Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WHITNEY
Why is it that as a mom, I beg for a little alone time, but the second I get any, I want to rip my hair out?
Wyatt left on his mysterious trip this morning. And Ana asked for an overnight so that I could, quote on quote, “have a little husband and baby free time.”
The only problem with that? I don’t know what the fuck to do.
There’s an open yoga session tomorrow, so I plan on doing that with a morning free, but that left me with jack-shit to do for the rest of the day today.
I already did all the laundry, scrubbed down every crack and crevice in the house until it was squeaky clean.
My work chores are done for the day. Wyatt’s men have been checked on.
I spent a couple hours in Maggie’s stall, we did some exercise, and got her comfortable with wearing the saddle.
I finished my book earlier, and now I'm stuck in a slump so hard I can’t bring myself to pick another one up.
My phone dings as I finish making myself a third cup of coffee. I pick the cell up from the counter.
Wyatt
How’s it going? Miss me yet?
I scrubbed the toilet six times just for fun.
I don’t think I know how to relax anymore.
I send the last text, slumping in one of the chairs at the kitchen island. I watch as bubbles pop up, and disappear, and pop up again. And then disappear again. I roll my eyes and stop checking for a response after twenty minutes. He’s probably busy.
A small, insecure part of me wonders if he’s visiting someone. Another woman, perhaps. I know it isn’t fair of me to assume, and I’m not sure if it’s even my business, but the idea sits heavy in my chest. It’s a boundary we had set, but maybe one he’s willing to break?
Wyatt doesn’t strike me as a two-timer. But our past, combined with my experience with Andrew, doesn’t help the intrusive thoughts from storming in the second he left town.
All the words he’d whispered in my ear last night haunt every step I take today.
Wyatt and I stepped over a line last night, one we won’t be able to uncross.
And I realized when I woke to an empty bed and quiet house—I love him.
I don’t know when, or how, but I love Wyatt.
I love him as much as I’m capable of loving someone, and yet, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I don’t have anything to offer him aside from emotional baggage and a tantrum-ridden toddler.
But he doesn’t seem to mind, does he? He loves Brinley, that I’m sure of. She may look like me. She may be Andrew’s daughter… but she laughs like Wyatt. I can’t ignore that. And I know he cares for me, letting us stay here and marrying me proves that, but it doesn’t mean he loves me.
What if he does, though? What if we do this for real, and I fuck everything up again? I don’t know if I’d survive breaking his heart a second time.
I stand and leave the kitchen, intent on crawling into bed and binge-watching TV for the rest of the night, when the doorbell rings.
A small amount of fear shoots through me, but it’s quickly quieted when I realize the security cameras would have notified Wyatt, and he’d either already be sending the cavalry or calling me.
Neither are happening, so I grab a blanket from the nearby couch and wrap it around myself before opening the door. “What are you doing here?” I blurt.
Blake stands on the front porch, with Amaya, Harper, and Vivienne flanking her. “Heard you could use some company. We’re here for a sleepover.”
I blink. My phone dinging at the same time they all start to pile in. Harper holds the booze, Vivienne carries bags upon bags of snacks, Amaya’s arms are loaded with board games and what looks like a nail kit, and Blake waltzes past with three pizza boxes.
I’ve never had a sleepover before. Let alone an adult one.
Excitement and nerves override me while the girls don’t even bat an eye.
They’re already making themselves comfortable pulling out wine glasses from the cabinet, setting up our snacks, and turning on the TV in the living room.
I shut the front door, glancing at my phone and opening the texts between my husband and I.
Wyatt
Feeling better yet?
You did this for me?
Have fun, baby. Maybe that’ll be easier than relaxing
Who knew having sex with you would make you be so nice to me? Starting to think I should have tried it earlier
Ha. Ha.
I will take a thank you in the form of a topless picture
Get fucked, Conway
Trust me, I’m trying
I flip off the camera facing the front door, knowing he’ll see it at some point, if not right now. My face involuntarily flushes at the reminder of the way we—
Another ding.
Wyatt
Just wait till I get back, smartass
I smirk at the fact he is watching the cameras.
“Why is it so hard to find someone who just buys you books and calls you pretty?” Harper mutters, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in her mouth.
Vivienne snags some from her bowl, groaning. “Fictional men will always be better than real ones.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, peeking over the rim of my wine glass at Blake. “I heard Wesley did this thing with honey-”
“Whitney!” Blake cuts me off with a cry, lunging for me. Or rather, my mouth. “You fucking promised!”
In her dramatic leap, her elbow knocks my wine glass clean out of my hand. “Shit!” Blake shrieks as a gigantic splash of red arcs through the air like a slow-motion crime scene.
“Not the rug!” I groan, throwing a hand over my eyes as if I can block out the inevitable disaster. Soon, there’s a horrible, wet splat followed by silence.
