by Marie James
Just because he doesn’t date doesn’t mean he doesn’t fuck. This is the twenty-first century, I remind myself.
The chaos from down below doesn’t quite reach the half-moon shaped lounging area Justin chooses for us to sit in. A waitress provides drink services almost before we have time to sit down.
“You must come here a lot,” I say nodding toward the guy at the rope as he turns a couple of inebriated guys away.
“Not really,” He answers and thanks the waitress as she hands him two more iced glasses of water, one with lime.
I take mine from him. “Must come around enough that you don’t have to bribe anyone to get into the VIP section.”
He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. I smirk because I just can’t help it and he’s quite enduring when he’s this animated. “The guy at the rope,” he says pointing at the security guard who let us up here. “That’s my cousin Anthony. I called him earlier and begged him not to give me shit if I came up here with a pretty girl.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head slightly. “Why wouldn’t you just let me believe you were popular enough just to breeze past him? Why tell me your trade secrets?”
I watch his eyes with amusement and look down when I feel him take my hand, resting the combination on my knee.
“Two reasons, London. First, I don’t want you to get the idea that I run around and go trolling for women so often that the bouncer at a club knows me.” He pauses, and I blink up at him, amazed at his sincerity. “Secondly, I’ll never lie to you. Ask me a question and I’ll always tell you the truth, even if it’s something you don’t want to hear or may cause you pain.”
I look down as his thumb casually rubs circles on the back of my hands. “Not a very good trait for a lawyer is it?” I chide.
“What’s that?” He asked distractedly.
“Not being willing to lie.” I raise my eyes back to him and notice the change in his. They’re softer, more inviting if that’s even possible considering how kind and thoughtful he’s been since day one.
“Can I kiss you, London?” He asks softly already moving on from the previous conversation.
I gasp. “I can’t, Justin. I’m just not…” I trail off because I feel like shit.
“Available. I know. Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He releases my hand and grabs for his water, moving slightly to give me some much-needed space. I wait for him to turn into an asshole. I wait for him to accuse me of being a cock-tease, all of the things Brian did leading up to the first time he raped me. I know when I get home I’ll analyze every word we’ve spoken tonight, every action of mine to determine at what point the gears shifted leading us into the direction.
He never becomes that person. Not once does he even hint or insinuate I’m a horrible person for dancing with him, spending time with him, and yet still refuse to move past the friendship that we have. It makes me curse the past men in my life even more, knowing if it wasn’t for the heartbreak and pain they’ve caused I wouldn’t be one hundred percent on board the Justin Train.
“So I can ask you anything?” I ask playfully and smile when he turns his head from watching the writhing crowd down below back to me.
“I’m an open book.” I’d ask him about the woman Jillian mentioned weeks ago but once again I don’t want to open a door he’ll expect me also to walk through after he’s shared his sob story.
Instead, I keep it safe and ask something that’s niggled in my head since I first walked into Brand & Platt. “When I came in for my interview with Ms. Gilson, did you call her while I was still in the office?”
His smile answers my question, but he verbalizes it anyway. “Yes.”
“You know she was about to kick me out of her office don’t you? She had no intentions of hiring me once she found out I was pregnant.” I can’t even hide the disdain in my voice if I wanted to.
He grins sadly. “That’s Ms. Gilson,” he sighs. “She can’t have children and pretty much hates any woman who can. She’s bitter to say the least.”
“She’s rude,” I add.
“Well, it’s a good thing I called then, huh?” He winks at me, and I smile at his continued flirting.
Apparently Jillian had no intentions of hanging out with us tonight. She and Hawke disappeared sometime after Justin and I hit the dance floor because I didn’t’ see her again after that. I make a mental note to bitch her out first thing Monday morning and refuse to ever go out with her again.
I can’t deny I had a great time tonight. But I don’t know how awkward things are going to be Monday morning.
Justin insisted on driving me home and walking to my door even though technically the evening wasn’t a date. He assures me my car will be waiting for me in the morning, and he’ll drop my keys in the mail slot. I know he doesn’t read it that way either, and he’s a gentleman all of the time, not just tonight.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says as we reach my front door. “I had a great time.” He holds open the screen door as I find the right key and unlock it.
“I did too,” I reply honestly.
I turn to tell him goodbye and close my eyes briefly when I find him only inches from my face. I feel his finger trace my jawline from my ear to my chin.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, and I look up into his eyes. “I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.”
“I know,” he says kissing my forehead and walking back to his car. He remains parked out front until I get inside, lock the door behind me, and wave goodbye to him from the window.
I haven’t felt London’s touch or kissed her lips in six fucking weeks. Since the doctor’s offices around town refuse to tell me if she’s a patient I’m still nowhere as far as finding her. I’ve even called several places pretending to be a forgetful dad to get appointment times, but they didn’t fall for that either. I’ve been relegated to spending hours in the evenings and most of Sunday at stores that sell baby shit in an attempt to run into her. Needless to say, I haven’t yet.
