She takes the arm chair, adding a distance I naively wasn’t prepared for. I sit on the arm of the sofa. It’s the closest I can get and still leave her some space. I owe her that much.
My gut twists, and I can’t control the resulting grimace. Cocking her head, she lifts an eyebrow and I can’t quite meet her gaze.
After taking a deep breath, I focus my attention on a small blue flower on the fabric of Violet’s chair and begin.
“Once upon a time, there was a cute little boy named Max." My voice cracks and I resist the urge to shut right down. "One day, when he was three, someone told to Max’s parents they should take him to audition for a Zellers commercial. He got the part, and that led to another commercial and another. His parents were beside themselves. It was a dream come true."
I almost choke on the last sentence and I drop my head. Pull it fucking together, Donovan. It's just a damn story, and one she deserves to know. I don’t want to continue telling the story of my fucked up childhood, but if I’m going to have any chance of a future with Violet and our baby, I need to push through to the end—regardless of the painful memories.
"One day, when he was six, a call came from his agent about a part in a CBC sitcom. Max landed that one and spent the next three years juggling school and acting, all the while getting shunted from audition to audition, because his parents had a dream.” I sneer the last bit, because that's the part she really needs to get. It was never my dream, and it never made happy.
"Oh, Max…" she sighs and reaches her hand out, but she's too far away to reach me.
I finally look all the way up at her and her face is soft. Sympathetic. My Violet…I should have told her sooner. I give a small shrug.
“Stage parents. They are a species all their own, you know. I don’t think they start out as fame-hungry parasites, but that’s how they end up. Always looking for the next, better gig. Here and now is never enough."
She nods and presses her lips together. Her message is clear. Keep talking, I'll be quiet.
“Anyway, I never got to do normal kid stuff. There was no hockey, or soccer, or tree climbing. No activities that could risk my career, even temporarily.”
I take a slow, deep breath and close my eyes for a minute. “I was nine when we moved to Hollywood. My parents scored a major coup when I was cast in Tanner Harris, PhD. It was an instant hit, and by the second season, I was earning enough to keep my mother in designer clothes and my father in fancy cars." Of course, that wasn’t enough. Instead of getting a break during the Tanner off-season, Max’s parents pushed him into every feature film they could squeeze into his schedule. It's hard to think of myself as that little kid. It's like I had to disassociate myself from the experience to move on and be Max Donovan, independent grown up.
“It didn’t take long before we upgraded to a mansion with full staff, including a nanny. Well, they called her a chaperone, because no eleven year old boy is going to be cool being saddled with a fucking nanny. Anyway, Gracie being hired meant my parents were free to go on fantastic holidays instead of being stuck on set. The closest thing I had to a holiday was the occasional movie that was filmed on location.
“It was still mostly work, but at least the producers tended to arrange some fun stuff for us to do. Us being me and my co-star, Lizzie. And when Gracie was in charge, she often managed to arrange some kid appropriate sightseeing and activities.
“Maybe that’s why I didn’t fight the chaperone-nanny thing too hard. Unlike my parents, she injected some fun into my life. She just did it on the down-low because as far as my parents were concerned, if I wasn’t working, I should be learning lines or preparing for auditions.”
My chest tightens. Gracie bought me my first sketchbook and pencil crayons after she caught me doodling in the margins of a script. I guess she figured I needed more space and colour. “Our secret,” she'd said. She’d barely been with us a week and she’d already figured out my parents weren’t the sort to indulge more than my physical needs.
“Life on and off the Tanner set was…an education. Sex of all sorts was rampant, both consensual and, sadly, coerced. Many in the cast were in their early to mid-twenties—raging hormones, immaturity, and very poor judgement." I slide back into talking about Max in the third person here, because this is fucked up shit and as kinky as we are, I don't want Violet to think any of that is still clinging to me today. "As a result, Max and Lizzie were exposed to far more than was appropriate—even with chaperones present. At least on set, there was some attempt to keep sexual activity discreet. The house parties cast members were required to attend, however…”
I can’t go there right now, either. I need to finish this.
“One day, not long after I turned fourteen, my father informed me that as a young, rising star, I needed protection." The lie turns sour in my mouth still to this day. "And Gracie had been replaced by a bodyguard. Just like that.”
I struggle against the tears that threaten. Even after twenty-five years, the pain of losing her is just as sharp. Gracie had been the first adult to ever treat me like I was more than a meal-ticket.
“I was heartbroken that Gracie would leave without even saying goodbye and I took it out on Frank every chance I got. Then one day, Frank slipped me an envelope and told me to go find a private place to read it.”
I slide my wallet from my back pocket and remove a piece of paper, carefully unfolding it. It’s fragile, and I rarely pull it out anymore. I know the words, I just need to keep them close.
I hand it to Violet because I can’t read it out loud. I’m already the most vulnerable I’ve ever let myself be.
I watch her face and mentally read it with her as her eyes follow the lines of shaky handwritten text.
