Page 50 of Booked for the Holidays
Bridget pauses. I shift my hips so I can look at her straight on. The tip of her tongue is caught between her teeth. She taps her cheek in rapid succession, causing the dangling snowman earrings she’s wearing to shake and shimmer under the fluorescent lamp from above. There’s a debate waging in her head, the conviction in her desire to finally talk is obvious. Her shoulders straighten, she takes a deep breath. Then, she speaks.
“What happened to Mac’s mom?”
I knew this conversation would come up eventually. The inquisition dives deep into the category of Personal Shit I Keep Close to my Heart. It’s intimate, not information I grant many people access to. So, naturally, I’m surprised it took Bridget this long to ask. It’s usually one of the first questions out of someone’s mouth when they find out I’m raising a kid on my own.
“Are you divorced?”
“Do you have sole custody?”
“Is she alive?”
Bridget, I’m finding, is not like other people. There’s the urge to be honest and forthcoming. To sit down and tell her everything she wants to know. I don’t want to share parts of myself with the world, but I want to share parts of myself with her. I take a breath and slide my glasses up my nose. My neck rolls from the right to the left. And I begin.
“Mac was born on December 23rd. We took her home on Christmas Day. She was a big surprise. Not planned at all. Stephanie–her mom–and I had been dating for three years. I was planning on buying a ring at the start of the new year. We weren’t sure if children were a part of our future plans, and we were always careful when we were together. But accidents happen.” I frown at my poor word choice. “I’m not calling Mac an accident or mistake.”
“I didn’t take it that way,” Bridget assures me. She scoots an inch closer. “I promise.”
“We spent that Christmas with our families, bouncing back and forth to let them meet the new addition. At the end of the day, we went to our place and put Mac to bed, taking turns watching her sleep. We didn’t want to leave her alone for longer than a second. She was such a beautiful baby, and we couldn’t stop staring at her.”
“Theo. You don’t–”
“I woke up late the next morning. I was exhausted from all the excitement. When I rolled over, the bed was empty. Mac was wailing from down the hall. Her diaper was dirty and she was hungry. Stephanie was gone. There wasn’t a note. No voicemail. Not a damn text message. I thought something had happened to her, then I saw her dresser drawers were cleaned out. The suitcase I bought her for her birthday was gone. Her purse wasn’t on the kitchen table like it was the night before. Two days stretched to five, which stretched to a week, then three. On Mac’s one month birthday, she had the audacity to call. She said she would be back soon. ‘Just another week or two’ she told me. She neededtime. Then she had a field day pointing out everything wrong with me. She told me I was too difficult to be around. I was selfish. I never made her happy and we weren’t compatible. A baby wasn’t what she wanted. Things she had never, ever voiced before.”
“The fucking nerve,” Bridget hisses.
“I researched postpartum depression. Mental health statistics in new moms. I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on. That’s when I realized she wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t a temporary thing. It was permanent. And I took it hard. People told me to get over it. They said to move on. ClearlyIwas the issue if a new mother wanted to leave her baby so soon. They pitiedher and I got the blame. When she left, everything became convoluted. It was like this expansive void of darkness and sorrow. I became a shell of a man, not knowing who I was anymore. Hollow. Broken. Her words stung. I know I'm not the easiest to be around sometimes, but hearing that from someone who claimed to love you? Who you talked aboutforeverwith? It's brutal. I internalized all those thoughts and feelings until one day I got off my ass, sat down in a therapist's office, spilled my guts, and here we are.”
“Oh, Theo,” she whispers. The quiet words cascade over my shoulders. Down my arms. It’s a hug without any physical touch. A stroke against my heart, an alleviation of some of the pain. Sheseesme, and I’m letting her.
“So, there you go. Mac’s the love of my life, and I’m so lucky to have her. As much as that period of time hurt really fucking bad, it also brought me her. And I can’t imagine not having her around.”
“Did you ever track down her mom?”
“No. A mutual friend told me she found someone better in Pennsylvania. It’s where she ended up. She hasn’t written, hasn’t sent a birthday card or a Christmas gift. Most days I forget she exists.”
“Better than you?” Bridget asks. Her question is sharp, serrated with anger.
My gaze trips from the piece of mulch I’ve made my focal point up to her face. There’s a ferocity there. Protectiveness, almost. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just…” She huffs and shakes her head, brown hair spiraling everywhere. “You’re smart. Hardworking. Successful and kind. Funny when you want to be, which is rare, but your jokes aren’t terrible. You’re good looking. A fantastic father, successful business owner. How the hell do you get better than that? Does the dude have two dicks or something?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Wow. That was a long list of compliments. Are you flirting with me, Boylston?”
She rolls her eyes and kicks my shin. “You’d know if I was flirting with you. I’m abysmal at it. It’d probably be done through a joke. Have you dated anyone since?”
“Here and there. A couple flings. Some lasted two or three dates. Some were purely physical. Nothing’s stuck. Women have told me I don’t give them enough attention. They might be right. I guess I’d rather learn to braid Mac’s hair than sit in a stuffy restaurant wearing a tie and a real shirt.”
“Yeah,” Bridget agrees. “You’d look positively ghastly in a button-up.”
“Your sarcasm is far from endearing.”
“Must not be too terrible, because you’re still here, aren’t you?”
I smile at the quip. Iamstill here, sitting on a bench that’s poking my ass in the back of a nearly deserted parking lot. A lukewarm burger in my hand and an almost empty cup of fries between us. I’m not eyeing my truck, searching for an escape. My phone buzzed in my pocket ten minutes ago, and I haven’t bothered to retrieve it, too focused on the woman next to me, the Christmas sweater–and her–taking up all of my attention.
“Guess you have a point.”
“Is that why you’re afraid of people leaving? Because she did?”
