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‘I was a kid.’ His lips tug downwards, matching mine. ‘But you’re right. I think she’s probably my longest relationship.’
He’s dedicated to being single. I get it. ‘Surely, from time to time, you want more than...this?’
His eyes lock onto mine. ‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘How can that be?’
‘I like my life. I like my job, my career, my lifestyle. I like sex, with lots of women. I like casual, no mess, no fuss. I like this,’ and he pushes up, his body on top of mine, his legs straddling me.
I make a sound of surprise, then of desire, as his nearness instantly sparks want in my bloodstream.
‘Why would I want more than this?’
I scrunch my nose, even as thought is becoming almost impossible. ‘You don’t want kids?’
‘Hell, no.’ He visibly blanches.
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I just know myself. I don’t want that responsibility. How could I ever be a fucking dad, Millie? Look at my own upbringing. Look at the way I was raised. Do you think I’d ever get married, have a kid, knowing Clint Brophy’s blood runs through my veins?’
Desire, surging in my gut, is doused instantly, sucked out of me, replaced with utter, complete sympathy.
‘Are you like him, Michael?’
‘I do everything in my power not to be,’ he says firmly, rolling off me and flipping onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. But I don’t like the separation, nor the distance. I pull his arm out and wriggle my body closer, laying my head on his chest so his arm can wrap around my shoulders. ‘I don’t want to be.’
‘Then you’re not,’ I say firmly.
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not?’ I stifle a yawn.
‘Because.’ The word is somewhat belligerent. ‘He’s a fucking nightmare, but he’s still my father. I look like him. Speak like him. Why is it so hard to believe that I won’t act like him too, one day?’
‘You asked me yesterday...no, the day before? You asked me if I think parenthood is purely biology. I don’t. I think being a parent is a choice you make, and your behaviour is a choice too. Do you think all children of murderers or rapists grow up to perpetrate the same crimes as their parents?’
He’s quiet and so tense his body is rigid. ‘No.’
‘Of course they don’t. Because having an impulse and acting on it are two entirely different things.’ I snuggle in closer. ‘I’m sorry you’ve let your fear of his legacy control your life so much, Michael.’
He doesn’t answer and I drift off to sleep, with no way of knowing that my words are etching into his soul, turning over stones he’d buried years and years earlier. I fall asleep and I dream of Michael—good dreams, but dreams that don’t live up to reality. I’m not sure anything could match the truth of what I’ve shared, and with whom.
* * *
‘Where are we going?’ she a
sks, finishing off the square of pizza, looking up and down Eighth Avenue.
‘You want the quintessential New York experience, right?’
‘I think we did that last night,’ she drawls. ‘The ballet, I mean. And dinner. And...’ She laughs and slaps my shoulder. ‘Oh, shut up.’
I laugh back, catching her hand and squeezing it in mine. ‘This is different.’