“Quick, grab the stain remover!” Amaya is the first to shout. Blake’s already sprinting for the kitchen, or maybe the bathroom, yelling over her shoulder, “Dab it! Dab it! Don’t rub!”
Oh, my god. This is bad. What if I’m never allowed to have an adult sleepover again?
“Why do we even have a white rug?” I yell, like maybe Wyatt would hear it from out of town. I’m quickly ripping off my hoodie, dropping to my knees and pressing the fabric into the ground. I press harder, but it just fucking spreads. “There’s a damn toddler living in this house!”
We all run around, grabbing what we can, admittedly rather slowly and with a fair amount of stumbling.
We do what we can for the deep, dark stain now littering the cream rug.
Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, pass before we give up.
The five of us all stand in a circle, staring at the spot.
I bite my nail nervously. Blake stands with her hands on her hips, hovering over the spot like a project manager.
Vivienne’s trying and failing to cover up her laughter, and Amaya’s plotting face is on while Harper’s pacing.
Vivienne is the first to speak. “We could just move the couch?”
Harper immediately claps her hands, pointing at Vivienne. “You’re the smartest woman on the planet.”
When the couch is finally moved and looking 100% out of place, we sit back and admire our work. It is… well, it is fucking obvious. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
“Personally,” Harper mutters, “I still want to hear more about what Wesley did with the honey.”
“I hate you, guys,” Blake groans. Vivienne starts laughing and soon I’m following suit.
Harper, and then Blake, and then Amaya, until we’re all doubling over, and tears are streaming down our faces.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard, and I wonder if that’s true for the rest of them, too.
In our drunken, giggly stupor, we eventually turn off all the lights, turn on the flashlights on our phones, and jump and dance around like a bunch of lunatics to that “Feel So Close” song from Vampire Diaries.
To say it feels like the iconic Damon and Elena dance scene would be an understatement—but it’s so much better doing it with friends.
When we start to dwindle down, exhaustion taking over from the impromptu performance and ruined rug, Vivienne, Blake, and Harper fall deep in conversation about some lacrosse player we grew up with, while Amaya and I sit crisscrossed on the floor across from each other.
We’ve been playing a game of goldfish, and she is positively kicking my ass.
“How old is Beverly?” I ask as I set down my cards and pick up my glass of water.
“She’ll be two in four months,” she responds.
Her smile is contagious. A milestone like that is so exciting, and I can’t help but internally celebrate that win with her.
But I watch as it dims slightly, and she bites the inside of her cheek.
“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head and taking a sip of water.
Amaya hesitates to respond for a few moments—like she can’t decide if opening up will ruin the vibes or make me look at her differently.
“That thing you said at group?” she finally asks, “About how some days were easier than others? About being scared of not getting those moments, even the hard ones, back?” I nod, not able to form any words.
The fact that she remembers what I said so vividly feels like a knife twisting in my chest. She continues, sucking in a breath.
“Beverly’s dad didn’t want to be around either.
We tried when I was pregnant, but he didn’t want to be a dad.
And I couldn’t beg him to stay, you know?
I didn’t want Bev to grow up in a household that was like mine-”
“Hey.” I interrupt her with a gentle touch on her elbow. “I think making that decision alone says enough about you as a mom. We learn from our own experiences, and it allows us to give them the life they deserve.”
Motherhood is nothing but blood, sweat, and tears.
Trial and error. Because being just present isn’t what makes someone a mom—loving, fighting, hurting, and then getting up again to try over and over is what makes someone a mom.
Even reminding myself of these words is easier said than done—but it’s becoming easier the more I surround myself with good people.
People that support me and never doubt my abilities. People like Wyatt.
“Thank you.” Amaya speaks, reaching up to squeeze the hand. “I’m really glad we met, Whitney.”
“Me, too.”
I mean it. I have my girls of course, and they truly are always there when I need them—but they aren’t moms. I can’t bond over what type of wipes are best, or how it felt when Brinley called me mom for the first time.
I can’t talk about postpartum without feeling just slightly crazy or even a little judged.
My friendship with Amaya just feels different.
Like I can understand her, and she can understand me in a different way.
The things we’ve experienced, the things that we’ve sacrificed and will continue to sacrifice for our little girls.
“Let’s get the girls together this week?” she suggests, “They’d have so much fun.”
“I’d love that,” I agree enthusiastically. “And maybe we could go to yoga together too?”
“It’s a date.” she teases, and we go back to playing cards.
Laughing and talking and maybe even cutting into the other girls conversation when needed.
What I told Amaya is true. I really would love for us to spend time with her.
Brinley doesn’t have many opportunities to hang out with kids her age, so I’m excited.
I’m hopeful, too—about this new friendship.
About my battle with Andrew. About where Wyatt and I stand.
About my ability to navigate this world as a mom.
And damn, does it feel good to have a positive outlook for once.