18. Valentina
VALENTINA
Someone else is talking but their voice is reaching me from somewhere underwater, distant and slightly distorted.
There is a buzzing in my ears that arrived the moment he said conclusive and has not stopped.
Cillian is Finn’s father.
Cillian is Finn’s father and I was wrong. The science is clear. Science doesn’t lie.
Even with me being so bad at science, I know that. I sit with my hands in my lap, that buzz in my ears getting louder and louder. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now as the shock is so pervasive it sits heavy on me, nearly suffocating me.
I should say something. There are probably appropriate responses that people give when a genetic counselor confirms paternity, but I have no idea what to say.
I need to get out of here.
My mother’s voice blooms in my mind: back straight, chin up, not here. Do not fall apart in front of them, you deal with it later.
Back straight. Chin up.
I stand up. “Thank you,” I tell the genetic counselor evenly, which is downright impressive given my emotional state. But apparently I’m on autopilot and years of my mother’s good manners being drilled into my head are unconsciously done.
I walk out of the room and into the hallway, looking for the bathroom. I find it and go into the furthest stall. My hands are shaking so badly it takes me two times to manage to lock the door. Once I do, I press my back against the wall and breathe.
The shaking in my hands is violent. I stare at them before I realize that my body is starting to shake too. It starts to work its way up through my arms and into my chest and then I can’t breathe, or I can breathe but the breaths aren’t doing anything.
This is a panic attack. They became frequent after Gabriel was murdered.
The walls feel like they’re closing in and it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I claw at my blouse, desperate for air. My body has clearly had enough and decided to stage a revolt.
Five things you can see. My therapist’s voice is in my head now. Four things you can touch.
The back of the door. The lock. The tile. The—the—no, I can’t do it. I can’t do this stupid fucking exercise right now.
Cillian has a son.
Not a maybe. Not an alleged. 99.97%. Conclusive. Cillian Brennan is the biological father of that child.
There is an eight-year-old boy who belongs half to Cillian. He is now, irrevocably and permanently, part of our lives.
Our lives. Mine.
The sob that comes out of me comes from somewhere deep within. It doesn’t respond to my mother’s voice or my therapist’s exercises or any of the tools I have spent years carefully cultivating. I couldn’t stop this if I tried.
So I don’t try.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the disgusting floor with my knees pulled up and I press both hands over my mouth and I cry. It’s not the composed crying I’ve used before—one well-placed tear can move mountains.
No, this is the ugly type of crying. The kind that sounds animalistic and doesn’t care about the tile floor or the fact that my coat is going to need dry cleaning.
Cillian has a son.
And Claire—Claire is the mother of that son. She is going to be in our lives permanently.
She is the mother of his firstborn child and she will be at every birthday, every school event, every milestone, every Christmas arrangement and summer schedule, and she has already made abundantly clear that she has plans that extend well beyond amicable co-parenting.
She is going to be everywhere.
And I am pregnant.
Can I do this? Can I really be married to a man who has another child, who lied to me for a month about it? Can I really leave the man who I love more than life itself?
God, I love him so much it terrifies me, and that’s the worst part. The love is still there underneath all the hurt; it didn’t go away when I wanted it to go away. I’ll always love him.
But am I strong enough to walk away?
I don’t know.
I sniffle and snot pools under my nose. Ugh, I can barely breathe. I lean forward and cut off a section of toilet paper, blowing my nose noisily. Ugh again. I feel so tired and weak, my body heavy.
I stay on the floor for a little bit longer, just to make sure that I won’t burst into tears again. Then I make myself stand up, unlock the door and force myself to look in the mirror. I wince.
God, I look horrible.
My eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, the skin around them pink and tight. My nose is as red as Rudolph’s, and my face is blotchy from the crying. I wince at the mascara tracks on my face. I look like a goddamn racoon.
There’s no saving my makeup situation, so I open my purse, rummaging for my makeup wipes.
I carefully wipe off my makeup then splash cold water on my face. My mother would be horrified to see that I am out in a public place sans makeup, but I also think she may understand why I don’t exactly care right now.
Taking another deep breath, I open the door, hoping I can get the fuck out of here without anyone noticing.
Unfortunately for me, Cillian is in the hallway. I halt in my tracks, my mouth dry and my stomach flopping uncomfortably.