* * *
Dearest Max,
You are the child of my heart. My blessing.
Every moment I spent with you was pure joy.
Now, as with all things, it’s my turn to make way for the future.
And for your future, sweet boy, I want love.
Open your heart and it will find you. I promise.
All my love,
Gracie.
* * *
Tears fill Violet’s eyes, but she says nothing as she hands back the letter. I carefully refold it and return it to my wallet, taking the silence to pull myself back together.
“I was sixteen when I found out my parents had Gracie sign an agreement saying they’d pay her medical bills and funeral expenses in exchange for her never seeing me again. The show had ended six months earlier and we were in talks and auditions for more projects that I didn't want to do. It was my breaking point, when I realized my so-called parents had taken away the only person who loved me because it would interfere with my ability to earn them buckets of money."
"That's when you walked away," she whispered.
I nod. She knows the rest from my business history. My entire adult life is spelled out in a file on her desk. Emancipated at sixteen. Independently wealthy thanks to funds held in trust by the actor's guild and continuing royalties. Max's parents had negotiated a spectacularly good contract for the last two seasons of the Tanner Harris show, and once I was emancipated, every last residual came to me.
Take that, fuckers.
My gut is churning and I’m exhausted from the emotional turmoil. All I want to do is drag Violet to my bed and hold her tight for the rest of my life. Instead I keep my distance because I know we’re not done talking. As much as I want to hold her tight, I can tell she's still wary.
“Max, I had no idea…”
Fuck. I don't want her sympathy. That's not why I told her. I can feel myself hardening up again. “No one did. Hollywood is so much better at keeping secrets than the tabloids would have you believe.”
But even as I say that, even as I hear my voice clipping off the words, I realize it's not because I'm closing myself off again. I'm just done with that weight. I’ve had all I can take of reliving Max, the early years. I need to move on to Max, the fa
mily years.
39
Violet
He’s left me with a lot to unpack and process, and I’m going to need some time and space to work through it. But that will have to wait.
For the first time since we met, Max is not in control. He looks lost, almost broken. My throat is tight and achy and my heart just hurts. It hurts for Max, the little boy who grew up without love, and Max, the man who thinks he has to exist without it.
I go to him and curl up in his lap, resting my cheek against his shoulder, as I take his hand in mine and give it a little squeeze. When he squeezes back, I feel the now familiar little flutter in my belly. And it’s comforting.
I have so much I want to say—should say, but my thoughts are jumbled and confused and I need to untangle them into some kind of order.
Everything Max has told me tonight fills me with anger and resentment and feelings I can’t even name. Those people—because I can’t even consider them as parents—have not only destroyed Max’s childhood, but their toxicity now poses a threat to his relationship with our child. And that’s something I will fight against with everything I have, no matter what happens between Max and me.
We sit quietly, just holding each other for a long time, then Max wraps his arms tight around me and leans to the side, pulling me over so we’re lying on the sofa together, me in front of him.
I don't think I want to talk about the baby, but I feel like he needs something more than I’m giving him.
“I’m not leaving,” I say softly.
He squeezes me a little tighter and brushes a kiss across my ear. “Me either.”
My stomach growls and I press my hand against my belly to silence it. I just want the warmth of Max’s arms right now. But he loosens his hold on me and I let out a small whine.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Just going to grab us something to eat.” He covers me with a throw and I close my eyes for just a minute while he heads off to the kitchen.
The next thing I know, he’s stroking my face. “Time to eat.”
I open my eyes to Max’s smile. I love that smile. The one I’m sure is just for me.
He’s made sandwiches and there are two tall glasses of orange juice on the coffee table. The throw slides onto the sofa as I sit up to make room for Max to join me.
By some unspoken mutual agreement, our meal is a time-out from all the heavy, serious stuff. We keep the conversation light. Mostly talking about work.
Once we’re done, we clear the table and take the dishes to the kitchen and load them into the dishwasher.
It’s all very domestic. And I’m a little surprised at how natural and comfortable it feels, especially after how painful and bittersweet it felt on Wednesday night before I ran away.
I load the last plate into the dishwasher and close the door and Max crowds me from behind and wraps his arms around me. “Can we go to bed? It’s been an emotional evening and we’re both tired.”
I nod and he leads me by the hand to his bedroom where we both undress quickly and slide into bed.
He pulls me close and as I lay in the circle of his arms, I realise there is so much more to us than sex. More to us than a baby. I’m not ready to say what’s in my heart yet. But I can give him a hint. I cup his cheek and press my forehead against his other temple. "You know what?"
"What?"
I kiss his cheek. “Gracie was right.”
40
Max
Violet stays at my place until Sunday morning.
We don’t have sex again.
Instead, we move around each other like we’re both made of glass. I want to grab her and tell her I’m fucking Atlas and I can carry the world on my shoulders, so I can God damn carry her fears, too, but I don’t think she needs a reminder that I’m strong right now. She needs to see that I’m human, as much as that pains me.
