Page 95 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

She hesitates, then nods. “Sure, of course.”

It doesn't sound like the truth, but I won't insist. I step into her house, immediately enveloped by warmth that goes beyond temperature. This place is nothing like my apartment's stark white walls and minimalist décor. Photos hang on the walls. I recognize a much younger Emily in some of them, gap-toothed and grinning in a soccer uniform, dressed up for what must be a high school dance, her arm around a petite blonde; I assume there is Sarah.

One photo in particular catches my eye. Emily as a little girl sitting on the lap of an elderly woman with the same warm eyes. They're laughing, and something about their expressions makes my chest ache. I never had family photos like this growing up. The only pictures in my childhood home were the ones my father would drunkenly tear off the walls when he was in one of his rages.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say, trying to break the embarrassing silence.

“Um, thanks, I think.” She clears her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Can I offer you anything?”

“A glass of water, if that's okay.”

She nods and quickly walks to a door that I imagine leads to the kitchen.

I'm left alone in the living room. The furniture is all cherrywood, worn but well-cared for, with quilted throws draped over the backs of chairs. There's an empty aquarium in one corner of the room, the water still and clear, waiting for inhabitants. I could give her some fish for it, I think, wondering if I could get some points with her family that way. Maybe tropical ones, with bright colors that would make her smile. The image of Emily smiling makes my heart clench. I haven't seen that smile in too long.

A stack of board games sits in an open cabinet beside it. I can almost picture Emily and her family snuggled on the couch watching a movie, passing bowls of popcorn between them, laughing together. The kind of normal, happy family scene I only ever saw on television growing up.

I feel a pang of regret at the thought that I may never be included in that beautiful family scene. I hope it's not too late. When I found the pregnancy test in the guest bathroom, it was like being hit by lightning, terrifying and enlightening all at once. Suddenly, all my fears seemed small compared to the possibility of losing Emily and our child forever.

The door creaks, and Emily comes back into the room, holding a glass full of water in each hand. Her fingers look pale, wrapped around the glass. “Do you want to sit down?” she asks hesitantly when she sees I'm still standing in the middle of the room.

I nod, a sudden lump in my throat making it impossible to talk. I follow her to the couch, where she sets the two glasses down on the coffee table and sits down. I choose a place at the other end of the sofa, giving her space. I know my presence is making her nervous, and I don't want to upset her or somehowhurt the baby. The thought of our child growing inside her still feels surreal. I try to swallow, but my throat closes, and I can't breathe. Grabbing the glass of water from the table, I take a big swallow and feel the cool liquid slide down my throat.

“Why are you here, Logan?” Her voice is tired. She seems exhausted. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she regards me with her big doe eyes, the same eyes that looked up at me with such trust and passion in my bed. I broke that trust when I pushed her away.

“I wanted to see you.” It sounds inadequate even to my own ears.

“Why?” She doesn't make this easy, but then, why should she? I hurt her. I hurt her in ways I swore I never would when I first realized I was falling for her.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but I don't like seeing Emily like this, so cold and hesitant. I want to take her in my arms and tell her I'm sorry, that I've been an asshole and that I want her back in my life. But I can only talk to her for now. I hope she'll unbend a little bit when I finish saying what I have to say.

“I'm sorry, Emily. I made a mistake?—”

“No,” she cuts me off, her voice firm, though hurt flickers in her eyes. “Don't apologize. It wouldn't be fair. I knew perfectly well what there was, or rather, what there wasn't, between us. Whatever it was, Logan, it was wonderful. But we want different things. I understand that, and I'm not blaming you for it. You've been honest with me from the start. You told me right away you didn't want to get involved. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

Her words are generous, far more generous than I deserve. I remember that night in my apartment when she asked me what was between us, and I was too afraid to admit what I truly felt. I remember the tears in her eyes, the way her face fell when I told her I couldn't give her what she wanted. I told myself it wasbetter this way, that I'd only cause her pain in the end. Truth is, I was a coward.

“Please, let me explain.” I slide closer to her on the sofa but stop when she retreats, pressing farther into the corner of the couch. This isn't how I wanted things to go. I imagined coming to her house, taking her in my arms, and kissing her until she forgave me. Turns out, it's not that easy. And the sad thing is that words aren't my thing. I've never been good at expressing my feelings, which is another legacy of my father, who taught me early that showing emotion is a weakness.

I clear my throat. “I know what I said, and to be honest, I'm still really uncertain about things. I don't know if I'll ever deserve you, but if you give me another chance, I'd like to be there for you and our baby.”

The expression on her face goes through a slow transformation. Her eyes open wide, her mouth falls open, and her lips form a big O as her breathing quickens and becomes irregular. A flush spreads across her cheeks, and she presses a hand to her heart. “Stephen told you,” she murmurs, obviously still in shock.

Her words come out of left field. They're not at all what I expected. How would Stephen know? “What? How does Stephen come into it?”

“Oh!” She presses her hand to her mouth and shakes her head, a flash of panic crossing her face. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Emily,” I say, forcing myself to keep my voice low and even, “what does Stephen have to do with all this?”

“He... I... Sarah...” she stammers, her gaze darting around the room as if she were looking for an escape. My heart contracts when her eyes fill with tears. She looks so small and fragile curled up on the couch, but my Emily is stronger than she appears. She survived on her own in New York City, worked jobsthat would have broken most people, and somehow managed to remain the most positive person I've ever met.

“Shh, kitten,” I soothe her, moving over until I'm next to her. I wipe away a tear with my thumb, the pad of my finger tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. Her skin feels warmer than I remember, flushed with emotion or perhaps the pregnancy. “It doesn't matter. You can tell me when you're ready. There are so many things I want to know. For example, what a pregnancy test was doing lodged in the guest room toilet.”

Her rosy cheeks become even rosier, and she ducks her head as she does when embarrassed.

“But for now,” I continue, “I just want you to know I was wrong. I've been a jerk. I allowed my past to determine my present.”

The ghosts of Valerie and my mother have haunted me for too long. I see that now. I was so afraid of history repeating itself that I couldn't see the future I might build with Emily, a different one where love doesn't end in tragedy.

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