Chapter Three #3
Memories of her parents’ fights flooded her brain; that awful, post-traumatic response caused her skin to break out in blotchy pink.
Her father had suggested that; Rosie was almost sure of it.
But Moira had been adamant. Rosie was hers, and hers alone.
If he wanted a divorce, then he’d lose Rosie, too.
She’d been a pawn for her mother, used to try to get her father to stay, and then to punish him for leaving. Never mind that she’d been so close to him, so adored by him; Rosie had been too young to have any say in the outcome of their divorce.
Emotions thickened the walls of her throat so she found it hard to swallow, and tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away quickly.
‘You really hate this, don’t you?’ he asked, staring at her without moving.
She nodded slowly.
His lips compressed into a gash on his face. ‘There’s no other way.’
‘But we could—’
‘No.’ His voice was harsh, ringing with finality. ‘I will not be sidelined from my child’s life.’
She spun her engagement ring around her finger, the weight of the diamond something she wasn’t used to.
‘You don’t need to marry me to be a part of their life. I’m not a monster, Aristotle. I have no interest in keeping you away from your baby, if you want to see them.’
‘See them?’ he repeated, tone incredulous. ‘I’ve told you; I’m raising this child as mine. I have every intention of being as much a part of their life as you.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Our baby will know they have two parents who love them enough to get married.’
She closed her eyes on a wave of frustration. ‘What if that destroys them? Haven’t you thought of that? We can’t make each other happy—that’s not ideal.’
‘This isn’t about our happiness.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ She sucked in a steadying breath, and tried again.
‘My parents were miserable together. Not at first, I suppose, but by the time I was old enough to understand, I realised they were different to my friends’ parents.
They fought, pretty much around the clock.
My dad gave me a set of headphones, and I would wear them all the time.
’ She twisted the ring faster. ‘It’s far better for two parents to raise a child separately than to try to make a marriage work when they hate one another. ’
‘I don’t hate you,’ he responded quietly, carefully. ‘And I don’t think you hate me, either.’
Her eyes flashed to his, memories of that night slicing through her anew. ‘I can’t believe you actually screwed her, man… We were just joking around… She’s practically the hired help…’
‘You’re wrong.’ It felt so important to defend her twenty-year-old self in this way. To make him understand that her hatred was real, and soul-deep. ‘You are everything I despise.’
His features didn’t shift, so on some level, she wondered if he’d been expecting that. Almost looking for it.
‘Then I presume your experience with your parents will inspire you to hide it from our child.’
His words landed against her heart with a dull thud. Of course, he was right. No matter the situation, she would move heaven and earth to avoid letting her child know the pain she’d lived with.
She blinked her tears away, focusing her attention on the street beyond the tinted windows of his limousine.
‘What was your home like?’
She frowned, not understanding.
‘When you were growing up. Where did you live?’
‘Oh.’ She cleared her throat. ‘We had a place in Hammersmith.’
‘Big? Small?’
‘Two bedrooms. Why?’
‘Because your parents couldn’t escape one another. Whatever issues they had, they festered and built, until they argued.’
She didn’t turn to face him; she didn’t want him to see the surprise on her features. Because he was right. He’d so perfectly described the cloying, claustrophobic tension she’d grown up with.
‘This won’t be a problem for us.’
‘Because your house is so big?’
‘It’s more than large enough to avoid one another, if needed.’
‘You don’t think you can annoy me from a distance?’
His lip quirked in something that might have been a smile. His eyes shifted beyond her, to the window, reminding Rosie that she was supposed to be going inside to pack a bag.
But before she could reach for the handle, he said, ‘What did you listen to, Rosemary?’
She frowned. ‘Huh?’
‘When you were little, and they argued. You said he gave you headphones.’
‘Oh.’ She glanced to his face, wondering if he’d think her strange, then deciding she didn’t care. ‘The Odyssey.’
His brow arched with surprise. ‘Homer?’
She nodded once. ‘I always loved it. The heroism, the adventure.’
‘And so the seeds were planted for your archaeological career.’
‘Actually, I think that had more to do with those encyclopaedias of your mother’s,’ she said with a half-smile, missing the way thunderclouds briefly crossed his features.
‘They introduced me to so many ancient wonders, sites that I itched to explore, even then. It was like the cracking open of a door I hadn’t fully realised actually existed. ’
But something had shifted between them. He nodded towards the apartment, then glanced at her. ‘Be quick; the plane is waiting.’