He shrugs. “Petra has two options. She can either keep the baby and her husband will leave her—penniless. Or she has to get rid of the baby.”
“If the mother can give her up, why don’t you do the same?”
“She’s my child, dude. Mine. I’m not just tossing her away like some piece of clothing that doesn’t fit.”
He has a point, but the kid deserves better. Ben can’t even pick up his socks to save his life. A baby takes more commitment than the five-month-old carton of milk I threw away earlier today.
“What does your family think about it?”
“Derek, my oldest brother, is supportive of my choice—but let’s not forget he’s the black sheep of the family.” He tilts his head and gives me a look that says, who-the-fuck-cares-about-the-rest.
“You don’t care if they disown you?”
“No. I have my brother, my trust fund, and I’m a fucking doctor. We don’t need them.” Then, he crosses his arms. “I have your support too, don’t I?”
Of course he does, but as much as I want to be team Ben-Bernadette there’s a huge issue. “How are you going to care for a child when you have a shitty schedule?”
“I have twelve weeks of paternity leave, hence I worked a thirty-seven-hour shift. After that, I’ll figure out what’s next for me.” He shrugs. “Maybe Atzi can come and help me so you two can kiss and make up.”
I scoff. “Unlikely to happen.”
“Are you going to tell me what transpired between you two?”
“Honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Mom lost her shit.” I shrug because I haven’t told anyone about Joel’s indiscretion—not even my siblings. Dad… he was my hero. But he hurt Mom so much and she still loved him.
“Who’s watching your mother while you’re here?”
“I hired her a nurse. None of my siblings give two shits about her and I can’t check on her as often.”
“Welp, I think it’ll be best if you go back to SanFran, tell Atzi how you feel, and fix your shit.”
He’s wrong, if I go back, I won’t be able to see her. It’s her or my mother, and as much as I love Atzi, someone has to put Mom first.
“I have the fellowship, and I can’t possibly be with her. You weren’t there to see how Mom lost her entire shit just because I was pretending to be with Atzi.” I tap my head. “Can you imagine what’ll happen to my mother if it was real?”
Ben shakes his head. “I wouldn’t give two shits about my family’s feelings. Think about your future. You can get a fellowship in SanFran and be next to your woman. Your mother should get over herself. Therapy might be the best solution for all of you. I used to want to be a Spearman, but lately, I feel like you guys are falling apart.”
Is he right? Atzi mentioned exactly the same thing a few months ago. I haven’t spoken to my family in a while, though. I’ve been too busy and also upset with them. How hard is it to check on their mother? She gave us life. The least they can do is to make sure she’s taking her medication and try to push her to go to therapy.
Thinking about Atzi makes me want to talk to her. I dial her number but the call goes to voicemail. I text her, hoping she’ll get them. I used to be able to get the timestamp of when she read my messages. Now, I’m lucky if I get a notification that they were delivered.
Heath: Are you okay?
Heath: I just need proof of life.
Heath: Listen, I’m getting worried.
There’s no answer. Not even a middle-finger emoji or a fuck off, asshole note. Nothing. They say the opposite of love is hate. Those people don’t understand the opposite of love is indifference.
Indifference is what’s killing me slowly. This is all my fault. The lines were crossed and now we cut them. These days all I can do is worship her ghost. The person I loved and who was always by my side.
It’s probably better this way.
Atzi on one side of the country, and me thousands of miles away from her.
We are over, even though we never started.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Atzi
The idea of change is terrifying.
My life shifted in just a few days. It’s been even more difficult to process everything that’s transpired in the past five weeks. The changes, my past, and the present.
There’s no straight and narrow path to healing. The word easy has been deleted from my dictionary, but I’m taking more steps to get better. I’ve done more in these past weeks than I had since my parents died.
I haven’t healed completely, but I’ve made more progress than I did almost eighteen years ago when the accident happened. This time, I’m not telling my therapist what she wants to hear but what’s in my mind, soul, and heart.
Admitting the sadness I harbor has been more difficult than accepting I’m a total mess to my aunt.
Not surprisingly, my life has changed in the past few weeks. Instead of making chocolate sculptures, I’ve been welding obsessively. My aunt has to drag me out of the studio around 6:00 p.m. each day. She’s had people delivering food three times a day. The only breaks I take are when I have to videoconference with my therapist.
I’ve been working so much and so hard that by week three, I’ve produced enough pieces for an exhibition.
Cécile finds me a guy who knows a lot about art, is a lawyer, and sometimes acts as an agent. She swears he’s legit. I let her handle everything with him. I’m not as interested in being part of the spotlight as I used to be when I was creating chocolate sculptures.
I have to confess my new agent is good. He finds me a spot at a gallery in New York City. Aunt Cécile and I spend two days packing every piece. I don’t want to sell the big tree I created the first day I had my nervous breakdown. However, the gallery owner wants it as the centerpiece—he’ll ship it back once the exhibition is over.
I begrudgingly agree and even create a copy of the tree made out of chocolate.
Usually, I would offer to travel to the gallery and rent a kitchen where I can make the sculpture. However, I don’t want to go to New York City. It might be a big city, but with my luck, I might come face-to-face with Heath. If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.
I’m not only upset but completely mad at him. How dare he toss away our relationship? I’m staring at the taillights of the truck that’s taking my hard work away to the other side of the country when I hear a screechy voice, “How are you, bitch?”
I turn around and find Cory glaring at me.
“How are you, Cordelia?” Aunt Cécile asks. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Hi, Ms. Lavigne. I’m well”—her eyes take on an accusatory stare—“if you don’t count that my friend has been ignoring me for weeks.”
I lift my hand and wave innocently. “Hey.”
“You changed your number.” The tone of her voice carries more sadness than anger.
“I changed a lot of things,” I confess. Old me would’ve cracked a joke and made her feel good about herself.