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I think ‘fuck, leaving them would hurt.’
I think ‘fuck, I really don’t want to.’
43
SUNDAY
I’ve got a problem.
A very big, very inconvenient problem; I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Cass Morgan. I challenge anyone to watch him console their son, tell him he all but considers him his own, and not fall on their freaking face.
Although, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t as quick as that. I’m pretty sure I’ve been falling for a while. Slowly. Sneakily. Not quite obliviously but maybe ignorantly. Like if I didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't happening. Last night, though, I had no choice. It freaking punched me in the face, unwilling to be ignored any longer, an inner voice screechingyou love himso loudly, I was briefly concerned he could hear.
What a nightmare that would be.
There was a moment first thing this morning when I opened my eyes and found his already on me. The sun was just rising, painting Cass’ bedroom in a soft orange glow, making him glow too. The way he was looking at me was so soft, so reverent, and my sleepy brain thought okay. Maybe, maybe, it’s not just me. I’m not the only one feeling this.
And then his gaze dropped, his expression changed, and there it was. Love. The way he looked at my bump, the way he feels about our baby girl, that’s love. Maybe sometimes the feelings he has for her bleeds into what he feels for me but I’m not naive enough to think they’re the same.
He cares about me. I know that. But I’m pretty sure there’s only two things in the world that Cass really, truly loves and I’m not either of them.
And I’m okay with that. Really. Weirdly. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I’m kind of used to unreciprocated love. It’s oddly comforting. Something normal that I know how to deal with.
I don’t need him to love me. Him just being around is enough. Him loving my kids is so much more important.
Shaking those thoughts from my brain, I focus on the more pressing matters that propelled me out the door at the crack of dawn; the memory of my son’s tear-streaked little face and the bone-deep need to throttle John. I knew what August told us was only the tip of the iceberg even before I coerced a confession out of him. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when he admitted the ungodly amount of shittiness he’d been subjected to. Comments about me being a slut, about Cass undoubtedly eventually getting sick of us, about there being no room for August once the baby comes—a rhetoric I’ve been killing myself trying to abolish. It culminated in August screaming at them to shut up, them screaming back, everyone screaming and screaming and screaming, presumably right up until they abandoned my inconsolable kid on the doorstep. And all of this happened before the damn paternity test so it’s probably going to happen again when they undoubtedly demand another.
I didn’t think I could get more angry but lo and behold, when I pull into The Valley Inn and find the beaten-up truck I lost my virginity in being packed up by the man who took it, my rage doubles.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The slam of my door is as loud as my yell of disbelief, drawing the attention of everyone in the parking lot except the one person my yell is aimed at. “You’re leaving?”
John doesn’t look up as I approach, the suitcase he’s jamming in the backseat far more deserving of his attention. “Yup.”
Yup. That’s it. No explanation. One little word that genuinely leaves me speechless for a moment, and when I do regain control of my faculties, I’m only capable of repeating, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Sunday, honey.” Concern softens my father’s tone, his steps towards me tentative, his hands held up like I’m a freaking wild beast to be approached with caution. Mama lurks just behind him, lips pursed and a hand pressed to her chest, no doubt disgusted by the distasteful scene I’m causing. “Calm down.”
Daddy’s approach ceases when I turn my scowl on him. “Stop telling me that.”
“Stop telling her anything, Billy,” John drawls. “She doesn’t like to listen.” Slamming the car door, he turns to me with his hands on hips, expression bored and slightly exasperated, like I’m the one being difficult. “You’re getting what you want, Sunday. Like always.”
Yeah, that’s me. Always getting what I want. All the time.Constantly. God, that’s laughable. “You think this is what I want? A custody battle that does nothing but crush my kid?”
“There’s not gonna be a battle.” When I frown, John rolls his eyes, kissing his teeth at my confusion. “I changed my mind. I don’t want custody.
I swear, I malfunction for a second. Blinking rapidly, I pinch my arm, wondering if I’m dreaming. If those words, barely comprehensible like I’m hearing them underwater, really just left his mouth. “What?”
“I’m dropping the suit.”
He’s dropping the suit. Just like that. I should be relieved. I am relieved. But also… what the fuck? “So, what? You did all this for fun? To fuck with me?”
His nonchalant shrug makes me want to break his shoulders. “Congratulations, Sunday. You win. My son hates me.”
When he makes for the driver’s side door, I follow, resisting the urge to plant my palms on his back and shove with all my might. “Is that what this is about? You’re giving up because your feelings got hurt?”
“I’m not giving up,” he claims but he reeks of wounded pride as he spins to face me. “It’s just not worth it. He’s not worth it.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “You're a deadbeat piece of shit and I hope you have the miserable life you deserve.”
