Chapter 29 Silva #3
He was packing himself away from her again.
Giving her the space she was telegraphing that she wanted, honoring whatever decision she made regarding their relationship, and staying true to his word — not shirking his responsibility to their daughter and keeping his distance from her in the meantime, as if she might bite. That’s probably what you need to do.
“Mommy, why are you mad at Tate?” Aelin asked her that night as they snuggled in Silva’s bed before it was time for her to be tucked in.
She paused for a moment, kissing her daughter on the nose. “I’m not mad at him, silly goosey.”
That wasn’t exactly true, though, she admitted. She was frustrated. Adjusting to going back to work was harder than she’d thought; adjusting to being away from her tiny girl all day was agony, and Tate was being so irritatingly agreeable.
He’d never been agreeable before. He’d never contacted her unprompted, had never been so willing to be present.
He’d never told her they were “past the point of secrets” then.
And it low-key infuriated her to contemplate that perhaps the reason why having him in her life this time around seemed so much easier was that she had been the problem before, too clingy, too insecure and emotional, too immature for the relationship as it was.
That wasn’t possible, she told herself. She wasn’t at fault here. She was the victim.
But he hasn’t changed. You have. He’s counting in weeks. So if things are easier, it’s because you’re different.
But that wasn’t entirely true, either. He was making them a project. An obligation. And that wasn’t what she wanted to be to him.
Aelin nodded. “Yes, you are. You gave him angry eyes.”
Silva exhaled slowly. And now you’re being called out by a toddler.
“Well, I’m sorry if I did, bunny. I’ll tell him I’m sorry tomorrow . . . do you like having him pick you up from school?”
Her tiny girl nodded again. Silva pulled her close, closed her eyes, and breathed her in.
They become obligations. She didn’t want to feel like an obligation to him.
He had desired her once. And if it had only been five days and a handful of weeks, why did he seem to no longer?
Because you’re pushing him away. Because you don’t know what you want, and he’s giving you the space to decide.
She exhaled sharply again. She didn’t like Tate being the reasonable one in their relationship.
She didn’t want him back if he was only invested because now he knew he had a child.
He’d deposited a large sum of money into the account with her name on it, saying nothing to her, but doing it just the same.
He had paid the prorated fee for the school term, had stocked her refrigerator in addition to all the meals in the freezer, and had offered several times to give her a break on the weekends if she wanted it.
She didn’t want to be a chore that needed doing.
You’re doing the same thing he did when he got out of the hospital. Silva huffed to herself, making a small animal noise into her daughter’s hair. She hated this in-between gap where they’d found themselves. You’re the one who put both of you there.
“Mommy?”
Silva opened her eyes, finding her daughter staring into them intently.
“Is Tate going to be my new daddy?”
The tension she’d been carrying twisted so hard it nearly dissolved itself in one wrenching pull at her insides. How could she deny her daughter having another person to count on? Having someone else who loved her? We can figure our relationship out without it affecting her.
“Do you think that sounds good?”
Aelin nodded again, her warm little palm on Silva’s cheek, staring unblinking into her eyes. “Moonbeam says he’s my real daddy.”
Silva almost choked, pulling Aelin’s head down to rest against her breast. “I think Moonbeam needs to concern himself with leaving your little chipmunk friend alone. It’s almost time for bed, okay?”
The following afternoon, she left Aelin at her drawing table, following Tate out the door.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He turned slowly, that sad smile still taking up residence on his face. “Of course. What can I do, dove? Do you need help this weekend with—”
“I don’t need any more help, Tate.” It came out in a rush, her neck heating, moving up her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears.
“I appreciate everything you’ve been doing.
It’s been incredibly appreciated. But I don’t want you to help us.
I feel like you’re making us a project. And don’t pretend you don’t love a project. ”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
She laughed in frustration, stepping into the circle of his space.
He didn’t move back. “I know you do. You need a project. You need to do something to take your mind off the fact that you’re not at your bar or your restaurant.
But I don’t want us to be that project. I want us—” she broke off, swallowing back the tears that were trying to burn their way into existence.
