn’t want them?”
I can’t imagine choosing to marry someone so incompatible with me. I don’t have to be the one to give birth to a child. I’d be more than open to adoption. But to marry someone who never wanted kids at all sounds like more than a compromise; it was giving up a lifelong dream.
