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“I’d have had different conversations with him. Made more effort. That first month or so, I took for granted that we were good. That he was good,” I tell her. “He wasn’t, and neither was I. Or, I wouldn’t have cut him off so thoroughly, I would have been relentless about having a conversation with him regarding my pregnancy.”
“If you had done all of those things, what do you think would be different now?”
“When did you become my therapist,” I tease.
“When you showed up in my driveway with him following behind you and sadness in your eyes. Or maybe at birth,” she says with a smile. “Can you answer?”
“If we’d handled his move differently, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten close to her. Maybe he wouldn’t have cheated.”
“And had he not cheated?”
Maybe we’d still be together.
That’s what she expects me to say. If I say that, the next logical question would be what’s stopping us from trying again. We’re both in the same place, our worlds impossibly connected. So, what’s stopping us?
“I want him to earn a second chance,” I finally admit. “I also have no clue how he possibly could.”
“At least you’re being honest with yourself about it, Isla. Maybe give it some time, it’s all happening so fast.” Yet it feels like it’s been happening for my whole life. “I’m proud of you for knowing you needed to talk about it.”
“No more internalizing my pain. I need to let it out like I let out my temper.”
Mom laughs at the running joke that’s been a regular for me since I was in therapy.
“You never did hold that in, that’s for sure. Though, it’s calmed down a lot since Sadie.”
“Yeah, well, pregnancy changes you. You could have warned me, you know? My feet grew right along with my hips and ass. So many great shoes were wasted. Not to mention how my hair suddenly became susceptible to humidity.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know that was something that could happen,” she argues. “It’s different for everyone, I suppose.”
“You going to take that shithead out of here so we can enjoy some time with our granddaughter?” Dad walks in, his chest puffed up like it gets when he’s upset about something.
“Everything okay?”
“No. He’s here,” he answers.
“I’ll have him take me home,” I say. “You know you have to coach him, right?”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like him.”
“Be nice,” Mom scolds.
“I was. I didn’t punch him.”
“Look at us both making progress.” I laugh and hug them, then go say goodbye to Sadie before dragging Cillian out to his car. He waves goodbye to my parents; Mom is the only one who waves back.
“Your dad hates me,” he says a few minutes into the drive.
“He’s protective, you know that.”
“I get it. I’m sure I’ll be the same. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and Sadie will be asexual.”
“She’s already told me she’s going to marry Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, so don’t count on it.”
“Oh, fuck no,” Cillian protests. “Why are you letting her watch Oilers games?”
“She loves hockey, dude.” I laugh at the disgusted look on his face.
“Dinner,” he offers hesitantly. I shake my head. “Listen, Isla, I don’t know what I did wrong today. I tried not to fuck up. But if I did something to upset you, can you tell me, so I don’t do it again?”
