Page 63 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
He blinked at me, the words not really registering. “Okay. Do I have a mom?”
I took another breath. This wasn’t the first time he’d ever asked, but it was the first time he was old enough to understandan answer. “You did,” I swallowed. “But she’s not around. And that’s not because of you, okay?”
He nodded slowly, almost like he got it, but I could tell he didn’t the second his mouth opened again. “She didn’t like me?”
“No, that’s not it.” The words came fast, quick to squash that idea. “She just didn’t know how to be a mom. That’s not your fault, bud. It had nothing to do with you as a person.”
He thought about it for a second, his macaroni making an awful squelching noise as his spoon mushed around in it. “I don’t get it.”
I swallowed. “Your mom didn’t know how to be a mom,” I explained. “Some people, moms,anddads, aren’t ready to be parents. Some aren’t… I don’t know,builtfor it.”Mine weren’t.
Zach blinked at me, his head tilting to the side, a stray curl falling in front of his eyes. “Areyoubuilt for it?”
I almost laughed. Almost. “I’m trying, tiger,” I said, the words cracking just a hair, my throat too tight. “Every day.”
Somehow, by the grace of whatever God existed, he seemed to accept that and went back to his food.
I tried to shake the weight bearing down on my chest, but his line of questioning kept replaying in my head alongside the image of her sitting alone at that fucking table, looking far worse than I’d ever seen her. I couldn’t stop hearing the quiet, innocent ache in Zach’s voice when he spoke about her, when he said hewantedher.
I couldn’t stop wondering what it meant that I did, too. Even after every fuck up I’d made. Even now.
————
I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, watching the eleven turn into a twelve. Zach had been asleep for hours, the house dead quiet — the kind of silence that normally brought me peace and the knowledge that I’d at least get six good hours of sleep in before I inevitably woke up to a five-year-old in my face or the sun in my eyes. But tonight, it felt suffocating.
I’d read the same page of a quarterly report six times. I’d poured myself a drink I didn’t touch. I’d stared out the window at the clouds rolling in and blocking the moon and the stars, thunder low in the distance, a storm rumbling north from Florida.
But none of it brought me closer to sleep. None of it brought me closer to peace.
Because all I could think about was her.
Her face at the cafe. The exhaustion written all over her. The way she’d looked a second from breaking, shaken by something, enough to have caused her to look like that. Not just me.
Something was wrong. Somethinghadto be wrong. I’d seen her angry, seen her done up to the nines, seen her makeup-less and casual, seen her freshly fucked and dazed.
I’d seen her shaken by Ryan.
Whatever this was, was worse.
And maybe it was me. Maybe what I’d done to her had fucking destroyed her over the last two months. But it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like that was it.
And I couldn’t help myself as I reached for my phone, desperate, unable to find the dignity in myself to care if she hated me for reaching out again. I still cared about her. I stillwantedher.
Fuck, I wanted her more than I could comprehend. If anything, even if I couldn’t fix whatever was wrong, I just wanted to apologize. Just wanted to make this right.
Me:I need to talk to you.
I stared at the screen. Watched the message change todelivered.
Minutes ticked by. Nothing.
I sent another.
Me:I made a mistake. Please.
Still nothing.
I swore under my breath and hit the call button before I could second-guess it, lifting my phone to my ear, my heart thundering in my chest and matching with the same outside my window.