Fuck.
He’s leaning against the wall across from the bathroom door, arms crossed.
When I come out the anguish on his face is so visceral that it almost undoes what little composure I’ve reassembled. His jaw is tight and his eyes look pained as he pushes off the wall when he sees me.
He opens his mouth, but I shake my head.
“No, Cillian.” I hold up a hand. I hate how my voice wavers. “No.”
He stops, his mouth working as he stares at me pleadingly.
“I need time,” I manage to say. I keep my hand up because it’s the only thing between us and I need the distance. “I need to think. I need to—there’s too much happening right now and I cannot—” My voice breaks and I pause, breathing to re-orient myself. “I just need time. Please.”
“Okay,” he says, his blue eyes locked on mine. “Okay. I understand that. I just need you to know—whatever you’re thinking right now about Claire, it’s not—”
I close my eyes. I really don’t want to hear her name right now. “Cillian.”
“She doesn’t mean anything to me,” Cillian continues, almost desperately. “Whatever we had was nine years ago, it was—”
“Stop.” I tell him firmly, drinking in his features. I’ve never seen Cillian Brennan look so absolutely destroyed in my life. “It doesn’t matter what she means to you.”
He flinches. My heart aches but I force myself to continue.
“She’s the mother of your firstborn son.
” I hear myself say it and I hate each word that comes out of my mouth.
“She is going to be in our lives forever. And I probably could have lived with that if you had been honest from me from the beginning. But you didn’t.
Instead, you took that choice away from me and made me look like a fool. ”
He flinches again, looking ashamed.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
By Cillian’s sharp intake of breath, he wasn’t expecting me to say that. He looks horrified. “Val—”
“I’m not saying I can’t,” I say quickly, because I need him to hear the distinction. “I’m saying I don’t know. I need time to figure out if I can.” I lower my hand and step away from him. “Please don’t follow me.”
He doesn’t, but I can feel his eyes on me as I escape the clinic.
My mother opens the door.
She takes one look at my face and I catch the quick flash of maternal horror of seeing your child destroyed and knowing you cannot fix it on her face before she smooths it back out.
Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she steps back and lets me in.
I walk through the door.
“What happened, Valentina?” My mother prods gently.
I open my mouth but instead what comes out is a garbled and choked. “Mamma.”
My mother grabs me then, placing both her hands on my face, her fingers cool against my hot, swollen skin. “Tell me everything,” she says softly and leads me deeper into the house.
So I do. While sitting on the sofa that’s been here since before I was born, I tell her everything through sobs. Mamma holds me close, arm around my shoulders, my head against hers as she slowly strokes my hair.
“He’s Finn’s father,” I say, against her shoulder, and saying it aloud still doesn’t make it real. “The test was overwhelmingly positive.”
Her fingers pause for a moment before she continues her ministrations, still saying nothing.
“I was so sure.” I’m crying again. But this time, I don’t mind the tears because I’m somewhere safe. “I was so sure, Mamma. I was certain she was lying and I was wrong and now—” I stop, hiccupping. “Now it’ll never be just Cillian and me. It’ll always include them too.”
My mother’s hand twirls around a lock of my hair. “I know,” she says, quietly.
“Tell me what to do,” I plead, clutching onto her, desperate for someone to make a decision for me..
She keeps stroking my hair. “You know I can’t do that, amore.”
“Tell me it’s too much,” I beg, wanting someone to give me their permission to do what’s hard. “Tell me it’s okay to walk away.” Fuck the consequences. I don’t care if Connor is pissed.
She’s quiet again. Her hand stills in my hair.
“Your father and I,” she starts, carefully, “had our complications. In the early years.” I look up at her in surprise.
As far as I knew, my parents were a love match.
“Not like this exactly. But our world isn’t simple and there were things I had to decide.
Things I had to decide about who he was and whether I could accept all of who he was.
” She pauses, a faraway look in her eye. “I don’t regret any of them.”
“This isn’t just about who he is,” I point out. “He lied to me for a month. He—”
“I know what he did,” Mamma continues patiently. “And that’s part of who he is too, Valentina. The part that shuts down when he’s scared, that carries things alone, that calls it protection.” She looks at me steadily. “You knew that about him before this.”
I look at my hands.