Then stop being such a fucking coward and choose her.
I stand there as it breaks over me in an icy wave of realisation. I’m afraid. I’m fucking afraid. I’m afraid of opening myself up. I’m afraid of not being enough for her, ofmylove not being enough. And knowing that makes this impossible problem an easy one to solve.
I could stop being afraid, and love this beautiful, passionate, special woman the way she deserves to be loved. I could give her what she’s wanted this whole time, and I have the power. I have the power to give her everything she’s always wanted, but only if I don’t put my fear first. Only if I don’t putmyselffirst.
For a long moment I stand there, staring at the pieces of paper on the floor. I never wanted to be selfish like my parents, but I understand now that if I continue on this path I’ll turn into a carbon copy of them. I can’t do that, not with a child coming into this world. A child that deserves a better upbringing than I ever had. A child who deserves a better father than I had. And whose mother deserves more than a man who decides that loving her isn’t as important as his own fear of being hurt.
I crouch on the floor, and slowly gather up the pieces of the plan I ripped up, then once I have them all I leave the guest bedroom and go downstairs to my study at the back of the house, my research report forgotten. Once I’m there I lay all the pieces of paper on my large oak desk and study them, my heart painful in my chest.
This room is what I wanted for my child, and it always included the mother of my child. I was thinking about her, and what she’d like, with every line I drew, and now she and what she’d like are stuck in my head.
There’s a reason you can’t stop thinking about her, why you were so angry with her for so long, why you were so afraid when she told you that she loved you.
I know. I can feel it inside me, the one truth I could never face, never even acknowledge. The truth that I was afraid of even looking at. The truth that I love her. That I’ve been in love with her all this time, from the moment I saw her. I told myself it was physical, just sex, merely chemicals and pheromones, nothing more, but it wasn’t and never has been.
It’s always been something deeper, something more. Something genuine. Something real.
I thought that I could keep my emotions separate from my rational thinking, that they were flaws. But they’re not. They’re part of my biology as much as my rational mind is, and I’m starting to realise something else, too.
Reality is made up of facts and love is one of those facts. Love is one of the fundamental truths of the universe, and, while it hurts, there’s another side of it. Beatrix has shown me what that side is. Happiness. Joy. Laughter. Companionship. Acceptance. All the things I’ve never had from anyone else.
All the things that I know now I can only get from her.
The urge to find her is strong, but I need to do something first.
I sit at my desk, and slowly and carefully I piece my plan back together again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Beatrix
I’m sitting onthe window seat in the little sitting room, my stomach knotted, my throat aching. I thought I might at least start to feel better, as it’s been a couple of days since Santiago walked out, but I don’t. If anything I feel worse.
I’m trying to read a book right now, but my thoughts keep drifting, and I can’t take in any of the words I’m reading. All I can think about is Santiago, wondering where he is and what he’s doing, and what will happen when our baby is born.
I can’t leave him, though, no matter how unpleasant he makes himself. I want him to know that love doesn’t require him to do anything or to be anyone other than who he is. It doesn’t make demands or ultimatums.
I do want him to love me, I can’t deny that, and it hurts that he doesn’t. But I’m not going to do to him what that family of so long ago did to me. I’m not going to get rid of him because he doesn’t fit into my life, or because he’s too rigid or demanding, or finds it difficult to express himself. I’m not going to get rid of him foranyreason. I can’t. He’s too important, both to me and to our child, and besides, love isn’t that petty.
I’m trying to read the same page of my book for the fourth time when suddenly the door to the sitting room bursts open, and Santiago comes in.
Every muscle in my body tightens in shock as I look up.
His hair is all over the place, as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times, and his black eyes are burning like hot coals. He’s carrying the rolled-up piece of paper that he drew his plan on, but it looks as if it’s been ripped apart then put back together with sticky tape.
I stare at him coolly, determined not to make a fuss. ‘So, you’re back. Will you be here for dinner tonight?’
‘Fuck dinner,’ he says roughly, going over to the coffee table and heedlessly pushing everything off it. Then he carefully lays down the piece of paper on the tabletop, before coming over to where I’m sitting. He pulls the book out of my grasp without a word, then takes my hand and draws me off the window seat, and over to the coffee table.
‘Santiago,’ I say breathlessly, ‘what are you doing?’
‘This,’ he says and points at the plans. ‘I want this.’
They’ve very definitely been torn apart, and then painstakingly pieced back together again. I stare at it for a moment and then look at him.
His eyes are burning brighter, the look on his face fierce in a way I don’t recognise.
‘You tore it up?’ I ask, a little lump rising in my throat.
