Chapter 15 – Beck #2
She pulls her lip between her teeth and I study the movement before lifting my gaze again. We stare at one another, heat coiling through my entire body as my heart picks up speed.
Oh hell, she’s beautiful.
I don’t want her having kids with anyone else. Hell, I don’t want her fucking anyone else.
She shakes her head, breaking the trance between us. “I don’t know. For now, I’m on birth control. But none of it matters anyway. You and I both know a hysterectomy isn’t a cure. It’s just a Band-Aid.”
“True…” I sift through what I remember about the illness. “But it might give you more relief than one of the other Band-Aids.”
Rosie brings her mug up to her mouth and blows it lightly. “How do you remember all this?”
I rub at the back of my neck. “Oh, c’mon, even though you hadn’t been officially diagnosed, I knew that disease backward and forward.
You don’t just forget.” I give her an impish grin and pick up my own mug.
I don’t tell her the full truth. That Dottie told me she was finally diagnosed with endometriosis a few years ago.
And that I’ve continued to keep up on the research, including following the endo foundation account on Instagram.
“You really were the best boyfriend.” She says it quietly, almost as if it was a risk to say.
But a burning sensation rises inside me. “Husband, Rosie,” I correct her. “Husband.”
“Yes, I know,” she answers, irritation in her tone as she carries her mug in both hands and shuffles around the kitchen island.
But hell, why is she the irritated one? I’m the one who was lied to for seven years. The one who has been putting my life on hold in hopes she’d come to her senses and return to Golden Harbor. Return to me.
We sit on the stools at the kitchen island, which is probably best. Not as formal as sitting in the living room, but we also don’t have to face one another.
Empty boxes sit on the floor lining one wall and a few rest on top of the table, which explains us not sitting there.
I shake my knee and stare into my mug like the tea is going to save me from the awkwardness hanging in the air between us.
Or at the very least, tell me how to do this.
How to sit here next to the woman I pledged to spend the rest of my life with, but I’m not allowed to touch. Or kiss. Or hold.
“When did you finally get diagnosed?”
“Three years ago.” Her tone is softer now. “My symptoms got worse after I had Charlie.”
“Worse?” The word strains unintentionally from me. Because I’m not supposed to care. But I can’t help it. I missed seven years of her life. My head is still trying to play catch-up to that fact. How my wife can be a stranger to me.
“After a few trips to the ER, and seeing four different doctors, I finally found an endometriosis specialist who didn’t spend my initial visit gaslighting me and telling me it was all in my head or suggest I see a therapist. Or who didn’t want to just put me on birth control and ‘see what happens.’” She makes air quotes, a deadpan look on her face.
Indignation scrapes beneath my skin. The memories rush at me of the negligence she received from doctors for years.
“She finally believed me.” The words push out of her, threaded with emotion that I feel in my own chest.
We sit in the stillness as she blows into her mug.
Internally, I struggle with what to say.
While I’m sad I missed that part of her life and want to comfort her, there’s a boundary I shouldn’t cross.
Because if I did, there would be no coming back from it.
And I’m not sure my heart can withstand another beating.
Rosie exhales a long, audible breath. “I don’t know what Dottie had in mind for her cottage, or for me and Charlie. But you know we can’t stay here,” she says, as if we’re in the middle of this topic of conversation.
“I guess,” I mutter, running my thumb over the rim of the mug.
“I want to do what’s best for Charlie. I hope you know that.” But she can’t seem to look at me while she’s talking. “Now that you two know about one another, I will do everything I can to keep your relationship going.”
“Then why not at least consider moving here?”
“I can’t.” She reaches for her left shoulder and massages it, and it only distracts me for a moment. “Charlie goes to a fantastic school in Seattle. My job, my business is in Seattle. My fiancé is in Seattle.”
I ignore that last reason. “There’re great schools here, in Golden Harbor.”
“Ha!” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Okay, sure, the schools here are fine. But I wouldn’t say great.”
“And you can start your business here. Open a salon downtown. It’s a perfect location.”
“It’s not that easy. Do you know how hard I worked to get a space in the salon I’m in?”
“Are you going to honestly sit there and tell me it has nothing to do with your fiancé and the fact that he’s rich?”
Rosie’s lips screw up and she hops off her stool. “Ya know what, I think it’s time for you to go. I’m tired. And I don’t feel very good.”
Only a smidge of guilt pushes through me because this is my daughter we’re talking about.
“Fine.” I stand and round the island, setting my nearly full mug into the farmhouse sink.
“I’m tired too. But this conversation isn’t over.
That little girl up there deserves to have a relationship with her father. ”
I storm out of the cottage without turning back around, my heart racing and skin prickling with anger.