Even if the cost is another person’s will to live.
By the end of our relationship, there were days when the thought of checking out was preferable to living another day under her reign of emotional terror. But I never seriously considered that final, permanent escape. Deep down, I knew I’d find a way to be free of her, that one day I’d leave her in my rearview and never look back.
But now she’s here.
And she’s having my baby and I hate myself for having continued to sleep with her, even if it was the one area where we weren’t completely dysfunctional by the end. I hate that condom for breaking and I hate fate for its lousy fucking timing.
Now, I’ll never escape her, and soon she’ll have another person to terrorize, a tiny, innocent person who deserves so much better than a mother like Bridget or a father who wishes he or she had never been born.
The thought makes my throat close up with shame and guilt, but it’s true.
I don’t want this baby. I don’t want my ex to have an excuse to sink her claws into me again or face a future worried for the safety of a child who will never have a stable home life so long as Bridget’s in the picture.
“All right, let’s take a deep breath.” Maddie rubs Bridget’s back as she wipes the tears from her cheeks with trembling hands.
The trembling is probably an act, too, I think, my contempt for her so intense there’s no room in my heart for compassion. There hasn’t been for a long time.
“Why don’t I go make you something to drink?” Maddie casts a pointed glance my way as she steps over to the dining table and pulls out a chair. “You two sit down and talk this out, and I’ll be right back with warm milk. It will help you calm down.”
“Thank you so much, Maddie,” Bridget says, sniffing as she beams up at my sister. “You’re as sweet as Mick always said you were. I appreciate your support so much.”
“Of course,” Maddie says, as she helps Bridget get settled at the table. “Mick, do you want something? Tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you.” My jaw clenches with reluctance, but I force myself to circle the table and sit down across from Bridget, meeting her watery gaze as Maddie crosses the room to the kitchenette to fetch the milk and a pan to warm it in.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, I say softly, “I don’t know what you want from me, but if it’s anything more than child support and my half of the childcare duties, you’re going to be disappointed.”
Her bottom lip starts to tremble again, but I cut her off before she can get started.
“Save your energy,” I say. “Tears won’t work on me anymore.”
Almost instantly, her eyes clear and her features shift. I would say she drops her mask, but there’s nothing real at the heart of Bridget to conceal—I ought to know, I stupidly hunted for it long enough. But there is no authentic person to uncover, only a series of masks she employs with such proficiency most people never realize there’s only emptiness underneath.
“I’m not the bad guy, Mickey,” she says, using the nickname I always hated, even at the beginning when I was so smitten with my beautiful new girlfriend, I was willing to forgive a multitude of sins. “You’re the one who left without saying good-bye, without even a note to explain why you ended a two-year relationship out of the blue.”
“It wasn’t out of the blue. And you know why,” I say. “And you know it wouldn’t have been a two-year relationship if you hadn’t blackmailed me into staying.”
She frowns, seeming genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about threatening to kill yourself if I broke up with you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “What? I never said that, Mick. I might have said it felt like I would die without you because I loved you so much, but I would never—”
“Don’t. Just don’t,” I say, rage that she’s playing dumb on purpose warring with the ugly suspicion that she doesn’t remember things the way I do.
She has a habit of rewriting history. I assumed she did it consciously to make herself feel better about the class she failed or why she didn’t make the varsity cheer squad, but maybe that isn’t the case. Maybe Bridget is even more out of touch with reality than I’ve assumed—which means she’s probably even more of a danger to our unborn baby.
Thoughts of lawyers and custody battles and other assorted ugliness I don’t want to think about whoosh through my head, making my heart beat in my ears. I don’t want to be a dad right now—certainly not a single dad—but I might very well end up fighting for the privilege in order to protect my son or daughter.