I nod and can only hope that he’s right.
After what I’m pretty sure was the longest shower I’ve ever taken—letting the scalding hot water careen over my body, warming every last millimeter of skin—I got restless just sitting in Aileen and Angus’s cottage kitchen waiting for Jamie to come back.
So, I started baking. It’s what I’ve always done when I’m upset or restless. God, I hope they won’t mind. There’s a mess of bowls and ingredients all over the counter and the smell of Scottish shortbread fills the space. I loved seeing that there were all the necessary implements and ingredients here. It tells me Angus loves to cook at home as much as he does for the pub. It tells me he’s like me—or maybe I’m like him. Like my mum. She’s the same way.
Cooking for the people in my life is how I show them I love them. I figure it can’t hurt my chances at this conversation with Jamie going well if I have his favorite dessert waiting for him.
I’m lifting the final tray out of the oven when I hear a car outside. My heart jumps to my throat, beating a fast and anxious rhythm.
Will he come in here immediately? Go in search of his grandparents? To his room? What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if my waiting here is exactly what he doesn’t want?
I don’t have time to continue down the interrogatory spiral I’m in because the door opens and he’s there.
He really did come back.
Jamie came back.
There’s something in that alone that feels instantly soothing—almost healing.
He closes the door behind him and I take him in. His jeans still look slightly damp from our time in the rain, but his hair has dried, though it’s a disheveled mess. He looks weary, like the weight of this revelation—of this whole world he didn’t know existed—is bearing down on him. A weight that comes from the knowledge that you’re a parent or going to be one.
I’ve held that weight before.
This is the loudest silence I’ve ever experienced. It goes on for what feels like forever, neither of us speaking. I plead with him with my eyes to let me explain, my gaze never leaving his, and it’s like a standoff between us for who will break first.
I’m aware it needs to be me.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” I say, knowing those words will never encompass everything, but it’s the only place I can think to start.
His face crumples and he looks away, swiping at his cheeks. My feet move and I’m halfway around the kitchen island when his head snaps up and I stop in my tracks. I might want to offer comfort but that’s clearly not what he needs from me right now. I don’t know what he needs.
“Can we sit?” I ask gently, indicating to the couch in the parlor.
His solemn nod is all the answer I get. He sits at the far end, kicking an ankle across his knee and leaning back with one arm on the back. It’s an easygoing pose, but even after all these years, I know there’s nothing easy happening with him right now.
I sit on the other end, clasp my hands in my lap, and stare at them. The silence stretches again until he finally breaks it, and with his words, my heart shatters too.
“You lied to me, Avonlea.” His voice is calmer than it was in the driveway earlier, but the hurt underneath is palpable.
I look at him and wish I could say anything but “I’m sorry.” My brain isn’t providing anything else at the moment though.
“You’re sorry?” He shakes his head, disappointment clear in every line of his face. His auburn hair bounces with the movement, falling across his eyes. “We promised each other truth—honesty—always. This… How you could…” He stumbles over each attempt to share his thoughts.
“I was hurting, Jamie. I was broken-hearted and I was hurting, and I made the decision that made sense to me at the time.” I know I’ll never be able to make him understand—his stunned face is enough to tell me that—but this is a decision that has plagued me for years. “You left me. You walked away. You didn’t even say goodbye. I thought we were done, Jamie. You had the life you wanted in the States. Nothing about that was going to change. You didn’t want me, and I wasn’t going to force you into something, no matter how much I might have wanted to.”
He rears back. “So this is myfault?” He looks even more hurt now. “Because I was an idiot seventeen-year-old boy who hurt you, I didn’t deserve to know I had achild?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just trying to tell you how I felt as an idiot seventeen-year-old girl who was scared and didn’t know what to do.”
“But I tried, Avonlea… I tried to get in touch with you. I tried to apologize. I wanted to fix it and you—you…”
“I blocked you,” I whisper, knowing that knowledge will hurt him all over again. I always wondered if he tried to get in contact, but I never gathered the courage to look—to unblock his email and see. Maybe I should’ve, but it’s too late for maybes.
The pain in his eyes only intensifies. I’ve never seen him so broken, but now… “You—”
“Blocked you, yes. I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he spits, and the anger that he deserves to feel seems to overpower the rest of his emotions.
