Was it an anonymous tip? Was it something one of our interns read while searching the internet for outlandish stories? How did this story cross our desks and earn our interest? I didn’t always question what I reported when I should have done better, been better, but I’m determined to get answers—correct answers.
Should I have recognized that now-familiar, firm backside which I so foolishly ogled on the update segment?
“I’m a horrible person,” I say to Rita.
“Yes, you are,” she agrees, gazing at me through those fun, red-framed glasses. She sips her cola after speaking, and my mouth falls open. “What? Isn’t that what you want me to say? You want me to tell you I agree with you. Does that make you feel better?”
“No,” I admit.
“Then stop beating yourself up. You’ve had your twenty-four-hour grace period to pity yourself; now it’s time to rectify things with Bull. If that’s what you want.” Rita sits back in the booth and stretches her legs so her construction boots land on the edge of the bench seat next to me. She’s working on her passion project this summer, building homes for those in need, and I really admire her commitment. I don’t have passion. I don’t have commitment. Gah, I’m self-deprecating again.
“Yes, I want to make things right with Bull.”
“So you’re sleeping together again, correct?” As my sole friend in the world, Rita knows too much about me. “I’d suggest sexy lingerie and a night of heavy apology sex for starters.”
“Rita.” I choke. “I’m pregnant. My body is like a misshaped pear. That’s not sexy, and I don’t think Bull will come within ten feet of me. He’s not just angry; he’s furious. Like never want to see someone again angry.”
“If that’s really true, why are you still living with him? He’d have kicked you out if he felt that way.”
Admittedly, what she says seems true. Bull did not rush after my retreat this morning to tell me to get the heck out of his house. Instead, he cautiously asked me when I’d return as if he was worried I wouldn’t be back. Then again, maybe he just wanted to know my timing, so he could kick me out when I returned. Or better yet, he could toss all my things on the lawn before I arrived home again. Maybe I should have done those things to Shelton. I should have burned his clothes and lit our mattress on fire. Honestly, Bull doesn’t seem to be the type to react in such extremes, though, and I’d already been back to the house to find all my belongings still intact.
“I have the damsel in distress syndrome, and apparently that’s Bull’s thing.” Recalling what Bull’s told me about his previous relationships, I fit the mold. Although, I’m not certain I see the distress in the women of his past. Jennifer sounded weak-willed and unsure of herself other than her desires for motherhood. Sabrina sounded needy, greedy, and unworthy of Bull, and that Gisela woman sounded like a kinky whack who stole from him.
“You do need a bit of saving. From yourself,” Rita adds. “Look, we all make mistakes. Every person in the world makes them. Some of the stuff you reported on him might be unforgivable. I don’t know. I don’t watch that kind of thing. Sorry, cookie. But I know you. You aren’t that malicious. You aren’t in distress. You’re pregnant, and that makes you forgivable in several ways. But let’s go back to making things right with Bull. Just explain yourself. It was your job, Scarlett. Maybe you should have left it long ago, especially if your conscience was catching up to you, but you can’t beat yourself up for what you should have done. I’ve done hundreds of risky, unnecessary, and downright stupid things while drinking. Some, I dare say, might be unforgivable as well, but I can’t go back. Moving forward is a huge part of my recovery. Acceptance of what you cannot change. Courage to change what you can. Wisdom to know the difference.”
I sigh, knowing Rita’s had a rough road even if she appears put together. More guilt consumes me that I hadn’t been here for her when her life crumbled. She was so good at pretending she was all put together, I hadn’t had a hint of her struggles.
“Accept this happened.”
“But Bull needs to accept I never intended to hurt him.”
“And he will, in time.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Rita pauses, looking at me over the worn-wood table. “You said he wants to be the baby’s dad. He doesn’t care about the label of biological father, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then Bull will come around.”
For Sprout. Not necessarily for me, but for the baby. Everything for the baby. I should make a plan in case Bull does want me to leave. I could do this on my own. Plenty of women are successful single mothers. I’d dealt with Lex’s daily tantrums, Shelton’s needy behaviors, and the whims of superstars. I should be able to wrap my head around raising a baby alone.
Only I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to leave Bull. I want to be with him. Plus, if I leave, then I really am like the other women in his life. I’ll have left behind a good, kind, decent man who wants to be good, kind, and decent to my baby. I owe him. He deserves to see that one woman has staying power, and that person is me. Like I told him earlier, he needs faith that I won’t go anywhere unless he asks me to leave. It’s his choice.
Bull would be the father of my dreams to my child, and maybe one day, he could open that big heart of his to me. If only he could forgive me and give me a chance to prove to him that I’d be here for him like he’s been for me. I love him, dammit. Oh, my goodness. I’m in love with Bull.
However, I cannot settle for less than him loving me. I’ve already done that with Shelton. Still, I don’t want to give up what Bull and I already have, what he’s already given me, even if it is only a sliver of who I know he can be.
Our burgers arrive and true to their reputation, they are large, juicy looking, and smell delicious. In addition, a side of greasy, salty fries that would make me retain water and my ankles swell fill a plate between Rita and me, and I am going to devour every bite. Picking up the heavy burger, I moan around the first taste. It’s grilled perfection, or maybe I was just that hungry.
After leaving the farm this morning, I’d spent time at the tractor supply shop, purchasing flowerpots, an array of mid-summer flowers, and wrought-iron hurricane candleholders. With tips from the service clerk in the garden department, I filled three pots to overflow with red geraniums, blue salvia, and something dainty and yellow I couldn’t recall the name of. Pregnancy brain. I arranged the two candleholders, filling the bottom with sand and adding a thick pillar candle to each. The final touch was a welcome sign. The inside of Bull’s home was homey, but the outside needed to say come in and stay a while.
I wanted to brighten Bull’s day—and every day ending in day—when he returned to his house to find the new things decorating his porch. It wasn’t a gesture of apology as much as a statement. I wanted to stay a little longer.
“The offer still stands for you to move in with me if you need.” Rita has been generous with the suggestion, but I don’t want to walk away from Bull. If he wants me to leave, that’s a different story, but I want to stick it out with him as partners, like he said. Although I’m beginning to hate that word.