I’ll come back. I promise.
But he still left. And he hasn’t come back.
My eyes fill with tears, a sob hiccupping through my chest.
“Dammit,” I whisper, scrubbing my hands over my face. The baby rolls over in my belly and I press a gentle palm to my stomach. “It’s okay, little potato. I’ll figure it out.”
But I’m not going to figure it out right now.
It’s late, and Leo obviously needs some time to cool down.
And I’m exhausted from work, from the fight, from growing a whole other human.
“Bed,” I say on an exhale, grabbing the laundry basket of baby clothes and carrying them into the room Leo and I decided to turn into the nursery. Only?—
“What?” I breathe, dropping the basket by the door and hurrying across the room.
The empty crib taunts me, but?—
It’s the rocking chair is what breaks me.
Because draped over its back is a perfectly crocheted blanket.
I don’t know when it appeared. If it’s been there a while or was just snuck in there today before I got home.
I just know…
It was Leo.
Sob catching in my throat, I gently reach my hand out, brush my fingers over the blanket.
And I know, know, in my heart that as fucked up as that conversation was, Leo isn’t the kind of man who’d try to control me.
He’s trying to protect me, to care for me.
Yes, he’s going about it in the completely wrong way (a way that makes me want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees sense).
But we’ve been figuring this relationship out, and while I’m going to need him to make sure he doesn’t do this same nonsense again, going to need us both to make a commitment to talking to each other, even about the uncomfortable things, he’s showed me the man he is plenty of times over.
He’s not my dad.
He’s not my ex.
He’s Leo—and he’s not perfect.
But neither am I.
Dashing my tears away, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
And my lungs hitch again when I see what’s on the screen—a text from him. One he sent just minutes after he left.
LEO: I promise I’m not leaving you. I just need a little time to get my thoughts together and I’ll be back.
I exhale and type out a message.
HARPER: I’m sorry for how that conversation went. But I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
I wait, running my fingers over the perfectly looped stitches that form the blanket. It’s a mix of pastels and it’s perfect for the nursery.
