Page 57 of The Heart We Guard
“I want to be a better man,” he says, then smiles softly. “And that starts with doing this differently this time around. I want to be a good dad. To protect the two of you.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. But that isn’t enough for me.”
Butcher glances at me. “It’s not?”
I shake my head. “I’m not an obligation you check on a list of whatgood menwould do. You told me you were a terrible father to your daughter.”
His brow furrows. “When did I say that?”
“When you were medicated. You said a lot of things, but one of them was you were a negligent father because you always put the club first. I don’t need that kind of ‘good man.’ I’ll be fine on my own. You can see the baby, obviously, but you don’t need to create some artificial relationship where the two of us co-exist for the next eighteen years. Plus, I already made plans of my own.”
“What kind of plans did you make?”
“Vegas. I have a friend there who works at a large hospital. Desperate for surgical staff. But also with a homeless problem and challenges with organized crime and access to healthcare. So, I’m going to go stay with him until?—”
“Him?” Butcher interrupts.
“Yes. Him. Wade and I went to college together. Supported each other through residency. Dragged each other’s asses along when we were too tired to function.”
Butcher shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m letting a woman of mine, pregnant with my kid, move all the way down the country and stay with some other man.”
I stand and put my hands on my hips at that. “See, there’s something else I don’t need. You telling me what I can and can’t do. Isn’t it influencing one-oh-one to let the other person think something is their idea? If you want me to do something, telling me to do it is never going to make it happen.”
“Jesus, woman. You’re pricklier than a cactus. You go, and I can’t show you how good a father I can be. And how do I show you just how good a man I could be to you if there are hundreds of miles of road between us?”
The words are almost shouted, but he wraps his fingers around my wrist and gently pulls me back to the sofa.
“Listen,” he says quietly. “Vegas will still be there in three months. Come home with me. Back to my place and my club. Meet my brothers and my daughter, Ember. Try out where we live. If you’re worried about money?—”
“I’m not worried about money.”
Butcher is about to say something, but he stops and takes a breath. “Let me take care of you for a little while, Greer. Can’t have been easy on you to find out you’re pregnant. Tell me what happened.”
I think back to the day I realized. “Tampons. And the smell of coffee.”
“What?” Butcher leans back on the sofa.
“You have lots more mobility than the last time I saw you.”
He reaches out and touches the ends of my hair. “I know this great surgeon who did an amazing job of putting me back together after I got shot. It’s still not perfect, and I haven’t gone near an ab exercise since you last saw me. Not sure those transferal abdominalamus things you talked about are still how you remember them.”
Remembering the moment in the bathroom, before it all went off kilter, makes me feel warm inside. “You mean transversus abdominis? I’m sure they look fine.”
“Want to see?” Butcher goes to lift the hem of his T-shirt, and I slap my palm on top of his hand.
“I’m pretty sure seeing them was what got us into this whole mess. You asked how I found out I was pregnant. I have a dry erase shopping list that I tick things I need off on. And I hadn’t ticked off tampons for a few weeks. Which means I hadn’t gotten my period. I’d also felt a little off the few days before. So, I did what just about every other person in my position has done—I had a nervous breakdown at the thought of it and went to the drugstore to buy some tests.”
“Some?”
“I bought seven packets. Different brands. And shockingly, they all said the same thing:You’re very pregnant.”
Butcher takes my hand and loops our fingers together. And while Butcher, the biker, would not be the sensible choice for a co-parent, for the first time since the day I got those results, I don’t feel quite so alone.
“Esme told me you’d been having trouble.”
“Esme needs to watch what she says. Listen, it’s late. I was just sick. I can’t do this now. I need to sleep.”
Butcher looks to the sofa, then touches my cheek. “Then let’s sleep and talk tomorrow. But it’s really fucking good to see you, Doc. And knowing you’re pregnant? I’m happy about that too.”
