“You’re not a dumb kid anymore,” Dad says. “And at some point, you have to stop faulting yourself for the dumb kid shit you did back in the day.”
I bow my head.
“You’re an outstanding architect. Wildly successful. Brilliant, really. So it’s time to start acting like that and stop punishing yourself for the choices that nineteen-year-old Wade made. You’re not him anymore. Let it go.”
It sounds so easy when he says it like that. “I don’t deserve a second chance, Dad. Hell, Dara was my second chance—”
“Bullshit, Wade.”
“But—”
“Bull. Shit. I got lucky. Your mother is giving me another chance after I did my best to fuck our life up.” He grins softly. “I think Dara will give you another chance if you haul your ass over there and explain yourself.”
“What if something happens to her? What if I can’t stop it?”
“You can’t always stop it. Life happens. You know that.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “But when shit gets hard, you gotta ask for help. When you felt yourself spiraling like this, you should’ve called me. Or Holt. Or Oliver. Probably not Coy. Definitely not Boone.”
We exchange a grin.
“You put too much pressure on yourself,” he says. “And she’s paying the price for that.”
I cringe. I hate the sound of that.
I hate the truth of it more.
“It’s not just about having people in your life. It’s about … being honest with them and being honest with yourself. It’s the one thing you haven’t learned in all your wizardry, as Oliver says.” Dad smiles.
I smile too. Because there’s some sense in those words that I need to ponder. There’s some wisdom there that I need to consider.
But first, I need to be honest with myself, I think.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He pulls me into a hug that I could do without and then leaves without another word.
FORTY-FIVE
DARA
“That’s going to hurt like a …”
The doorbell rings in the nick of time. I close the pregnancy book with a flourish and set it on the sofa.
I get to my feet, still quite sore, and pretend I just didn’t see how wide my vagina is going to have to stretch for this little munchkin to come out of it.
Your body is made to do this, the book says. Maybe. But I’m definitely opting for the epidural.
Decision made.
“What did you forget … Wade!”
My voice raises as I set my sights on the handsome man on the porch.
Just the sight of him brings tears to my eyes. He’s wearing my favorite navy cardigan that I used to tease him mercilessly about but quietly loved.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“May I come in?”
I want to say no, but I don’t have the heart to do it. Nor the willpower.
“Sure.” I step to the side and close the door behind him. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“I bet you are.”
Huh?
I walk around him and head to the sofa. Thinking fast, I grab the pregnancy book and shove it under the couch cushions as I sit.
“How have you been?” he asks, taking a seat on the other end of the couch.
“Fine. Just like I tell you every day in texts.”
“I hate texts.”
“Then stop texting me.”
I really want him to stop talking to me and to grab me instead and kiss the hell out of me. But, even if he did that, I don’t know that I would let him.
My heart aches from not having him around. The struggle to deal with the pregnancy news alone was my choice, one hundred percent, but it didn’t have to be that way. It could’ve been completely different had he come to the hospital and not freaked the fuck out. And I don’t want to blame him for that but … I do.
I’m tired of making excuses for people when they fail me. And I’m tired of thinking it’s okay to be failed by everyone.
I put my hand on my stomach without thinking about it. I withdraw it slowly.
“So, why are you here?” I ask. “You knew that I was fine.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
He grins. “Why are you being so mean?”
“Because you hurt my feelings, so proceed or leave.”
I mentally pat myself on the back. Good job. Stay strong.
He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
Well, damn. I wasn’t expecting that.
“For what?” I ask.
He rests his elbows on his knees. “For a lot of things.”
“Like … words, Wade. I know you have them.”
He grins again. I try not to see it—I look away as soon as I see it start to form—but it’s addictive.
“I wasn’t there for you. I’m not there for you,” he says. His words are crisp and clear, and he looks me in the eyes as he says them. “I should’ve put my fears aside and been stronger for you, but I didn’t. That was my true failure in all of this. I failed you. And I’m sorry.”