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Difficult and lonely.
And still, she didn’t reach out to let me know Liam was mine. Didn’t give me the chance to be a dad. To be someone other than Rhett Beauregard, star wide receiver.
Most days, that’s all I am.
Who did Jennifer lose when she became a mother? Was she always alone looking after Liam?
The thought hits me out of nowhere: have I been lonely this whole time?
But that makes absolutely no sense. If I want company, I get it. I have four siblings. Fifty teammates. Eight coaches and twice as many trainers, masseuses, acupuncturists, reflexologists. An unlimited travel budget and guaranteed company in all my favorite places around the world.
Why do I drink like I do, then?
Why this creeping sense that I’m missing something, something big that has nothing to do with MVP awards or pretty girls in tiny bikinis on white sand beaches?
“Today is not the day for an existential crisis,” I murmur to myself in the mirror. Time to put my head down and keep going. Today is going to be the hardest part of this whole thing. I canceled everything to be with Liam today. After this, it will get easier, and life will get back to normal, and I’ll return to my routine in no time.
People juggle parenthood and work all the time. If they can do it, so can I. Even if the thought of returning to said routine ties my stomach in knots.
So I dry my hands and head out into the family room, determined to have the best time ever doing whatever one does with a water table.
“Who’s ready to play pirates?” I ask, and Liam smiles.
Chapter Eleven
Rhett
Amelia stays late to help me bathe Liam and put him to bed. By the time I walk her to the front door, I am bone-tired and in desperate need of a beer (or twelve).
I had no idea feeding, bathing, and getting a two-year-old to go to bed took so much damn energy. Liam is a cute little fucker. But he’s definitely not sold on me. I’m not a natural, not like Beau or Amelia. Hell, Liam smiled at her all through bathtime but whimpered when he looked at me, even when I put on a little show with a rubber duck and a miniature bucket stamped mystifyingly with frogs and a spaceship.
Now Amelia’s leaving for the night.
I really, really wish she wasn’t.
I open the door, and she adjusts the bag on her shoulder, a Woodward Academy tote embroidered with her initials. In pink, of course.
Reaching up to fold my hand over the top of the door, I say, “Thank you, sincerely, for all your help today. I would legit be curled up in a ball on the floor right now if it wasn’t for you.”
“It’s my job, remember?” She gives me a tight smile, eyes flicking to my outstretched arm. Flicking back to my face. “I’ll be here at eight fifteen tomorrow. Just keep doing what you’re doing, all right?”
“Keep fucking up?”
Her smile softens. “Keep trying.”
“Right.” I want to ask her to stay for a beer. Badly. I’m not ready for Amelia to leave yet; the idea of being alone in the house with Liam scares the shit out of me. Maybe because the reality of my situation is finally settling in. I may have help—lots of it—but at the end of the day, I’m the one who’s ultimately responsible for my son.
The idea of being alone, period, scares me in a way it hasn’t before. Maybe because my house has been full of action today, people too, and the sudden silence that presses in from behind me is at once a welcome relief and a terribly depressing turn of events.
How many beers am I allowed to have with Liam here? He’s sleeping now, sure, but what if he wakes up and, like, runs a fever or something and I have to take him to the ER? Probably can’t have the handful I’d like to slam.
Then what the fuck is gonna dull the restlessness I feel at this time every day? That sinking feeling I get, equal parts exhausted and bored? Will I be able to fall asleep?
“Do yourself a favor and go to bed early,” Amelia says. “It will be better in the morning, I promise.”
“Only because you’ll be here.”
“Damn right.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “You can do this.”
“I don’t know if I can, Amelia.”
She takes a breath. Lets it out. “Let me rephrase: you have to do this. So eat a good dinner, get some good sleep, and we’ll regroup in the morning. Night, Rhett.”
“Night,” I say miserably. “Thanks again.”
I watch her climb into her car—a navy blue Chevy Malibu, the rental her insurance company gave her while they process her claim—and manage a grin when she waves before pulling out out my driveway. I make a mental note to offer her the Porche if she wants to use it. Not like I’ll be driving the thing much anymore.
