Winning Brynn (Seattle Strikers)

66. Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-four

Brynn

Four days after Leo and Issy had their sorely needed conversation, in which he had begrudgingly agreed not to stand in the way of Salem and Issy building a relationship, I tuck my hands into my coat pocket and breathe out a plume of white air. Not too far away, Issy is pushing Salem in the local playground’s swing set, her lip strangled between her teeth and a furrow to her brow.

“You okay?” I ask, pulling my coat tighter around myself as I step up beside her.

She drops her lip, but the lines between her eyebrows remain jagged and deep. “I’m fine.”

That earns her a snort from me. If the time I’ve spent with Leo has taught me anything, it’s that “fine” doesn’t mean fine.

I tug the neckband of my sweater up to my mouth to shield my skin from the icy wind and nudge Issy’s foot with my own. “You can talk to me, you know?” She nods, though it isn’t one of agreement. It’s a slow movement, weighted with the baggage that hangs between us. Sucking in a breath, she toes the ground with her sneakers in between each push of Salem in the swing. “It’s kind of weird, though, isn’t it?”

Ah. I was wondering when the subject of Leo and me would come up.

We’ve both done a pretty spectacular job of pretending that we haven’t seen the same man naked, up until this point. So much so that I’d managed to trick myself into believing that my friend and boyfriend— boyfriend? lover? fuckbuddy? —had never even had sex at all. That Issy had fallen pregnant through other means. Divine intervention, even. Like the Virgin Mary, just without all the shepherds and kings—which, in hindsight, would have made Salem the Second-Coming, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Regardless, the fact that the subject is coming up now is both relieving and deeply uncomfortable.

“What part of our situation are you referring to exactly?”

She calls me on my bullshit with a single pointed look, but I still refuse to be the first to say what we’re both thinking out loud, which brings us to a bit of an impasse.

Issy continues to swing Salem back and forth. Say giggles intermittently because the girl fucking loves a swing, and I remain steadfast in my mission to pretend that my friend doesn’t intimately know what it feels like to have Leo’s dick inside of her.

“Brynn,” she sighs finally.

“Yes?” I bat my eyelashes.

“We have to talk about it at some point.”

“Do we?”

“Yep.”

“Right now?”

She shrugs. “Now is as good a time as any.”

Raising her head to the gray sky, she closes her eyes with a scrunch of her nose, as if trying to summon strength from the universe to deal with my annoying ass.

“Would it help if I told you I don’t remember it?”

It would, actually.

During the glimpses of reality that have slipped through the gaps of my self-induced delusion that they’ve never been together, I’ve tried so hard to swallow down the jealousy that threatens to make me vomit every time I think about it. Albeit, I was unsuccessful, but I tried, nonetheless.

So, hearing that Issy doesn’t remember the night they spent together, and knowing that Leo has no memory of it either, is incredibly convenient for me.

Not that I say that to Issy.

“I don’t think it’s any of my business,” I offer with a slight shake to my voice. “And it would be selfish to only think about myself in this situation, when it must be ten times more uncomfortable for you.”

“Oh, please.” She makes a batting movement with her hand. “There’s so much I regret about the way things happened, but losing the possibility of being with him isn’t one of them. Even if I hadn't done what I did, I don’t think we would have ended up together. It was a one-night stand induced by a recent breakup and too much alcohol. So, if you’re worried that I still want him, you really don’t need to be.”

My forehead creases in confusion, because how could anyone not want Leo?

He’s the kind of man who is naturally gentle but knows when to be rough. He’s observant, thoughtful, and kind, even if he is gruff around the edges. He isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t claim to be, and he’s willing to admit when he’s fucked up, and he goes above and beyond to make up for it. My new very elaborate photography equipment is a prime example of that.

He puts in the work to be better, to learn, to grow and change. How many men out there are willing to do that?

Besides, he looks like he was conceived at a Greek god sex party. And he’s got a fucking British accent, for Christ’s sake. What’s not to like about him?

“Thank you,” I say finally. “But I’m more worried about how you’re coping with everything.”

Her face takes on that same searching, doleful expression she was wearing earlier. The lines in between her eyebrows return, and her bottom lip sucks back between her teeth.

“I don’t know how I’m coping,” she whispers. “It’s just not what I expected.”

My gaze slides to Salem, bundled in a thick coat and knitted hat, with a pair of adorable fluffy boots that I ordered last week online because, apparently, all my money gets spent on baby clothes now.

She’s so happy in the swing. Her eyes are bright and cheeks red from the cold, but her mouth is set into a permanent smile. We’d spend all day at the playground if it were up to her.

“In what way?” I ask Issy.

Her breath shivers with a sigh. “It just doesn’t feel how I thought it would.”

Raising my eyes to hers, I wait in silence for her to clarify her meaning.

“I thought we’d have this great connection, you know? That I’d start spending time with her and she’d just know I’m her mom, and the overwhelming love everyone talks about would be there, but…” She trails off, closing her eyes. “But it doesn’t feel like that. She doesn’t feel like my daughter. She feels like someone else’s.”

