A lump settles in my throat.
“Hey,” Boone says, standing up too. “I was going to tell Wade to bring Dara to our house.”
My jaw sets, and I clench down so as not to cry in front of my brothers. They don’t know. They don’t know exactly why I’m a terrible choice for Dara. Of course, they’d want to care for her because they know how to do that shit.
But I don’t. And she’s better off without such a cold bastard in her life.
Yet …
This hurts so fucking much.
“You know what Mom’s going to do,” Holt says. “You know she’ll demand she have us all there to rally around her.”
I bite my cheek so the pain there will help detract from the fire in my heart.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say, heading for the door.
“So, Mom’s?” Holt asks.
I grab the handle and then still. I might as well get it over with.
“We aren’t together anymore.”
The door shuts behind me.
I make it to my car before I lose control.
FORTY-THREE
DARA
“You can go home now,” I tell Rusti.
She sprawls out on her stomach on the living room floor, her legs kicked up behind her like a child. Cleo runs circles around her.
“Not yet,” she says.
“Then when?”
“When I’m sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Ha.”
She goes back to watching a reality show that I can’t get into.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I grimace as I pick it up.
Wade: Checking on you.
Why?
“Is it him again?” Rusti asks.
I nod.
I don’t know what to say to him. He’s checked on me every day for the past four days. He never calls, just texts, and doesn’t say anything except asking how I am or how I feel and then he closes up like the Wade I knew months ago.
“Are you going to answer him?” Rusti asks.
“Probably.”
She rolls over onto her back. Cleo nips at her fingers and then barks.
Me: I’m fine. Thanks for asking.
I set my phone back on the table. I know he won’t reply.
My body doesn’t hurt quite as bad as it did. My doctor said I was healing nicely, to take it easy, and to see an OB as soon as I could get in.
That appointment is next week.
Rusti bought me a baby magazine at the grocery store yesterday, but I can’t get myself to look at it. Not yet. Not until I get things settled inside myself and with Wade.
“When are you going to talk to him about the baby?” Rusti asks, choosing this moment in time to do leg lifts.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know yet. Maybe when you go home.”
“And maybe I’ll go home once you’ve told him and I know that you’re going to be fine.”
“Doesn’t Zack miss you?” I ask.
“He’s in Denver for the week.” She rolls onto her stomach again and looks at me. “Lucky you.”
Right.
I touch my face and notice the swelling has gone down by quite a bit. Easing up with the crying fits has probably helped. I’m not less sad, just more out of tears.
I’m going to be okay. Never great, probably, and never perfect. I finally believed that he and I had a future, and I wouldn’t always have to do life alone. That I wouldn’t have to grieve alone. Change alone. Grow alone. But whether Wade wants the baby, when I finally get the nerve to tell him—once we’ve both had a bit of time and space—it’ll be fine.
It has to be.
“I have nothing to give you. I don’t want marriage. I don’t want kids. I don’t want that responsibility. I can’t have that responsibility, Dara. I can’t. I can’t risk it.”
He won’t risk it. But he should at least know the truth. He deals in truths, not emotions.
Never emotions.
“I’m just going to tell him that I’m pregnant and that he can be involved or not,” I say. “I won’t ask him for anything, and if he wants no part of it at all, I won’t force it.”
I shrug as if it’s easy, but it’s not. It’s heartbreaking.
I never thought about having kids with Wade. I’m not even sure how it happened. The doctor just said there’s always a chance of failure, and it happens, even if it’s rare. But this is what my life looks like now. And maybe this is a new door since the Curt one closed.
A part of me hopes that Wade will want to be a part of the baby’s life, even if he doesn’t want me. I know he said he didn’t want kids, but he would be such a great dad.
Just when I thought I was out of tears …
Rusti makes a face as I wipe under my eyes with my shirt.
“I’m calling it now,” she says, hopping up onto her feet. “You’re going to tell him, and it’s going to work out.”
“How can you call it? You don’t even know him.”