Page 55 of What We Broke

Zara resumes combing and wetting my hair, the conversation between us still heavy, but it’s lost the tension.

“It blew my mind that I never wanted kids, then when I decided otherwise, I couldn’t have them. I anticipated issues with adoption and fostering and surrogacy as a gay man, but not once… not ever did I expect to be told I was sterile. And it became one more thing I couldn’t do.”

“Does Jesse know how you feel about this?” she asks.

“He does. Before we lost Lola, I told him everything.” My chest longs for the ease of those days with him, when I wasn’t riddled with self-doubt and loathing.

“You know there’s nothing you could say now that would make him turn his back on you, right?”

It isn’t what I’m afraid of. I know he isn’t going anywhere, but I don’t want to hurt him with the thoughts that make me hurt. They’re untrue and they are ugly, but the thing about insecurities and a childhood riddled with neglect is there is no rationale.

There is no such thing as common sense and logic. It’s just pain, heartache, and no coping skills.

It doesn’t matter whether I had a biological stake in Lola, she was still mine just like Raine, but my brain continues to tell me since there is no biological attachment, there is no place for me.

The family was Zara and Jesse and Raine and Lola. They didn’t need me. And when Lola died, I felt that right down to the marrow of my bones.

But here I am, sitting here getting my hair cut by a woman who would die for me if she needed to. I have a husband who loves me and a daughter who calls me Papa because she loves me like I’m her own.

I’m worth something to them; I just need to work out how to believe it too.

“I know that,” I finally manage to say. “But you were right. Who is taking care of him? Who is going to catch him when he falls?”

“It could be me,” Zara answers. “But it should be you.”

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

jesse

NOW

Kickingoff my shoes at the front door, I walk straight to the laundry room to get out of my grease-stained clothes. I throw them in the wash and head to my room to shower.

I’m momentarily stunned when I see Leo asleep in our bed. As I walk closer to him, I notice his hair, cut and styled in a way I haven’t seen for so long. The change brings me to my knees beside the bed.

Fingers from one of my hands skate down the side of his face and the other hand plays with his shorter, neater curls.

His eyes eventually flutter open and I watch his facial expressions change as he processes my presence. He takes in the room and then the bed.

“I sleep in here sometimes,” he confesses. “When you’re not home.”

“This is your bed too,” I remind him. “You got a haircut?”

As if I’ve just reminded him, he runs his hand over the top of his head.

“Zara came over and did it for me.” His eyes nervously search my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for or what he’ll find, but I know my heart is beating wildly inside my chest at his revelation.

So much so that I have absolutely no idea how to process the information.

What does it mean? What doesn’t it mean? Why did he let his guard down for her and not me?

I clear my throat. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Reluctantly, I leave him and try to straighten myself and my thoughts out in the shower. Some days felt like we were moving forward, and that’s exactly what this, with Zara, is, but for some reason it hurts. It makes me feel like I don’t actually know what forward for us truly looks like.

I go through the motions, washing my body and hair on autopilot, my mind a million miles away. When I get out of the shower and walk back into our bedroom, I hate myself for being relieved that he isn’t still lying there in our bed, with his fresh haircut, looking like hope and heartache.

In an uncharacteristic move, I get myself dressed in jeans and a shirt and decide I need to leave the house.

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