My throat clogs as the look she sends my way causes guilt to rush through my bloodstream. Because I know she’s not talking about just anyone. She’s talking about me.

“You know loads of moms feel that way, right?” I say gently, plastering on a reassuring smile. “Like, that rush of love doesn’t happen for everyone at first. Sometimes it takes a while.”

“Yeah, but that’s during the newborn phase, and Salem’s not a newborn.”

“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not, but this is the first time you’re seeing her since her birth. It’s only been a few days, and you’re only just getting to know her, so it’s kind of like the newborn phase. The circumstances might be different, but the feelings are the same.”

“I guess.” But she grimaces like she doesn’t believe me. “I just don’t understand why this feels so impossible for me when it seems so natural to every other woman. Like, look at you. You have more maternal instincts when it comes to Salem than I do, and she’s not even your kid. You know what she wants just by the sound of her cries or, hell, even before she cries. It’s like you’re psychic or something.”

It takes everything in me to bite back a wince.

Because in some ways, she’s right.

Caring for Salem does feel natural to me, the same way it does with Ivy. They feel like they’re my own, even though they aren’t. It’s not something I can explain, because I don’t really understand it myself.

But then, I’ve had more time with Salem. I’ve been able to learn what she needs and when. I’m not psychic, and sure, maybe the maternal intuition I seem to have been born with helps me along the way, but mostly, caring for a child is an arduous game of trial and error.

Issy will get there too. She just needs more time.

“It’s just my job, Is. It’s what I’m being paid to do.” It’s the truth, but the words burn like a lie on my tongue.

Issy’s eyes find a small line of trees on the opposite side of the playground that are beginning to bud now that the days are getting longer, and she nods sadly. “Yeah.”

“Try to stop putting so much pressure on yourself, okay? These things take time.”

She smiles, though I can tell it’s forced.

In the swing, Salem releases a sharp cry to let us know she’s finished, dragging our attention back to her. I hesitate a moment to give Issy the space to get her out, but when she doesn’t, I do it myself.

I get Salem settled in the stroller then motion to Issy to push her, and we start the short walk home.

The moment is broken now, but I’m still worried about my friend. I don’t want her to feel like she’s failing or that there’s something fundamentally wrong with her because she’s struggling to connect with her daughter.

And the worst part is, I don’t know how to make it better. All I can do is step aside and let her work this out for herself.

After a long while of silence, Issy finally says, “Thank you for reassuring me.”

Her expression is softer now, her eyes a little brighter. The lines between her eyebrows are still visible, though lacking the jarring depth they had not too long ago, and her mouth is more relaxed.

“Always.”

She smiles, and I think it’s a real one this time. “You helped put things into perspective a bit. I needed that.”

I return her smile, but inside, my gut is twitching. “I’m glad.”

Once more, we fall into silence, but it’s comfortable now and lighter than it was before. That is, anyway, until she looks at me with mirth in her eyes and says, “Wanna compare notes on Leo’s dick size?”

I shove her in the arm, but we laugh the rest of the way home. But that feeling inside me remains for the rest of the day, something between anxiety and insecurity. Something, maybe, like jealousy.

And I hate myself for feeling it.

Because how selfish of a person must I be to be jealous of Issy reconnecting with her daughter? It isn’t that I feel threatened. I don’t. I trust her when she says she has no interest in Leo, but that’s not what I’m worried about. It’s never been what I’m worried about, truth be told.

It’s just that, in my bones, I know that the closer Issy and Salem grow, the less Salem will need me. When she has a real mom to care for her instead of a loose connection who was hired to be her nanny in a moment of desperation, there will be no reason for me to stay.

“ I wanted Salem to have a real family ,” Leo had said. And I know, in the moment, he had meant with me. But that will change, I’m sure. It has to. Issy will find her feet, she’ll fall in love with Salem just as deeply and irrevocably as I have, and Leo will realize that there isn’t anything closer to a “real” family than a child and the parents who brought them into the world.

And where will that leave me? When there’s no room for me anymore?

When two of the people I love most in the world don’t need me anymore?

What will I do then?

“Come on, baby, you can do it.” Issy kneels on Leo’s living room rug, draped in one of his white shirts, with her arms stretched out to Salem. “Just a few steps, ladybug. That’s it.”

Ladybug.

That’s my name for Salem.

That’s always been my name for Salem.

“Come on, baby girl, walk to your mama.” Leo beams beside Issy, his hand resting on her shoulder, his thumb swirling tiny circles over her skin.

Why is he touching her like that? Why does he keep looking at her the way he used to look at me?

Salem wobbles on her little legs, and for a moment, I think she might fall down. But then she steadies herself, and with a giggle, she puts one foot in front of the other and takes a step. The remaining steps to her mom come quickly and effortlessly, as if she’s been able to walk this entire time and has been hiding it from everyone.

“You did it!” I yell, pride blazing through my body like a shooting star. “You did it, ladybug! You did it!”

But she can’t hear me.

No one can.

I watch, as if through a window, as Leo swipes up his daughter with one arm, winding the other around Issy’s neck. He pulls them both into his chest as they laugh and celebrate and hold each other, as if no one exists in the world but them.

As if I never existed at all.