A photo might keep the rabid grandmother at bay for long enough for me to figure things out with Victoria—Tori, gah, dammit.
“Tori or Victoria?”
She stares at me for a long beat. “Either’s fine. From you. I think. But I reserve the right to change my mind. Mom calls me Victoria when I’m in trouble.” Her lips purse like she’s fighting the urge to say more.
“What is it?”
A shake of her head dislodges a springy curl from her ponytail. “We’ll work up to it.”
I dunno what that means but it sounds like some time in the future which means she’s not walking out of here with no plans to ever see me again. That statement unwinds tension in the crease of my neck. I hadn’t realized how worked up I was over the outcome of this get together.
There’s every reason for this woman not to believe me. The news articles all say I took a hit, but nowhere in them did we release the information that I lost my memory. She’s just going on my word alone for that. And it’s awfully convenient for me to hit my head, forget about a woman I knocked up, and never reach out to her again.
For all she knows, I saw her waddling around the store one day and actively decided not to be a participant in their lives.
She’s taking a lot on faith right now, and I don’t want to take that for granted. For all I know, I scared the fuck out of her by refusing to let her leave, and she’s telling me whatever I need to hear until she gets outside and can run fast and far away.
“Do you think I could have a picture of Wyatt, please?”
When her head cants to the side, I can’t help but feel like I’m about to lose a ball.
Maybe even both of them.
“For my parents.” I shrug. “I know they’d love to see him. And I’d like to have a picture on my phone, for, you know, me.”
She taps her screen a couple of times as I recite my number to her and about ten pictures appear in my inbox. A quick scroll of them has me smiling and a lump swelling at the back of my throat. “Thank you.” Resisting the urge to pull my phone to my chest and give it a hug, I smile at her. “He’s amazing.”
She nods, and I can’t tell whether she’s choked up with emotion, or she’s ready to stab me for overstepping.
Where exactly are the boundaries with a woman whose vagina you don’t remember?
“Can I call you?” My face burns as I rub my damp palm along my pants. “I’d like to see you again.”
I don’t add “both” into the sentence, but the implication is heavy. At some point, I’m going to want to meet my son,ourson, and get to know him, make up for lost time. But we need to take it slowly. We need to rebuild whatever trust she had in me before, and add to it.
If I had raised my kid by myself, I wouldn’t just let any rando take him out for ice cream. Even if they shared the same DNA.
She stands, grabs her bag, and pushes the chair in against the table with a nod. “Yeah.” She slides her purse onto her shoulder. “That might be okay. Text me. Because what kind of animal calls people these days?”
Facts. But considering how much I love the sound of her voice, calling her feels like something I want to do every fucking day. Reining in my enthusiasm, I contain my shit-eating-grin to a regular sized grin.
“Okay. I will.”
CHAPTER 17
Victoria
Hazard of the jobmy fucking vagina.
Raffi downplayed his injury. When I got back from the pie place, I pulled open my laptop and did some digging.
He wasn’t joking when he said he hits his head a lot. That much was true. There are a number of news articles spanning back to his high school hockey days where he’d taken heavy hits against the boards during games.
None of the articles mentioned memory loss, or any other symptoms of concussion. So I dug deeper, and that fucker seems to be the fucking King of Understatement.
Why the fuck is he still playing hockey?
I get enjoying a game. I get wanting to play professionally—which is what all his interviews online indicate he wants to do—but this… This is sheer lunacy.
