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“Why?” I begin, but I see the withering look he gives me and trail off, swallowing hard. “The East Village,” I reply at last. “At the corner of East 13th and Avenue C.”
Bruce doesn’t respond, nodding briskly to the driver, who turns right and starts in that direction. I’m growing tense, and I have to sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting. He’s just going to drop me off, I tell myself. He’s not coming in or anything.
Yet my heart begins to race as we approach my neighborhood, and it dawns on me that Bruce has never seen where I live. I’ve always been too ashamed to invite him to my shabby apartment, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. My part of the East Village isn’t exactly nice, although it’s gentrifying quickly, and my building often has crackheads lingering outside, not to mention the occasional panhandler begging for a dollar. Maybe I deserve this now as payback for keeping my son a secret from the man I love.
I’m practically dying of nerves by the time we pull up outside my shabby walk-up, and Bruce turns around to look at me. “Is this it?” he demands.
I nod, and when I reply, my voice is barely audible. “Yes. You can just let me out here. Thanks for the ride.” Just saying the words aloud are enough to make my throat thicken again. Aware that this is the last time I’ll ever see him, I take one last look at Bruce Crown, trying to memorize every feature. He’s fuming, but he’s still the father of my child, and the man I’ve fallen in love with. I let my eyes linger over those stormy blue eyes, the proud nose, and the high forehead. I’ve been kissed by those mobile lips more times than I can count, and he’s caressed me with those big hands until I couldn’t remember my own name.
But everything must come to an end, and after one more agonizing moment, I open the door and climb out, purse in hand. The chauffeur jumps out to help me with my suitcase, and I thank the small man in a low voice. Meanwhile, in my head, I bid adieu to the man I love. Goodbye, Bruce Crown, I think. I love you, and I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know. I wish things could have been different from the bottom of my heart.
But my train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the passenger side door slamming shut, and before I realize it, Bruce is standing on the sidewalk beside me. He ducks down to say something to the limo driver, but I don’t catch his words. Then he turns around, putting his hands in his pockets, and stares up at my apartment building with narrowed eyes, like he’s scrutinizing the place. Sizing it up. As if he’s not quite sure what to make of the place where his son has been living for the past two years. I can already tell it doesn’t live up to his expectations, but that’s not a surprise. How much of any of this has lived up to his expectations?
But Bruce doesn’t get back into the car. Instead, he turns to me, and even though he still looks angry, I can see that same glimmer of something that crossed his features on the airplane. Is it mistrust? Caution? Suspicion? I can’t tell. When he speaks, the edge is gone from his gravelly voice, but his tone doesn’t leave room for negotiation. “I want to see him,” he says.
I swallow, hardly believing what I’m hearing. “See whom?”
“My son,” Bruce snorts, almost derisively. “I want to see my son.”
“You…” I swallow again, my throat feeling dry. “You do?” Bruce stares me down, as if daring me to say no, and I shrink a little under his piercing gaze. “Okay,” I say in a faint voice, feeling dazed. “Okay, let me just, um…”
I fumble in my purse for my apartment key, but my hands are shaking, and I drop it the second I have it. Cursing to myself, I stoop to pick up my key ring, feeling Bruce’s eyes on me all the while. I’m unsteady on my feet, not to mention a little dizzy and a little nauseous. Who knows if it’s because of my pregnancy? But I’ll be damned if I let myself blurt that out now, of all times.
Fighting off queasiness, I somehow manage to get my key in the lock and push the front door open. Head down, I walk into the unattended entryway, doing my best not to see Bruce’s reaction. There are a dozen scratched-up mailboxes on one side, and a dirty fluorescent bulb overhead. A pile of garbage bags lie by the stairs that need to be taken out, and a couple of cockroaches scuttle away when we approach the stairs.
