My mind goes back to what Fiona said: “You always put your parents first.” She walked away because she needed someone who would put her first. It’s the same thing Celeste is afraid of—not being put first. Is that what Olivia needs? For me to put Reed first?
I lean against the brick wall, watching a family walk down the street. A flashback surfaces of my mom and me walking hand-in-hand through the park. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old. We stopped at the ice cream truck, and she bought us the biggest ice cream cones. We sat on the edge of the sidewalk, talking and laughing, as we ate our cones. I smile, remembering that day like it was yesterday. She may not have ever looked at me the way Olivia looks at Reed, but I would like to believe in her own way my mom does love me. I just think somewhere along the way she got sucked up in the life of the rich and famous. And she was so scared of going back to where she came from, she ran as far as she could in the opposite direction—losing herself along the way.
A father and son pass by, and the dad grabs him in a chokehold, making the boy laugh. I try to recall even a single memory of my dad and me acting like that, but I can’t. Celeste’s recollection of what I once told her comes to the forefront of my mind: You never felt you were good enough in your parents’ eyes. I don’t want a child to ever experience the heartache I’ve felt over and over again, every time my parents have let me down, or when, in their eyes, I’ve let them down. All I wanted was for my parents to put their wallets and expectations away and love me.
And yet, here I am with a son of my own, who’s not asking anything from me, and I’m walking away. And why? Because I’m scared of the idea of failing my son? While I’m over here judging my parents, they’re exactly who I’ve become—only worse. I threw money at Fiona, paying for her school and the bills, and justified it as loving her. I’ve seen Olivia three times, and every time I’ve offered her money to make things right. I’ve agreed to a relationship of convenience with Celeste just so neither of us has to deal with any real emotions. Holy shit! I’ve literally become my father. But I can still change this. I can give my son the love and attention without the expectations and strings attached. I can show my parents what it looks like to simply and unconditionally love someone else.
My feet start moving of their own accord, and before I know it, I’m buzzing the intercom. Giselle—with contempt dripping from every word she speaks—lets me up. And once I’ve taken the elevator up to their floor, I’m knocking on their door.
Giselle swings the door open, eyeing me up and down with disgust. “Livi is in the shower. Didn’t you do enough damage?”
“Damage?”
She holds the door open, and I walk inside.
“You’re so fucking blind. Livi might be selfless, letting you off the hook, but I’m not her. You come up in here, waving your dollar bills around like it’s going to make up for the fact that you knocked her up and want nothing to do with being a dad. Your money means jack shit to Livi.” I listen to her as she confirms everything going through my head, but also adding to what I was thinking. Olivia does want something from me. She wants the same damn thing I’ve wanted from my parents my entire life.
“She wants me to be a dad,” I confirm, and Giselle gives me a duh! expression, reminding me of Olivia. Well shit, I can do that. That’s why I came back here. She looks at me like I’m crazy, and I realize I’m grinning. But I can’t help it. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted off me. Olivia doesn’t want anything from me except for me to be a dad to our son, and not one like my father is to me, but one that’s hands-on. Reed whines, so we walk over to his bassinet. “Can I hold him?”
Giselle gives me a hesitant look, but after a few beats, relents. “Fine. Have you ever held a baby before?”
“No.” The little guy’s cries pick up.
“Reach down and pick him up, but when you do, make sure you hold his head and neck steady. Newborns don’t have control of their neck muscles yet.”
Reaching down into the bassinet, I pick him up the way Giselle said to. He’s tiny in my hands, yet solid. Definitely my kid. When I lift him up, I hold the back of his head in one hand—the rest of his tiny body resting on my forearm—and he stops crying for a second, confused.