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“What’s that?” he grumbles, his words like jagged rocks.
“I received a letter from the court a while back when his sentence for my case was complete. I was just wondering if Jacob could have found that letter. It’s under lock and key, though, so I don’t see how.”
Our fingers unlink as John presses his spine into the booth. I can see he’s processing.
I can see he’s angry.
Forme.
He rakes his fingers into his hair, wadding them into a fist. He was like this the night by the river. Tonight, the brokenness is forme.
Seventeen years out, I shouldn’t need this kind of support. Years have passed, I did the hard work, and—
Survived.
I survived.Nothing about it was pretty, and the last few days I’ve lost sight of the fact, but here I sit, sane and maybe not-quite whole, but…getting there?
I look him in the eye. “What was it you were you going to ask before?”
His features reshuffle into a near-normal arrangement. “Nothing, Hollie. There’s no need…”
Funny. The man who bosses people around for a living and has made an artform of doing so is suddenly the one searching for words, trailing sentences, backing down.
“No. Go ahead.”
He hangs his finger above his lip. “Why did you keep Jacob? I can’t imagine most women would do that.”
“I…” Tough question—which isn’t to say I don’t have an answer. In hindsight, it’s embarrassing for its naiveté and immaturity.
We both lean back as our waitress delivers our meals. I feel her pain as I watch her depart on an uneven gait.
John gestures to the food. “Never mind. Eat. We can talk later.”
Has he tired of my drama or is he being kind? I clasp my hands between my thighs. “No, I’m going to tell you. But you go ahead and eat.” My pile of hashbrowns smothered in sausage gravy and topped with cheese is steaming like a hot teakettle anyway.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I shrug. “For some strange reason, I want to tell you.”
Our eyes meet. “It’s your call.” His voice has gentled to pillowy softness.
“I told you about how much older my siblings are. Growing up, I was essentially an only child, except I didn’t get the usual spoiling and hyper-focus of my parents. They were…” I search for the right words. “You know those couples who are so into each other that you feel invisible when you’re around them?”
His eyes roll hard. “Been around a few like that lately.”
He’s so funny. “Well, that was my parents. Dad had recently sold his business, and all they wanted was to travel.” The weekend trip they were on that night was a consolation prize for my existence holding them back from doing the real globetrotting they dreamed about. “Don’t get me wrong, they loved me, but I often felt alone. On the outside looking in.”
He leans his elbows on either side of his plate and rests his chin on his locked hands.
“I wanted my baby. I guess I—stupidly—saw him as a way to have someone who belonged tome.” Glancing to the window, I need a moment before I can confront my own folly. “Looking back, I can see that I was in shock in the beginning. Once he was born…everything hit. I couldn’t repress anything any longer. I spent two weeks in inpatient treatment and a couple years in counseling. My parents did all they could, but then Dad died, Mom had her own struggles, and I…I wasn’t much of a mother the first few years of Jacob’s life. And now there’s all this.” I gesture limply. “If it weren’t for me, he could have had a motheranda father.”
Our plates are obstacles. Otherwise, judging by the intensity of John’s stare, I believe my hand would be wrapped in his again. “You don’t know that. Things happen. Life happens. So, maybe yes—or maybe no. Either way, he’d have to confront his history at some point.” He pushes his plate aside and reaches, palm up, wiggling his fingers. I surrender my hand to his fortifying grip. “Frankly, I wish my parental instincts had been as strong as yours.”
I sweep my thumb along his. “It wasn’t the same situation.”
“No, mine was a hundred times simpler.” His eyes drop in thought. “Regardless of what you’d done, Jacob would have had things to deal with. None of us gets through this life unscathed.”
I manage a smile that’s surprisingly genuine. “You’re waxing philosophical, John Chavez.”
