“I do believe I ruined the sheets just a couple of days ago. Seems like your turn.”
Her eyebrows rise and she cuts me a look of faint surprise that I’m mentioning it so casually. If she expects shame, she’s going to be disappointed. It seems like she’s already realized that, though. I think I’m already starting to break her out of her boxes. Whatever naivety she possesses, Mia seems to catch on quickly and follow my lead without balking.
I turn my attention back to my laptop. She lets it go and hunkers down, spreading red paint across her toe nail.
“So, you know how last night before you came to bed, you said you were reading your daughter a bedtime story?”
I frown at her question, but keep my gaze on the email I’m typing. “Yes, I recall that.”
“Am I gonna get to meet her?”
My fingers freeze on the keys. I lose all track of my thoughts—the ones I was trying to type, as well as the segmented “respond to Mia” thoughts I keep stored separately so she doesn’t think I’m ignoring her while I work. Everything goes blank for a moment, like a computer after a power surge.
“I’m really good with kids,” she goes on. “As you may have noticed from my stories and such. I have lots of experience there. I’m sure she’ll like me.” When I still don’t respond, she adds, “Not that I’m in a rush or anything. I just thought, whatever it is we’re doing here, maybe that’s part of the package.”
That’s a reasonable thought. I have this girl living in my room, I spend every spare moment I can with her, and I fuck her (without a condom) at least twice every day. She could, even now, be growing a second child of mine inside her; stands to reason she deserves to meet the first.
So why does it still make me sweat? Visions spring to mind of claustrophobic green sweaters in a fake-ass family photo with a woman who doesn’t love me. A woman I love, but who stopped feeling it back. It’s the loneliest feeling in the world, loving someone who doesn’t love you back. It’s the last feeling on the spectrum of human emotions I ever want to experience again.
Isabella’s fucking mother.
I’ve never introduced another woman to Isabella. I realize, now that Mia is asking about her, I never intended to. After Beth, I wasn’t even interested in sharing my life with anyone else. What a fucking disaster that turned out to be. Isabella was small, she didn’t feel the loss as keenly, but I guess Beth made me realize no woman would last with me. They become easily enchanted to begin with, but they can’t weather me. If I had just one issue or another, maybe one with a lot of patience and fortitude could power through, but I have a whole library. Not the least of which: I’m a fucking asshole.
I can’t introduce Isabella to Mia. She’s five now, she would like Mia, she would grow attached, and then when I wear Mia out, we both have to lose someone.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I finally tell her.
“Okay,” she says, easily enough. “I understand. I just wasn’t sure because we obviously live in the same house, so I thought maybe it was weirder if we didn’t meet. Plus, I don’t know if my being in here has interrupted your time with her, but I wouldn’t want that. I just thought… but that’s fine, no problem.”
I stifle the urge to make a joke about when I kill her. I want to, but not in good humor. I vaguely want to give her a shove away from me since it seems like she’s trying to pull closer. My own personal ghost still haunts me, and the possibility of creating another one is the least appealing thing in the universe.
“Do you want children?” I ask her, turning my head to watch her response.
Her eyes widen, caught somewhere between alarm and surprise. I’ve just told her I don’t want her to meet my existing child, and I’m asking about her desire for kids of her own. “Yes,” she answers, nodding her head.
I nod, satisfied with her answer, and return my attention to the document in front of me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that I was with Vince? That I… did stuff with him first?”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She’s so goddamn pure. “No, it doesn’t bother me that you ‘did stuff’ with Vince first.”
“But how? If you liked me enough to sneak into my room and secretly have sex with me, how did it not bother you to see me with someone else?”
“I have you now, so what is there to be bothered about?”
She switches feet, spreading polish on the other toes. “I just figured it would bother you. It would bother me.”