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“I said, ‘I’m trying my best.’”
“Well… your best is enough. You’re a good mom and I’m sticking with that. Don’t argue with me.”
She worked her mouth and her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “Or what?”
Keep your damn hands, mouth, and dick to yourself, Greenwood. But fuck me if the look in her eye didn’t bring me right the hell back to Holiday Inn in Atlantic City when she grinned and challenged me to make her come again.
Her facial expression and comment about not wanting to get pregnant again popped into my mind, and I shoved the memory away.Nope. Not rising to that challenge.
I reached around her, opened the fridge, and pulled out a beer, popping the top and making the cap fly into the trashcan with ease. Taking a swig, I tried to think of a response, but everything that came to mind sounded sexual, so I shook my head and walked back to the couch, refusing to let myself flirt back.
Sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and my son in the other, I let something come into my mind I hadn’t let myself think about before. I thought about Maria pregnant.
What would she look like, her belly round and her breasts swollen? How big had she been with the twins? Maria wasn’t exactly skinny, and I remembered her being curvy with wide hips, but surely she had to have been huge with both of them in her womb, right?
What the hell was going on with me? I tried to focus on the boxing match in front of me. Why was I getting turned on at the thought of feisty little Maria round with my children?
My thoughts shifted back to the present. Why hadn’t she called me right away when she’d gotten pregnant? She’d clearly found my number somehow. I would have helped her through it. I could have been there for the birth at least.
But I didn’t say any of that, because Maria considered herself a failure if she couldn’t do things on her own with no help, and I didn’t want to start an argument, or worse, make her feel small or unhappy, by bringing up the past.
There’s nothing I can do about it now.
Sure there is. Take such damn good care of them they never want to leave.
I hoped to hell that would be the case, but I was prepared for the worst. She and the boys would be out of here as soon as she was back on her feet. Back and ready to pursue those dreams of hers, fight for that freedom and respect that she wanted so badly.
You didn’t steal my future, just my sophomore year of college.
She’d always have my respect, and a piece of my heart. Because when she left, she’d take those boys with her.
Will they even remember me?
Maybe when they left, Maria would tell them stories about our time together. Maybe they’d come see me as they got older, or I could visit for holidays. I didn’t let myself imagine any otherfuture, because it was far too tempting, and would be far too hard to give up.
I could fight for shared custody. We had already done a paternity test and put me on their birth certificates, and made sure all their paperwork was ready in case they got sick or hurt. But with Maria and her family so far away, what would that look like for the boys? Constantly going back and forth between states?
I didn’t have answers right now, and I didn’t push for them. I would figure it out with Maria when they were a little less helpless, and she was a little less defensive. Instead, I held Matthew tighter against my chest, pressing my nose to the top of his head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I told Drew I didn’t want to talk about what my father had said, he took me seriously. It felt like all our conversation was cut down to a few routine sentences that never changed.
“How was work?”
“Long.”
“Dinner will be ready at seven.”
“Great, thanks.”
It was almost a ritual by now. I’d been staying with Drew for a little over two weeks. The boys were getting big, much faster than before, and I’d gained back some of the weight I’d lost during my summer alone in a ratty apartment. Their regularly scheduled screaming had all but stopped. We had all fallen into a routine. Part of that routine was the same conversation when he came home from work.
Sometimes, work was long. Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was hot. Sometimes it was boring. But we always had the same conversation when he came in the door. He would kick off his dirty, steel-toed boots, hang his cap on a hook by the door, pull out the elastic band holding his braid in place, and run his fingers through his long, shiny black hair before heading back to his bedroom to shower and change.
Over dinner, he would ask me about the boys, but we didn’t usually speak much. Often, he’d have the TV on behind us so he could see it from the table, and he’d watch a football game, or boxing or something. He always cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher for me, thanked me for dinner, and then tried to entertain the boys while I did whatever needed to be done around the house, like folding laundry or finishing the dishes.
I felt like we cohabitated, but that we were living the same day repeatedly. Nothing changed, and time didn’t really seem to mean anything. He’d hold the boys while the tv was on, or fetch one of the few toys they accidentally tossed across the room with their vigorous attempts to stretch their arm muscles.
