“Jesus, Chloe.” He cupped the back of his neck, his throat moving. “I didn’t realize.”
“Now you do. And the sad part about this story isn’t Johnny. He has two parents who love him like he’s their own.” She tapped her chest. “It’s me. I’m the fool. I’m still waiting for you even after you slunk away, without a word, in the dead of night.”
She shook her head in disgust.
“Never even bothered to say, ‘Hey, have a nice life. Take care and good luck. Good luck raising my kid alone even though you’re still pretty much a kid yourself.’ Instead, you ran off and became this big, bad Navy SEAL, sacrificing for your country but not your own blood. Never even called to see if your child was born healthy. Was a boy or a girl.”
His jaw hardened. “I didn’t think he was born at all.”
“Then I deserved some form of communication for that reason alone. Since you found me guilty without evidence. At the very least, I deserved a fuck you, right?”
She took a serrated breath, waiting for a plausible explanation.
None came.
“You believed I had an abortion after sitting on that swing and hearing me tell you how much I wanted our baby. You believed my mother, a widely known narcissist and not your biggest fan, over me. Over our love.”
He looked away without a word of defense, his gaze a thousand miles away. Or ten years back in time.
“What did he smell like?”
It wasn’t the denial of wrongdoing she expected. “What?”
“What did he smell like?” He met her gaze, eyes dry but red-rimmed. “What did he look like? Feel like when you held him? The day he was born.”
He wasn’t arguing. Making excuses for himself. Taking a swipe back at her. Instead, he wanted to know about Johnny.
Memories never far from her mind bombarded her, and with them came tears. Mostly happy.
“Indescribably amazing.” Her smile was wobbly and nostalgic.
“But describe it,” he insisted then patted the wooden swing. “Come tell me. Chloe, please.”
She sat, but only because his voice broke on her name.
“He smelled brand new.”
“But how does that smell?”
“Dewy. Fresh. Like powder, but not. His skin was so soft and so pale you could see his little rib cage through it, yet he was a stout little boy. Already hearty.”
He cleared his throat, quiet for long seconds.
“What did he sound like? Did he cry?”
She laughed. “He was crying before he was completely out. Cried before his tiny toes ever felt air.”
“Really?” he breathed.
“He wasn’t happy to be evicted. Did not want to be born, that one. Six days overdue. I guess he liked making my back ache, my ankles swell, and my internal organs compress so I had to pee every ten minutes.”
She pointed at her flat belly. “It was warm and comfy in here, and he moved around constantly. Wouldn’t stay still and let me sleep. Just busy-busy in there.”
Even in-utero, he was like Jameson. Perpetual motion.
And the only evidence she’d ever given birth was a small stretch mark on the left side of her belly button. Unlike some women, Chloe treasured that mark. Was surprised Jameson hadn’t noticed it.
“I was okay with that,” she murmured. “The extra six days. I didn’t want him to be born, either. Wasn’t ready to let him go.”
Jameson hesitantly reached for her hand, as if unsure she’d allow his touch. Instead of pulling away, she welcomed it.
A lifeline she desperately needed.
“I would’ve liked that. Hearing the sound of his cry.” He squeezed her hand, desperate too.
“I wanted to be pregnant forever. I loved being pregnant.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “Despite morning sickness through the first trimester, which is a joke because it happens all day long, and making the heartbreaking decisions of adoption and family selection through the second, then being physically uncomfortable and mentally wrecked during the third, I still never wanted it to end.”
“Why haven’t you gotten pregnant since?”
Because you weren’t here.
And nobody other than Jameson Maine would be father to her children, despite his abject failure at it.
“Never met anyone I loved enough to have a baby with.” She waited for him to mention Wyatt. Ask about his illogical connection to Johnny.
“What did he look like?” he said instead, his voice hoarse. “When he was born?”
“You. He looked like you.”
Jameson leaned over, releasing her hand and covering his face. Dug his fingers into his eye sockets as if he could wipe away the tragic end to their love-turned-hate story. His actions that facilitated it.
“Dark hair, downy and soft. Dark eyes like yours,” she continued, the memory beloved. “It surprised me because the baby books said newborns wouldn’t resemble either parent at first. That their features wouldn’t be pronounced enough to identify with one or the other for a few months.”
But he came out looking just like Jameson.
Moments after delivery, with Genevieve on one side and Soraya on the other, they both gasped.
“Oh, he looks like Daddy,” Soraya said, then apologized for her gaff.
“It’s okay,” Chloe assured her, exhausted, overwhelmed, and overjoyed. “I like that. That he looks like him.”
Then, they both cried as Soraya held Chloe, and Chloe held the baby. And Genevieve left to take a business call.
“He still looks like you,” Chloe said now. “More and more every week I see him.”
“You see him once a week?”
“I’m not supposed to. Not supposed to have any contact whatsoever.” The law was definitive on that. She was not his mother. “But I watch him from a distance. Nobody sees me. Nobody knows.” Except Wyatt. “Until today.” When Marlene saw.
Jameson snorted. “Yeah, I don’t give a shit who sees me or knows I’m there.”
She let that comment slide. If he pursued his parental rights legally, he’d only hurt Johnny, but convincing him of that was a fight she didn’t have in her today.
“Whenever I’m close enough to see his features, I search for myself. I’m not there.” She bit her lip, fighting the tide. “Maybe I’m somewhere inside. In his personality. But on the outside, he’s all you.”
“I saw you, Chloe. When he smiled.” He reached for her hand again. “His smile is yours, and it about made my heart stop.”
The sob she couldn’t hold back let loose, a watery rush of regret.
“Thank you,” she whispered, but she didn’t really believe him. John J. Hennessey was Jameson Maine, only small.
“Six days overdue.” His voice was wondrous. “How big was he?
“Surprisingly average. I spent the last month thinking I had a ten-pounder in there. I was petrified to give birth.”
They laughed, but it faded quickly, amusement out of place amongst the sorrow.
“Seven pounds, nine ounces,” she said, answering his question. “Twenty-one inches long. I think he’ll be tall like you.”
“He looks healthy.” He gave her a bittersweet smile. “Hell of a throwing arm.”