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I’m coming to realize that I can’t stay silent on this topic. “I need to talk about this. I thought we’d come home to do that.”
“Home. This is my home, not yours. Yours is in Los Angeles. I don’t know if you live in an apartment or a house, near the beach, or above Sunset. I don’t know any of that.”
“But you could. I want to take you there. I want to introduce you to my family.”
“The family that shuffled you off on a bunch of nannies?”
The low blow hits its intended destination—below the belt. I’m not saying it’s not owed, but I’m starting to see some of the old Tatum returning. And that won’t bode well for me.
I stare at her, cautious like I’m trapped in a cage with a pacing tiger. Is it going to eat me alive or let me live? One thing I won’t accept is a dig toward my family, at least not from anyone else. “I joke about the nannies. The stories are true, but I find them funny. If you want to know the real reason I had so many, it’s because my mom was working at the time. Four kids is a lot to handle with a full-time job. My dad wasn’t the kid-rearing type. Still isn’t.” The happiness in her eyes escaped as soon as I screwed up and opened my mouth. But the fire that now resides inside means this isn’t going to be resolved with an apology.
There are lines we don’t cross, and my family is mine. “The sacrifices fell on my mom’s plate. Instead of putting us in a daycare, she hired nannies to keep us home. They would take us to our sports and make our meals instead of having to eat from a drive-thru. So if you want to punch me with what a handful I was, go right ahead, but be careful when you get too close to dragging my mom into this.”
Tatum doesn’t seem to understand that when I speak of my family, she’s now a part of it, a member I’m willing to do anything to protect.
The breath she sucks in is harsh and not taken easily. Her hands release the edge of the island, and she takes a step back. “I’m not sure what just happened, but I don’t want this.”
“This or us, Tate?”
“Are they one and the same?” There’s no spite in her tone, and the fire is starting to simmer. The question still stings, though, and I have a feeling I’m witnessing her pattern. Push me away to save herself the pain from another day. At least I know what she thinks of me.
“I know my answer, but what is yours?” I ask.
“This isn’t a tit for tat, Harrison. I’m not mad. I’m learning. Natalie once told me that she and Nick had to learn how to fight. They had to understand where the other came from instinctually. I’m trying to fight my own habits and give you the benefit of the doubt.” She exhales in a huff and then sighs, coming back around the island.
Holding the hem of my shirt, she adds, “I’m trying for you.”
I see it in her eyes, the sincerity shaping her expression, and the way she holds my shirt like she’s trying to hold on to me.
“It’s going to take more than an argument about nannies and grocery stores to scare me away.”
A soft smile hangs on her face. “I had teachers during the day when I was little and a nanny who was also the housekeeper. She still works for my parents, maintaining the Manhattan property. So I get it. We come from similar backgrounds even though things were different.”
“I don’t want the same thing I had. I don’t want nannies raising our kids. During the day, fine because we have to work, but at night, I want to be there for them.”
“Our.” Not a question, but just something to chew on. Taking a step back again, she turns away and then walks to the windows. “I guess this is all leading to the conversation I didn’t want to have.” Shadowed in the darkest part of the room, she looks back. I can still see the look of uncertainty in her eyes. “I was waiting to have everything confirmed at the doctor’s office, and you’re already making plans for more.”
“False positives are rare.”
“They happen, though, just like someone getting pregnant while on the pill. We’re the exception. It makes me nervous about finding out if we are when it comes to this as well.” Her hand sits on her middle like she might feel something.
“You should eat,” I say, the heaviness releasing from my chest.
Returning to the kitchen, she takes the spoon and sips the soup to challenge me. Setting the spoon down again, she says, “We should talk about what happens next.” I don’t know what to say. I want her to lead. I need her to. Not because I can’t, but I don’t want to plant hope where none is allowed to grow.