“What are you planning on torturing me with today doc?” I ask with only half playfulness as I situate myself on the padded chair across from her.
She gives me a stern look; one I know for a fact she doesn’t mean. I’ve been more open and honest with her in our sessions even though I’ve struggled with the follow through on my own. We’ve built a trusting relationship, and I even make my appointments with more willingness and less detriment these days.
“I want to hit on the motivator for you deciding on trying counseling again after well over a year since the one and only appointment you made after Savannah passed.”
I wince and realize her mentioning my late wife is not the reason. We’ve talked about it so much that I can now speak freely about it without getting angry or worse yet, breaking down. That is what happened those first couple of weeks I began seeing her.
I rub my beard with my hand. “You don’t pull any punches do you doc?”
“You pay me to be completely real, Kadin. Is it something you’d like to discuss today?” She asks setting her iPad on the table beside her. She must have a great memory to take notes later, or she records our conversations on her tablet. I’m too distracted by what I’m going to disclose today to focus even too long on that, though.
“I told you about my trip to the cabin,” I began knowing the majority of the session will be me spilling my guts and her asking poignant, yet sporadic, questions peppered throughout. “What I left out is I spent the nine days I was there with a woman whose car got stuck right off of the property.”
I proceed to tell her every detail. My suicidal intentions, the sex, bringing London back with me, and her staying at the condo with me. She remained mostly silent but was completely shocked when I got to the part about coming home from dealing with Sierra, finding London gone, and discovering the positive pregnancy test in the trash can in her bathroom.
“You haven’t hea
rd from her since?”
“Not for a lack of trying on my part,” I huff thinking about the two hours I trolled around a high-end baby boutique before coming to my appointment today.
“How do you feel about a baby?”
“Always with the feelings, huh?” She raises her eyebrows at me in mild annoyance at my attempt to avoid talking about this particular subject.
Begrudgingly I continue. “At first I was pissed that she left. Pissed that she took off and didn’t tell me. Then I realized that she deserves better than what I have to offer her and a baby.”
“Deserves better or deserved better?” She says simply.
“Excuse me?” I can’t distinguish the difference in the two.
“You’ve been working through a lot in therapy. Do you feel like you’re better prepared to be a father now than you were six weeks ago?”
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Have you packed away Savannah’s things?” She gives me the ‘put two and two together, Kadin’ look she’s grown famous for.
“You think it would help?” I ask solemnly.
“I think it’s a step in the right direction,” she says without inflection. “Why didn’t you and Savannah have children? Did one of you suffer from fertility issues?”
We’re just going to cover the entire gamut of shit today it seems.
“Not that we were aware of. We never tried to get pregnant.” True to form she remains silent forcing me to continue. “Sav worked with child victims all day long and said she didn’t want to bring an innocent person into the world only to run the risk of them being destroyed by the evil in it.”
“What did you want?”
I stop myself before I give her the ‘I wanted Savannah’ retort I’d been giving my mother for years when she asked about grandbabies.
“I think we would’ve made great parents.”
“Be more specific, Kadin,” she presses delicately.
“I wanted to coach t-ball and go on family vacations. We talked about it often. Well, I talked about it often. I begged for children. I knew we could protect our children. We were diligent people. I know I could’ve protected my children.” I scrub at my face with rough hands. “She never relented; instead she worked longer hours at the office. She gave all of her time to other people’s children. She’d shut me down every time I brought it up. Eventually, I stopped thinking about it all together.”
My voice has grown angrier with each word until I’m nearly breathless.
“You’re still pissed about it,” she says stating the obvious. “Tell me why.”
Unable to stay still I bolt up from my seat and pace in front of the faux mantle on the far side of her office. I clench my hands open and closed, trying to calm my now thundering heart.
“She refused me. She denied me the right to fatherhood.”
“It’s deeper than that, Kadin. Reach for it.”
I bellow at the top of my lungs. She doesn’t react, prepared for my outburst. “If we had kids she would’ve been home with us that night. If we had kids, she never would’ve died!” I all but crumple to the floor as waves of sobs wrack my body.
Dr. Long stuffs a Kleenex in my hands but other than that she remains silent and lets me work through my pain alone. “I’m angry at her.” I finally manage to mutter.
“It’s okay to be angry, Kadin. It’s natural.” Her voice is calming, and my breaths become more fluid, the jags of desperation growing fewer.
“I can’t get mad at my deceased wife. It’s horrendous.” I explain with my head down, still unable to face her.
“Of course you can,” she reassures me. “Your emotions are just as legitimate as the next person. Whether you want to waste time denying them instead of working through them, moving past them, is also completely up to you.”
I huff loudly. “Give it to me straight, doc.” I look up at her.
Her eyes squint in mild amusement. “Always.”
