45. Sabrina
45
Sabrina
I ’m officially running on fumes, caffeine, and the sheer stubbornness that comes with being a single mom entrepreneur.
My Brooklyn apartment, my supposed sanctuary, currently feels like a command center for a very sleep-deprived army of one.
I landed another consulting gig last week, a tech startup with a PR crisis that makes Leo’s drama look like a minor hiccup.
Haven’t told Leo, of course.
Our communication these days is strictly professional. Emails about Maxwell & Briggs. Brief, sterile phone calls about press releases.
The man who once pinned me against his office window and fucked me senseless now discusses media strategy with the detached formality of a tax auditor.
It’s… weird.
And okay, fine, maybe a tinypart of me is a little miffed he hasn’t even attempted a follow-up dinner invitation. Or, you know, casually inquired about the well-being of his actual offspring.
Radio silence. Great crisis communication strategy there, Maxwell.
As for Mia, well, for the past two weeks she’s been undergoing a phase I like to call ‘The Pre-emptive Daddy Issues Debutante Ball (BYO Earplugs).’
Which means I’ve barely slept a wink lately.
My mind feels like eggs cooked too long on high heat and neglect.
Just like my love life. Zing!
So, when my mother, queen of unsolicited advice, called a few days ago and offered to fly in from Chicago to ‘help out,’ I surprised myself by saying yes.
Desperation, thy name is Sabrina.
She’s been here for a day now, a surprisingly calm presence, acting as a human shield between me and total meltdown. She’s currently camped out on my pull-out sofa, a temporary fixture in my living room/office/nursery.
It’s… crowded.
But also weirdly comforting.
Tonight, after Mia has finally succumbed to the siren song of Pat the Bunny and organic sweet potato puree, Mom finds me hunched over my laptop, trying to decipher a particularly convoluted crisis communications plan for my new client while simultaneously mainlining lukewarm coffee.
“You look like you wrestled a badger, honey,” she says, settling onto the edge of my sofa with a mug of herbal tea.
“Feels like it, Mom,” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “This new client… it’s a dumpster fire. And Leo’s… well, Leo’s Leo. His PR situation is still… volatile.” Understatement of the century. The Red Bull Chamonix competition looms, and I’ve been trying to spin i t as the comeback of the century, even though my heart isn’t in it. And it shows. My most recent press releases... well, let’s just say, his investors are still nervous about Chamonix, and no new investors have shown up yelling ‘take my money.’
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to spin it the way he wants, which leads me to the inevitable conclusion: Taylor Strategic Communications is probably going to have to dump its highest-paying, most infuriatingly attractive, and emotionally catastrophic client.
Because the alternative is delivering PR that’s about as convincing as a politician’s promise, and my professional pride just won’t stand for that.
Substandard work? Over my post-baby body.
But the thought of officially severing that last tie to Leo makes me... well, let’s just say, yearn for those ten Black Forest cakes.
“Sabrina,” Mom says, her voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something? About Leo?”
I brace myself. Here it comes. The lecture. The warnings. The ‘he’s just like your father’ speech, Part Deux.
“Sure, Mom. Lay it on me.”
“Are you… are you sure you’re not being a little too quick to write him off?”
I stare at her, genuinely shocked.
“Mom, are you feeling okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned. “Did you hit your head on the flight? Because last time we talked about Leo, you were practically ready to call in a nuclear strike on his penthouse.”
She sighs, a wan smile playing on her lips. “I know, honey. I know what I said. And I meant it, at the time. He does remind me of your father. The recklessness, the charm, the potential for… di sappearance.” Her gaze flickers towards Mia’s makeshift nursery in the living room. “But something Tatiana said… it got me thinking.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Tatiana? You’ve been talking to Tatiana? And about my love life, of all things?”
Mom has the good grace to blush slightly. “Well, we did meet at her wedding a couple of years ago, remember? You were her bridesmaid. And yes, we’ve stayed in touch. She’s a very smart woman, Sabrina. And she cares about you a lot.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a bit foolish. Tatiana’s disastrous first wedding. The one where her fiancé stood her up at the altar, about two years before she married Dominic in Vegas.
Right. I guess I just assumed… well, it doesn’t matter.
“So, what pearls of wisdom did Tatiana impart that suddenly turned you into Leo Maxwell’s number one fan?”
