Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

I shouldn’t be looking at this, and I certainly shouldn’t be feeling this way. I need to hold onto the anger toward her, not let it fizzle out and have her consume my mind in a different way.

I can handle the anger, but not the pain.

Jasmine Thompson—Let Her Go

Ella Henderson—Missed

“Thank you, Harmony, you seem to know just what I needed to hear,” one of the moms from my toddler class says sincerely, balancing two seven-month-old twins on each side of her hip.

“I may not have kids myself, but I do teach my fair share. I can’t imagine how hard it is juggling twins on your own, but you know you can always come here and let them loose at the messy play while us adults have a real conversation.”

She smiles at me gratefully. “I’m so glad that I found this class, it’s made this mom that little bit saner.”

I chuckle and wave goodbye as she walks out of the doors, leaving me to tidy up before my afternoon session. I’m tidying away some papers when I come across a unicorn that Izzie—Tristan’s daughter—from my Saturday morning session drew for me. My heart clenches and I have to turn the page over, not able to look at it.

I’ve tried to put my all into today’s session but after the shock and the emotional roller coaster of the weekend, I’m tired. When we got home from the hospital last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about “Baby F” as they call him. What it felt like to hold him, to close my eyes and feel a baby lying on my chest for the first time; it was an indescribable feeling. Another reminder of what could never be.

“Gerry?” He doesn’t move or even acknowledge me, but I know that he’s not asleep by his uneven breathing. “Gerry, I know that you’re not asleep. Why won’t you talk to me?”

Silence.

I sigh and dangle my legs off the edge of the bed, my head hanging in my hands. “Please, talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talking about, go to sleep,” he mumbles.

“Gerry, I…” A sob breaks free from my throat as I hug myself. “He or she was my baby too. This isn’t fair.”

He grunts and realizing that’s all I’ll ever get out of him, I push off the bed and slam the bathroom door behind me, sliding down onto the floor in a puddle of my own grief.

I walk over to the sink with the bucket of dirty painting tools, running the paintbrushes under the taps and watching the colors run together, making a murky brown color before it swirls down the drain. I grip the side of the sink and pull in a deep breath. I’ve come to terms with everything that had happened, or so I thought. So why does the fact that Tristan has kids affect me so much?

Because they should be yours.

I stumble, the voice in my head shocking me, but it rings true. Things could be so different but I need to stop thinking about the “what ifs.” My experience at the hospital with the babies has given me a sense of purpose. “Baby F” slowly started to shake less the more I held onto him, and holding him made the ache I constantly have when I’m around children start to ebb away, bit by bit.

I lean my head in my hands, blowing out a big breath. My mind has been all over the place this last week; I feel like I haven’t stopped and I’ve barely spent any time with Clay and Izzie.

I’m neglecting them, at least, that’s how it feels. In reality, I know I’m not but I can’t help the guilt that I consumes me.

Between Pete trying to turn the board against me, Nate and my mom confronting me, and my head bursting with memories of Harmony mixed in with my grief about Nat, I haven’t had any reprieve from my own thoughts.

A knock on my office door gains my attention and when I look up, I come face to face with my mother. Her gray eyes are dark—the same as mine—and have a storm brewing behind them; I know this isn’t going to be good.

Why the hell can’t Catiya stop anyone from waltzing on in here? First Nate and now my mother.

She closes the door behind her and sets her bag and coat over the black, leather sofa. Her movements are slow and measured, the air crackling with tension. Neither of us says a word as she walks forward, her sleek, red skirt moving with her every step before she sits down in the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap delicately.

“Tristan.” Her voice comes out soft, but I can hear the slight edge to it. “Where would you like to start?”

“Start?” I ask, leaning back in my padded leather chair and raising my brows. What the hell is she talking about?

“The board trying to push you out? You hardly seeing the children? Natalia? Or Harmony?” She pauses for effect. “Where would you like to start?”

I make a noise in the back of my throat. There’s no way I’m discussing any of that with her, it’s none of her goddamn business and she should know better than to think I’d tell her what I’m thinking or feeling.

“I’m not discussing this with you,” I tell her, standing up and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that line my office. The view is incredible. I can see the whole city from up here: the tall buildings that line the sky, the people rushing along the sidewalks that look like dots, and the sky that is a dark, stormy gray; much like my mother’s eyes right now.

“You’re my son, Tristan. You’re going through so much on your own, I...” she huffs. “Unload some of the burden you’re feeling, talk to me.”