Page 97 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
I lean against the back of the door and press the phone to my ear. “I know I said I would, but we got some great news—”
“Padraig.” She blows out a frustrated breath. Her tone isn’t angry, exactly. More, weary. “You’ve been gone two nights in a row.”
I turn my head to glance through the glass into the conference room where my band is planning which restaurant to dine at. The sleek lines and polished concrete of this office do nothing to soften the edge of a conversation like this.
“I know. But we found out our song’s gonna be—” I decide not to finish. The band’s success isn’t an excuse to avoid being with my pregnant girlfriend. “Never mind. I’m sorry there’s so much going on.”
She exhales into the phone. “No, I’m sorry, babe. I know you have work to do. I’m not mad.”
Silence.
“I um… I could use you here, Pads.”
My spine prickles at the nickname she loves to call me but makes me cringe.
I shift away from the door and walk toward the side window overlooking Sunset. Her voice sounds soft now. Young.
I think of the way she looked when we first met on the rooftop bar on our first date in West Hollywood. Her hair in curls, heelskicked off, holding court in a silver cocktail dress and telling me she’d give anything to live a life with meaning. Not headlines. Not glamour. Meaning.
“You’re nearly six months pregnant, you shouldn’t be alone right now,” I murmur. “I’ll say my goodbyes. I know I’m fucking this up, it’s taking a little getting used to but I’ve got you.”
“Pads, really. Don’t feel bad.” Her voice cracks a bit. “I’m hormonal which makes me sad and scared. He’s kicking like crazy. It makes all of this so real so I’m spiraling a bit on my own.”
“I know, lovey.” My soothing words are low, automatic. “I haven’t been home much to take care of you.”
Mara left the network eight months after we started dating, a decision she called “liberating” at the time. Said she wanted to travel with me and see the world. Told me the newsroom felt shallow. Convinced herself—and me—hanging out on the road would be interesting and fun.
I didn’t ask her to quit.
I didn’t stop her either.
Quite the opposite. Hell, I ate up her devoted attention and insatiable sex drive like a feast.
Of course, she didn’t realize the grind of touring isn’t the same as traveling on vacation. Long hours on buses. Band meetings. Rehearsing. Songwriting. Set lists. Technical problems. No privacy. Very little time to do touristy things. On days off, I’m so exhausted I have to catch up on sleep. There’s not much downtime and very little time to spend together other than stealing back to the bus to fuck while the band and crew are eating.
So, we fought. A lot. Our dynamic disrupted the rhythm of the road to the point where Liam was barely speaking to me.
Somewhere in Europe, I realized I loved Mara but wasn’t in love with her. I planned on breaking things off when our tourwas over. Then she missed her period even though she had an IUD.
A dozen pregnancy tests later, here we are.
For some reason, Mara’s insistent on going back out with us next month even though she’ll be in her third trimester. I don’t want her to go so every time she asks about the schedule, I deflect. Say we’ll talk about it later.
What I’m really thinking is: no fucking way. I can’t deal with her need for constant attention pressing into the one space where I feel somewhat like me.
“I’ll be home in an hour,” I promise. “We’ll eat. Talk. Watch something dumb.”
Her smile is audible through the line. “You mean it?”
I hesitate, because I really want to celebrate with my band. Responsibility wins over. “Yeah. I mean it.”
Shit. I don’t belong in a relationship with her or anyone else.
It’s not Mara’s fault she isn’t Stevie. She’s a good person who deserves to enjoy her first pregnancy. I truly care about her, I’m not an asshole. We’re gonna be tied together forever and, despite my trepidation, I’m excited to be a father.
I won’t abandon the mother of my son.
Why then, when I hang up and tuck my phone into my pocket, do I stay exactly where I am, forehead resting against the cool glass, eyes tracking the sprawl of LA as dusk creeps in.