She needed to make her choice. Are you family?
We could be. “I want us to be a family. If you still want that.”
His hand rose, covering her face, his thumb gently tracing over her cheek, but the laugh he choked out was anything but warm.
“Silva, you can’t stand the sight of me right now. Don’t deny it. Don’t tell me what you want and then do the opposite. I’ll do whatever you want, dove, but I already told you — I’m not making this choice for you.”
She huffed and stamped her foot in the driveway. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Well, let’s see, I think we’re up to six weeks now? Six weeks since I’ve seen a foot-stomping Silva tantrum. I missed it.”
She whined, leaning into him further. “Don’t be mean. I’m serious. I don’t want you to be here out of obligation, either. Remember how that felt? I want you to be here with us, but not because it’s part of the chore checklist you made.”
“And I want to be here with you as well . . . if you want me here, Silva.”
She did. Didn’t she? Yes. You do.
“Will you stay for dinner next week? She’s been asking for it.”
He didn’t answer right away, giving her an inscrutable look. “And what do you want, dove?”
And what are they after they bloom? They become obligations.
Are you family? We could be. “I want us to start therapy this week,” she answered honestly.
“You’re right. I’ve not been clear . . .
about anything. It-it’s hard sharing her now, when I’ve never had to.
But I want us to fix what’s broken. And I want you to stay for dinner. ”
“Then I’ll see you for dinner next week, dove.”
Her eyes fluttered shut when he brushed his lips against her cheek, searing her like a brand.
Now they were in their third week of therapy.
And Tate was winning.
Zola took off her glasses, cleaning them with a cloth from the pocket of her dress, clearing her throat.
“I think we need to do a bit of level-setting today. Now, I don’t want either of you to get the idea that this is what our sessions will look like.
My telling you what I think is a one-time gift.
You each need to be committed to doing the work after this. ”
That felt ominous. Silva fought the instinct to shift closer to Tate on the loveseat.
Despite being a work in progress, she thought it was telling that they sat together.
There were two chairs in the room as well, plenty of options, distance either could have chosen .
. . but week after week, they sat together.
“Silva, you have an anxious attachment style. You need Tate to give you validation to feel secure in the relationship, and when he doesn’t, you lean in to seek it.
Tate, you’re the avoidant half of this constellation.
When Silva leans in, you lean out. And when she doesn’t seek her validation from you, you feel unwanted and retreat.
It creates a constant loop of insecurity, locking you into the roles of pursuer and distancer.
Do we think that’s a fair assessment of your early relationship? ”
Silva nodded unwillingly, her hand creeping across the upholstery, relieved when he met hers in the middle.
“Now, here’s where things get complicated.”
“More complicated,” he muttered. Silva squeezed his hand in response.
“Yes, indeed. Because I think I’m very comfortable at this point saying that talk therapy is not going to be helpful for you, Tate.”
Silva gasped dramatically, yanking her hand back. Betrayed! Utterly betrayed!
Zola laughed, waving her hands at both of them. “This appointment, we’re going to continue on with, because I think you’re both making the right choice to be better parents to your daughter. And the work we’ll do in this room will give you the tools you need to co-parent.”
“Then why doesn’t he need his own appointment?!” she cried indignantly. It had been discussed just the previous week.
Zola slipped her glasses back on. “Well, let’s not mince words. Because I think you’re a bullshitter, Tate,” she said bluntly.
Silva gasped again, this time in mild vindication, her head whipping around to see his narrowed eyes. Her hand quickly sought his out once more, no longer feeling attacked.
“You’re very good at talking. You told me as much already.
You learned at a young age to tell your mother whatever she wanted to hear to avoid discord at home.
Talking is an easy thing for you to compartmentalize away.
You’ve experienced a great deal of trauma throughout your life, and talking about it is not going to help you.
And I think from what we’ve discussed and based on the self-report survey you completed, complex post-traumatic stress disorder is the most likely root cause of the way you handle emotional vulnerability. ”
Zola sat back, her eyes moving between them. Silva gulped, squeezing his hand in hers. Why does this suddenly sound more serious than us having annoying attachment styles?