But I decided on it before I even got here. I’ve done so many of them alone, and Sinclair should be able to be a part of this process. No matter what’s going on with our relationship, part of being a good mother is allowing a child to know their other parent. Especially if that other parent is as decent a human as Sinclair, despite his lies to get in my bed. I know his heart is pure.
“Could I?” So much hesitant hope in his voice. “I would love that, if you’re comfortable. I want to see him.”
I have to ignore the way my eyes prick with emotion at his excitement. “I’ll text you with the appointment details.”
“I’ll be there. Early. I could pick you up, if you want to go together.”
The thing is, I do want to go together. I can’t stop my stupid fantasies about being a couple, about welcoming our son into the world together. But I’ve given him a small piece of me, even if it’s tiny. I can’t dole out anymore, or I’ll feel comfortable giving in to everything. And I’m just … the trust isn’t there. I’m not sure it’ll ever be restored.
“I’ll just see you there,” I say firmly, giving a curt nod.
“Oh. Okay.” Sinclair looks disappointed, just like my heart feels.
A pang of guilt goes through me; this man is the father of my child, and I’m keeping him away. Not from our child, but from me. Which, in some situations, could affect our child. Wouldn’t it be better if this little boy grew up in a two-parent household? I never did, and I wouldn’t say I’m less because of it, but I wonder sometimes what it would have been like.
My head is even more screwed up than it was before Sinclair sat down at this table, and I know for my own self-preservation I have to get out of here.
“There are some things I need to do for work, so I need to go.” I unhook my purse from the back of the chair and brace my hand on my belly to stand.
I’m growing larger by the day, and soon I’ll stop fitting in my normal-sized shirts. As it is, the hems barely stretch over my bump.
Sinclair’s chair scrapes the floor as he jumps to action, taking my elbow and helping me up. Just that small point of contact, his hand on my arm, sparks a wildfire through my blood. Our gazes catch, just inches apart, and we both feel the blaze.
I have to force myself to look away.
“Can I help you to your car? Are you going to be okay?” His concern is sweet, but I hide my reaction.
“I’m pregnant, Sinclair, not paralyzed. I’ll be fine, us pregnant women walk around every day.”
Those full lips separate into a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I just … I’ve never done this.”
My heart warms, and I give him a bit of leeway. “I haven’t either. That’s why … we can try and learn together.”
With the way he’s looking at me, so much hope in those baby blues, my stomach fills with butterflies. Even after his lies and my omissions, maybe we can find our way back. Or at least co-parent effectively.
I feel Sinclair’s eyes on me as we leave the coffee shop, as I walk to my car, and even as I drive away. He’s looking out for me.
A little piece of the ice I froze around my heart when he left begins to melt.
25
Sinclair
Being home alone leads me to think, and those thoughts usually turn negative.
It’s why I’m always keeping myself out and about, staying late at the stadium to do work no one else wants to do, or invading my family’s homes so that their chatter replaces the string of thoughts going on in my head.
But today, I find myself unusually home alone on a day off, and it’s making me anxious. I woke up and cooked a full breakfast, eating it on the patio even in the brisk cold of the Pennsylvania late autumn. Then I cleaned the bathrooms, all six of them, hoping the bleach would wash out my traitorous brain. Next came a vicious run in my basement gym; Metallica dialed all the way up as I pounded out five miles. Not even the workout exhausted me like I thought it would.
I tried to watch some TV but kept zoning out. Video games were much of the same. I logged into my stock market trades and tried to play around but found that typically rousing activity boring as well.
So I decided to give in, taking a seat on my couch and letting my mind just wander. My sponsor, a middle-aged English teacher, named Henry who is fair and honest, is always talking about sitting with my thoughts, letting them work themselves out. He doesn’t realize just how fucking scary of a place my mind is.
Today, though, instead of straying to my years of drinking, of all the mistakes I’d made, of memories of the accident and hospital, I think of Frankie. And our baby.
It’s a step in the right direction, the meeting at the coffee shop. She was right in having us both cop to our blame in this situation. We’d both hurt each other unnecessarily, and it was mostly my fault. I was the one who’d lied initially. I was the one who made her think she meant nothing, because I was too fucking scared to talk to her before I left Florida. I was the one who didn’t keep in touch, who thought about her for five months and did nothing about it.
Of course, she thought I wouldn’t care about a baby. I never gave her the idea that I would.
But, miraculously, Frankie extended an olive branch. She still wants to try to co-parent, at the very least. So, I will have my son in my life.
Now, I just need to prove to her that I deserve her in my life, too. There is clearly still the spark that always existed between us. Frankie and I have a chemistry that can’t be denied. I felt it when I touched her yesterday, and I know she felt it, too. Does she … does she love me? Does she know that I love her?
I should have just told her, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her. It was a big step that she even sat down with me, that she invited me to the appointment. I can’t scare her off with too much, too fast. Build her trust, show her I’m worthy, put everything I have into being a good father. Then, maybe after she sees that, she’ll trust me with her heart, too.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, a smile still on my face from thinking about how beautiful Francesca looks while growing our son inside her.
Frankie: You claim you care about this. That you want to be a part of this baby’s life. But it’s all talk, isn’t it? You were nowhere to be found at the doctor’s appointment today.
Wait … what?
“What’s the date?” I ask distractedly to no one since I’m alone, because apparently, my brain doesn’t function anymore.
My heart begins to pound, and I’m not even sure why. There has to have been a mistake.
I pull down the screen on my iPhone, and the date reads the twelfth. No. No. Please tell me I didn’t …
My hands fly as I click over to the calendar app, scrolling through the month to make sure I didn’t …
Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me and this stupid fucking brain of mine that can’t get anything right.
Because right there, on the twenty-first, I plugged in Frankie’s appointment. The numbers were wrong.
I didn’t show up today. I missed my first shot at meeting my son.
26
Frankie