Sunday I wake up with as much renewed determination as I came home from Great Falls with all those weeks ago, only this time my focus is on beginning the process of moving on. Dr. Long had been ‘giving’ me permission since my first appointment with her when I went ballistic after laughing at some stupid ass sitcom. It wasn’t until my revelation about my anger with Savannah yesterday that I truly gave myself the same consideration.
Her instructions were to keep a box of the most prized sentimental things, disburse family heirlooms back to her parents, and donate the rest to a women’s shelter, citing they would get more use out of her clothes than the closet they currently inhabit.
Seemed easy enough. I called down to the concierge and had them bring a stack of boxes up. My mind was focused as I worked them from flat to actual box form and taped the bottoms. When it came time to leave the living room and actually go to the bedroom to begin the process is where things grew difficult.
That’s why I find myself sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the bathroom with an empty trash can repeatedly tossing a container of Clorox wipes from hand to hand. This should be the simplest part. Other people can’t have previously used cosmetics; it’s unsanitary I reason with myself.
All I want to do is sweep all of it in the trash and wipe the counter clean, not even thinking about, but Dr. Long was very specific. I needed to work on letting it go rather than just completing the actions without thinking about it. She promised I’d regret it if I didn’t. I’m already growing angrier and angrier, blaming everyone on the face of the Earth for trying to force me to give up my wife. Realistically I know these are my issues and not anyone else’s but blaming has always been a part of my coping. Yet, another thing I needed to work on.
An hour later the counter is clean, and her drawers have been emptied. I’m also in need of a new shower curtain. It lost the battle of my rage when I grew angry once again at the tasks set before me today. I don’t exactly feel sorry for it; I’d always hated that flowery, lacy thing anyways.
Wasting time slowly tying up the trash bag from the bathroom, I keep my focus straight ahead as I carry the bag of trash to the front door and set it down. I drink an entire bottle of water at the dining room table before I finally tell myself to man-up and get it done.
I start with what I’d thought would be the least emotional, her clothes. Things were going fine at first I was taking clothes from the far end of the closet and working my way forward, but the closer I got to the most recent stuff, the heavier her scent became. It was clinging hardest to things like her winter coat and an evening gown she’d worn two years ago to an advocacy fundraiser, items that weren’t laundered after being worn for only a few hours. Those items I clung to like the devil himself was trying to snatch them from my grasp and sobbed.
The process took hours. Pack some clothes, cry; pack more clothes, cry some more. It was utterly exhausting. After the clothes, I moved to the belts, shoes, and other miscellaneous fashion accessories. From there I dragged out the boxes from the top of the closet, knowing I could only handle this once and knew I had to be completely thorough.
The easiest ended up being the things she had from her childhood, items she kept for sentimental reasons that were important to her before our life together. I put those boxes together with the things I plan to give to her parents.
I only thought I was having a bad time dealing with all of this until I found the photo albums ranging from high school through college until they began to taper off after our wedding. I do my best to ignore the unopened bottle Lagavulin we’d received for our ten year wedding anniversary as a gift from her parents that has somehow been forgotten in the box containing her preserved wedding bouquet and my boutonniere.
It taunts me from the top of the dresser as I turn page after page in the final photo album that recorded our happy lives, the years before she became obsessed with work and I became complacent in my marriage. It’s hard to admit the problems after wearing the rose colored glasses I put on after she died for so long. Removing them was
a bitch and at times today made me feel even more guilt than I ever had before as if I’m cleaning out her things in retribution for having the audacity to die and leave me alone to deal with all of this shit.
I gingerly slide the last photo album into the box with the others even though at this point I want to toss everything in a pit and set it on fire. It’s not rational, but in my head it would temporarily take away the pain at least until the guilt hit full force moments later. Dr. Long told me to keep only one box, but I’m certain she underestimated the number of photo albums we would have, so I don’t feel shame in the three that I’ve ended up with.
Exhausted from the emotional day, I make trip after trip through the condo carrying the boxes for donation along with the things I’m sending to the Price’s. On the last trip out of the foyer, I notice at some point in my dozen or so trips I brought the bottle of whiskey from the bedroom and placed on the entryway table. Without a second thought, I scoop it off of the table and crack it open as I walk into the living room.
I press the top of the bottle to my lip and tilt it up. The second the expensive liquor hits my lips I snap out of it, flying into a rage instead. The bottle crashes against the brick of the fireplace, and the damage doesn’t stop there. I topple furniture and rip pictures off the walls. Nothing in the room is left sacred. It isn’t until I'm surrounded by utter chaos and destruction that I take a calming breath. Leaving the living room in complete disarray, I enter London’s room and fall onto the bed. Crying myself to sleep has never been so cathartic.
My tiny baby bump isn’t even noticeable with most of the clothes I wear, but I’m totally in love with it, as if it’s the proof I needed that there really is a life growing inside of me. I know each appointment to the doctor is verification as well, but now I have the ability to reach down and run my hands over the proof anytime I need to.