She needs to take care of me, needs to know that I need her, and I do, so I hold my tongue. And she doesn’t leave, so it’s worth it.
When she does finally go, with a gentle kiss and a promise to see me before she leaves for Toronto for Christmas, I head out as well. I’ve got just enough time to make it to my hockey game, and right now, chasing a puck down the ice sounds like exactly the kind of escape I need to sort out my thoughts.
The game is fast and furious, my favourite speed.
Maybe a little too furious, though, because when we finish, Lachlan thumps me hard on the shoulder. “You got a reason for checking me like that?”
I shrug. It had been a clean hit. “Can’t take the heat…”
“I can take it.” He laughs. “But seriously, what’s gotten into you?”
I can’t tell him. Fuck, I should tell Gavin first. Although really, I need to talk to Violet again and find out what she wants to do. I imagine she’ll want us to keep it strictly quiet until she’s past the first trimester and she’s decided to tell her work. I decide to leave it vague. “Relationship stuff. Nothing bad.”
He grunts and leaves it at that, but in the change room, he looks over at me again. “You want to hit the weight room? You got anywhere to be?”
I shake my head. “Nowhere to be. And sure, that sounds good.”
Thirty minutes later and two burning arms later, I’m regretting that statement. Lachlan’s weight routine is…intense. “You do this often?” I say, putting down the forty-five pound barbells after the fifth and blessedly-final set of reps on the biceps curls. “You’re a crazy man.”
“I keep your best friend alive.”
“And thank you for your service.”
He chuckles and adds another twenty-pound plate to the bench press bar. “Come on. You’re lifting weights that most men would cry at.”
I do okay. But I’d rather get a workout on the ice or by doing pushups. Maybe taking out my extra energy on a punching bag. Pumping iron I’ll leave to the big guy.
“Press this and we can call it a day.”
I do, because I don’t back down from a challenge.
Which brings me full circle back to Violet. I don’t like that she’s left. I text her as I leave the rink.
M: How’s your afternoon going?
V: You know…laundry and work prep for the week. I grabbed some groceries.
M: You could come back to my place.
She doesn’t respond until I’m home, and when she does, it’s with a phone call instead of a text message.
“Hi,” she says. Her voice is soft, tired.
Something inside me roars. “Come over,” I say, because fuck niceties.
“It’s easier to be at home on a work night.”
That’s an excuse and we both know it. “You’ll sleep better with me.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s wrong?”
She sighs. “It’s just a lot to process. Nothing is wrong per se.”
“So come over and we can process together.”
“Max…”
“I want in, Violet. I’m not going to take over. I just want in.”
“Then prove that you’re not trying to take over,” she snaps. “Give me the space I need to work this out for myself.”
I don’t say anything.
“Is that too much to ask?” Her voice has gone all soft again and I close my eyes and grimace.
“No. That’s fair.”
“I’m not heading home until Saturday. And I’ve got Friday off. Give me the week, okay? We can see each other Thursday night.”
Four days has never seemed so fucking long. “I don’t want radio silence between now and then.”
“Okay. We can text.”
“Call me to say goodnight.” I’m turning into a sap and I don’t care.
“I will.”
I love you is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Not the time. “I miss you,” I say instead, and it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
41
Violet
On Wednesday, I arrive home from work exhausted and emotional. Max and I have been tiptoeing
around each other with not much more than texting once or twice a day to check in and I find it draining even though it’s exactly what I asked for.
The details of his heartbreaking childhood have haunted me all week and the closer my trip home for Christmas gets, the more I keep looking for excuses not to go. Especially because I’m not ready to break the news to my family yet. I’m not in a place where I can handle the judgement. And I have no doubt their disapproval over my divorce will be nothing compared to how they will react to me being pregnant and unmarried. And if I go home, I know it’s not a secret I’ll be able to keep.
Grabbing a slice of leftover pizza from the fridge, go online to check the weather and am rewarded with enough of a storm to legitimately cancel my trip. I feel a little better with the news, but I’ll wait until tomorrow to call and let my parents know I won’t be coming, so I don’t look too eager to cancel.
My heart leaps a little at the thought of spending Christmas with Max. Then I realise we’ve only ever discussed my plans for the holiday. What if he doesn’t want to spend it with me?
What if he doesn’t want that? After all he’s not sentimental and that sends me spiralling down into self-doubt.
Maybe it’s mistake that we didn’t discuss exactly where we stand more on the weekend and the longer we go without talking the harder it is to start.
He wants me to let him in. But what does that mean? He wants to co-parent? Wants to be a family? And even knowing what I know, I’m struggling to reconcile such an abrupt about turn on the subject of wanting children. I’d be the world’s shittiest father.
And I think—no, I know—that he was hoping by sharing, he'd… well, he said he wants in. And I don't know what to make of that, because his earlier words keep bouncing around inside my head. I’m as selfish as they come. I’d be the world’s shittiest father.
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