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“So, let me preface this question by saying that you don’t need any reason to not want kids except that you just, well, don’t want them,” Ford says. “But I can’t help but feel this issue is related to how you feel about kids. Seeing how unhappy your mom is—seeing how much she’s had to give up—is that maybe what’s terrifying you about having kids yourself?”
Talk about feeling seen.
This guy gets it. He gets me. In ways I don’t even understand myself.
“Definitely,” I say. “That is definitely what terrifies me. Rationally, I know I won’t necessarily end up unhappy like that. But in my mind, taking the plunge into parenthood probably isn’t worth the risk. I like my life right now. I’ve worked really hard to make sure my story is different from my mother’s. A big part of that is—well, not having kids. Being exposed to my parents’ resentment day in and day out…Ford, it’s something that stays with you.”
Ford nods. I notice a muscle in his jaw jumps against his stubble. I get the feeling he’s…I don’t know, keeping something in. Or maybe bumming out.
Bumming out because he wants us to work but knows we never will?
The thought makes my chest hurt. Because I had the best time today, and I am insanely, joyfully attracted to him, and I enjoy his company so very much. We laugh. We connect. We get each other.
We’re the same in many ways. But at the end of the day, we want very different things.
We lead completely different lives.
Now, out of the blue, part of me might want to change that.
I want to consider more with him. I want to get past my fear, forget the painful lessons I’ve learned from my parents, and be able to at least consider the idea of seriously dating a man with a kid.
Because I’m starting to think Ford is kind of a dream guy. Yes, this is happening fast. We’ve hung out, what, all of three times over the past couple weeks? But in a way, I’ve known him for years. I’ve been with him for years.
In a way, we really are picking up where we left off.
How would a relationship with Ford work, though? He’s a dream, but to be with him, to become a stepmother to Bryce, I’d have to sacrifice parts of myself I am not willing to give up. Give an inch, give a mile, remember?
Then again—if I don’t have to save my own mother, my own family, the way I’ve been trying to do for basically my entire life—maybe that frees up space in my life to, say, have my own family. Maybe motherhood won’t be so overwhelming, and won’t require such extreme sacrifice, because I’ll have time in my life for the family I create and the dreams I’ve worked for so long to make happen. Because I won’t be spending that time trying to fix or save the family I came from.
Maybe it’s time for me to move on.
I mean, do I just get to do that? Now? Whenever I choose? But what will happen to Mom? Dad? Their relationship?
I don’t know.
I do know that the idea of not being responsible for anyone’s happiness but my own is a tempting one.
I run through the idea in my head over and over on the drive home. My heart twists when Ford puts his truck in park in front of my apartment.
Just like that, we’re back at the same spot where the day began. It flew by, and yet we covered years.
Ford takes off his sunglasses and drops them in a cup holder. Looks at me. Eyes searching my face.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I say.
He shakes his head. Just like I did when he asked me that question.
“You don’t want kids. I have a kid. I get where this is going,” he says slowly, taking his hands off the steering wheel. “If you want me to back the fuck off, I’ll do it. Won’t be easy, and I won’t be happy about it, but I’ll honor your wishes. That being said, I would still love to be your competence-porny recipe muse for your new cookbook. If you’ll have me. Not to toot my own horn, but…” He glances at his crotch. “Well, I’ve got a really nice horn. And I do come up with some solid ideas every once in a while. Plus I love your mom’s cooking. As an overworked single dad, I don’t get to eat home cooked comfort food all that often, so…”
I give him a shove. “Are you seriously guilt tripping me right now?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re the worst. Slash the best.”
“What if I throw head into the deal? I’ll give you all the head you want if you let me make your cookbook dreams come true.”
I try to glare at him, fighting a grin. “Jesus, you play dirty.”
