Page 24 of Despite It All
Okay, Wyla, let’s count all the reasons we’re not going to give into Jett’s charms. One, he lives in Seattle. Two, you don’t really know him;he’s only your baby’s father. Three, he… I glance over at him in my passenger seat, and my eyes linger on his long muscular arms.
I’m fucked.
It’s a bad idea, Wyla. It won’t work. He lives on the other side of the country. There’s no way I could move that far away from my family… take Stevie that far away from everyone and everything she knows.
But what if he stayed here? No, not possible. He said he enjoys his job. Hell, he practically said he would play now if they would let him. If he stayed here, he’d be giving that up, and I can’t let him do that. He'd probably end up resenting me for makinghim choose.
Suddenly, all of the snide remarks all of the old, small town people made when they found out I was pregnant out of wedlock come flooding in.
“Oh, you’ll have to lower those standards of yours now. Can’t let this baby grow up without a father.”
“Men in my day would stay and stick it out.”
Well you know what, I don’t want to force Jett to “stick it out.” I am not an obligation, and there was no way Jett wanted more from me the morning after. I know yesterday, he said he did but emotions were high… he couldn’t have wanted more. The want now is nothing more than righting a wrong in disguise. That whole “sticking it out” bullshit, those old bitties would say… I’m sure of it.
But then again, they would also say…“Settling isn’t a bad thing when it means you’ll be a family.”
We pull into the driveway which, thankfully, pulls me out of my downward spiral. Motherhood is fucking hard. Just one day, I’d like to have one day where I feel confident I’m doing something right for my daughter without feeling like I’m also taking two steps back.
I unbuckle Stevie, and she races to the door. “Poppy, we’re home!” she squeals.
By the time Jett and I make it in, Stevie has already gotten Poppy out of her kennel and is rolling on the floor,giggling as Poppy licks her face. This is their standard greeting, and it’s so adorable.
I let them continue to love each other until I get to the back door. Holding it open, I whistle, getting Poppy’s attention. “Come on, Pops, bathroom.”
Poppy listens, and I close the door behind her. She’s a really great dog. I’ll admit, I was a little nervous when I brought Stevie home with how that transition would go, but Poppy is so patient with Stevie, like no dog I’ve seen.
I still remind Stevie that she’s a dog and can’t communicate that she wants space like we do, so to not be hanging over her all the time. But Stevie is a bit of a clinger when she wants to be.
Jett places the bags of fast food on the kitchen table. He insisted on buying our lunch, even though I said I would.
“Mommy, can we do a picnic with our lunch?” Stevie asks, reaching her little hand into one of the bags to fish out a french fry.
We really couldn’t have asked for a prettier day today. It’s a sunny seventy-five degrees, and every now and then, a nice cool breeze blows through. It’s hard to really say no. “Sure, Stevie, we can do that.”
We take the food out to the back patio and sit at the wooden table my dad made for me last year. I hand my bag of food to Jett and turn the knob to open the umbrella.
“I would have gotten that for you, Wy.” Jett laughs when I struggle to get it started. After not using it all winter, it seems to have rusted a little.
“I got it,” I reply, and add a little more force. I know it’s just an umbrella and it’s not that deep, but I have to be able to do things on my own. I may have found Jett, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be alone when he leaves. That thought makes me sick to my stomach but also gives me the determination to turn the damn knob.
After I get it all the way up, we sit down. I sort out Stevie’s food first, then do the same with mine. I pick up my chicken sandwich to take my first bite when Stevie decides she needs something.
“Mommy, I want some ketchup.”
“Please?” I correct her.
“Please,” she sings back.
I sigh, setting down my food. This is usually how meals go. “Okay, I’ll be—”
“I’ll go get it,” Jett says, beating me up from the table.
“You don’t have to, Jett. I can—”
“I know you can. It’s ketchup, Wyla. Eat your food, I’ll go get it. Is it in the fridge?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
