He put the soap down. “She wants a family, though.”
“Tiffany wants a family?” I asked. “I thought she hated kids.”
“People change. She’s twenty-six now. Has it in her head she’s going to have a little girl she can dress up and pose with for Nordstrom’s kids’ catalogue.”
“So she doesn’t actually want a kid. She just wants a way to get more attention.”
He massaged his jaw, watching me. “She started talking about it after the honeymoon. So last year, before I knew I was coming on this trip, I told Tiffany once the remodel was paid off in spring of 2000, we’d start trying for a baby.”
“That’s in a few months.” During my darkest moments over the years, I’d imagined the call from my mom that Tiffany was pregnant, but even then, I hadn’t been able to picture them having a family in anything more than a vague, abstract sense. I could, and had, vividly imagined getting that call, though. Tears built deep in my throat. “You wanted a family with her?” I asked.
“I wanted a family, Lake. When I told her that over a year ago, I knew I’d come to New York when my parole ended. But back then, it never occurred to me that I’d give myself permission to do anything other than check on you.”
We stared at each other. In my mind, Tiffany was still the cavalier teen girl I’d grown up with, giving our parents trouble, talking casually about sex, concerned with only one thing—herself. How was I supposed to reconcile that with the woman Manning described? How was I supposed to face that fact that Tiffany wanted to be a mother, and Manning had wanted that, too—and that they’d been planning to start so soon? I was taking that from them. “I get it,” I said. “What we’re doing is wrong.” In the privacy of our shower, where nobody else heard us, knew us, understood what we’d been through, I said, “But it’s not enough to change my mind. Have you changed yours?”
“I’ve stayed away so long,” he said. “I need you more than anything. Don’t you see how I need you?”
I had eyes; I saw his need plain as day. We were naked in the shower and he’d been hard since he’d stripped down, but I didn’t think that was what he meant. I wanted to be angry for the things I couldn’t fix, to retreat, for a little bit, into the life I’d had before he’d come to New York. The life where I had permission to resent him and bitterly hope he was unhappy. More than that, though, I wanted his hands on me. I couldn’t remember anything ever feeling as good as being touched by him. So I went to him, and as soon as he enveloped me, I cried against his chest. I cried for Tiffany, and for what I was taking from her, and for the fact that even though she and I hadn’t been close in a long time, once Manning told her, I’d lose my sister. For good.
“I’m sorry, Birdy,” he said. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I was blinded by fear, and I made mistakes.”
I looked up at his face, blurred by my tears. It was the second time I’d heard him admit it, and by the way it looked painful for him to swallow, I thought maybe it was the hardest thing of all for him to say—that this was his fault. Stripped down to nothing, with nowhere for either of us to hide, we had to admit the terrible things we’d done, and those we were about to do.
“Do you regret marrying her?” I whispered.
“I regret hurting both of you.” He smoothed his hand over my hairline. “When you asked me what I was thinking about earlier and I said marriage, I was thinking about you, not her. What do you want, Lake?”
Speechless, I stared up at him, the way I had many times since the day I’d met him. He’d towered over me on the street, blocking out everything else, consuming me, captivating me. Tonight was maybe the first time I began to feel like he and I were in this together, like I wasn’t a girl trying to keep up with a man.
Manning sat on the bench of the shower, pulling me to him by my hips. “What do you want?” he repeated, his eyes on mine. “What life do you dream about?”
I dreamed only of him. When the one thing I’d ever wanted hadn’t been within grasp, the details hadn’t mattered. Once I’d left California, I hadn’t really fantasized about marrying him or long walks on the beach or candlelight dinners. I’d just missed him and wanted one more touch, one more look, one more of the shared, private moments we’d done so well. I put my hand on his inky wet hair. “I don’t know.”