“Not his fan, honey,” Mom scolds me. “Just… maybe a little more objective. Tatiana pointed out something I hadn’t really considered.” She pauses. “Your father chose to leave, Sabrina. He made a conscious decision to walk out on us. But he never fought for us. He never tried.”
“And let me guess,” I smile sweetly. “Leo’s different , right? Because he’s trying . Yes, yes, Tatiana already told me all that. But he’s not trying. Not really. He asked me out once, since I moved out. That’s it.”
“And what did you say?” Mom asks.
“No, of course,” I reply.
Mom nods slowly. “So if he asked you out today, would your answer be any different?”
“No,” I reply.
She sighs. “Yes, Leo is reckless. He’s got more baggage than a Heathrow carousel. And this Chamonix thing... is terrifying, and frankly, idiotic. If he actually goes through with that, after everything… well, that’s a different conversation. A much shorter one.”
My heart clenches. Chamonix. I’m beginning to hate that particular French city with a passion, even though I’ve never been there.
“But,” Mom continues, “he hasn’t left, has he? Not really. He’s still here. He’s fighting, in his own messed-up way. He’s trying, however clumsily, to figure out how to be a father. He’s wrestling with it. He’s not just… vanishing. It’s... you, Sabrina. You who are... vanishing.”
I stare at her, stunned into silence.
This is… not what I expected.
Definitely Tatiana’s work, though.
Never thought I’d see the day... my best friend and my own mother conspiring behind my back.
“Why are you telling me this, Mom?” I finally ask. “After everything you said before? About him being just like Dad?”
“Because I want you to be happy, Sabrina,” she says, her eyes glistening. “And I want Mia to be happy. And listening to you these past few weeks… and seeing you with my own eyes today... you remind me so much of myself, after your father left. Walled off. Braced for the worst. Determined to do it all alone.” She reaches out, taking my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “But honey… in this situation? I’m telling you, you’re the one who left. You walked out. He didn’t push you away. He didn’t disappear. You did.”
Her words land like a punch.
I left him.
The realization settles in. I was so focused on the possibility of him leaving, of him repeating my father’s pattern, that I didn’t see… I didn’t see my own role in it.
I built the wall.
I slammed the door.
I ran.
But the wingsuiting… Chamonix… that’s different.
That’s him actively choosing risk over us.
Choosing the fall.
“But Mom,” I say stubbornly, “he’s still planning on Chamonix. He’s training for it. He lied to me about his first quarry jump. How can I trust him? How can I build a life with someone who’s constantly flirting with death? Who values that… that rush more than his own daughter? More than… me?” The last word is a choked whisper.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” Mom admits. “I honestly don’t. That part… that’s terrifying. And maybe it is a dealbreaker. Maybe he is incapable of choosing differently in the end. Maybe the pull is just too strong.” She squeezes my hand. “But are you absolutely sure? Have you really talked to him about it? Have you told him, calmly, without anger, what it would mean for you, for Mia, if he actually goes through with it? Just because he said he’s going to do it, doesn’t mean he can’t be talked out of it. Relationships are all about communication. You have to try, honey. You have to. For Mia’s sake. For yours.”
She’s right, I realize. I haven’t even tried to talk him out of it. Not really.
I yelled at him. And walked out.
Built my walls. Assumed the worst.
“Loving someone like Leo,” Mom says, “someone with that much… intensity, that much damage… it’s alwa ys going to be a risk. A huge one. And maybe living in constant fear is too high a price. For you. And Mia. Maybe you’re right to protect yourselves. If he goes to France, he’s choosing that over a life with you, with his daughter. It’s… it’s another kind of abandonment, just dressed up in adrenaline and glory. But until then, it’s not over. Do you hear me? Until then, you and Leo can still make it work.”
“I just don’t know,” I tell my mom, meaning it.
I imagine talking to him, really talking to him, but the outcome only ends up the same. He goes to France. He flies in the Red Bull competition.
And he hits the cliff wall.
I hug myself.
No. I can’t. I can’t do it.
The old, familiar chill of abandonment settles deep in my bones.
My resolve hardens again.
I won’t fall in love with him. I can’t.
He’s made his choice.
And I’ve made mine.
Protect Mia.
Protect myself.
He left first, I tell myself. No matter what Mom or Tatiana say. He chose the cliff face over us.
The thought doesn’t bring comfort.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall in love with him.
But I wonder if it’s already too late.