Chapter 31
Waking Up
Hildy
Iwake before the alarm, with Lenzin’s arm draped across my waist exactly how he fell asleep.
He’s warm. Solid. The kind of man who seems completely unbothered by the fact that his life went from palace to puck pad, and now this.
With a woman who researches his family history until three in the morning, a three-year-old who calls him Daddy like she invented the word, and twins he already talks to like they’re listening.
I smile a little, remembering Saturday night and the way he’d looked almost offended when I tried to give him head.
“No,” he’d said, voice low but absolutely certain, his eyes absolutely confused.
I’d lifted a brow. “Why?”
“Our children are growing in you; they eat what you eat, drink what you drink.”
His logic, not mine. But after the initial shock left his eyes, he was so serious, it made it impossible to argue without laughing.
So instead, we came upstairs and kissed under the hot water, kissing and touching until we took it to the bed.
Then this morning, before Lucy woke, we had what he called Sunday morning sex. The quiet kind of morning sex that’s slow and lazy yet feels just as amazing as Saturday post-game sex, where I had to bury my head in a pillow in fear I’d wake Lucy.
Yesterday had been… normal? Which is still strange enough to notice.
When Lenzin returned from the arena, Lucy and I were still in PJ’s. He slipped a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt on, too, and that’s how we spent the day. In pajamas, snacking, with Candy Land spread across the living room rug.
When she got tired of winning, —because we let her—she turned on the TV, and climbed onto the couch beside him. “Hockey time.”
He studied game film on the television, Lucy on one leg, my feet in thick wool socks on the other. He absently rubbed my ankle while rewinding plays, explaining everything to Lucy, and somehow that led to a talk about her skating when her arm was all better.
We ate dinner, and then Lenzin and Lucy went up and picked out this week’s outfits. He is far better at that than I am.
Later, when I was straightening Lucy’s room, I found the bunny. The one on the very short list of things she wanted me to grab from the trailer in Elmira, under Lucy’s bed like it had been kicked there by accident.
I picked it up. “Did this fall?”
Lucy looked up from the floor where she was lining up her stuffed animals.
“No.” Her little brows furrow
“You don’t want it anymore?”
She shrugged. “I don’t need it.”
“Why not?”
She thought about that. “Because I’m not scared here.”
My throat tightens a little.
“Maybe,” she added carefully, “you give it to her?”
“To who?” I ask, confused.
“Our old mommy.” It had been over a week since she had even mentioned her, and she didn’t look sad. “So, she won’t be alone.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You want to give this to her?”
Lucy shakes her head. “Can you? So she has one friend?”
Part of me hates that she wants that for her, but the other part, well, it loves that she has such a kind heart, regardless of how hers was neglected.
“Maybe I’ll mail it?”
She stands up and walks over to the bed, Axel under her arm, and she climbs up and hugs me. “I’m tired.”
I held it together last night, but right now, I am at the level of frustrated that women get where there are only three options: cry, punch her in the face, or let it fester and fade, which has been my go-to most of my life.
Now something feels horribly wrong with that.
I have life growing inside of me, and the very possibility that they could possibly feel that makes my eyes sting.
So I decide to allow a tear or two to fall.
Lenzin exhales, and his hand flexes on my thigh like he can sense it, which is insanely na?ve to think, let alone believe, until he says, “What’s wrong, Schatz?” before he even opens his eyes.
As evenly as possible, I answer, “I need to cry, so our babies don’t.”
His lashes flutter, and he opens his eyes, moving cautiously as he sits up, pulls me into his huge, strong arms, and holds me as he says, “Cry.”
The rest of our Monday morning was far less dramatic.
He kissed me on the way out, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and it is, it really is. I hugged Lucy and told her to have an amazing day and that I love her, and gave her another hug, just because.
Instead of taking the hour to get things prepared for the day, I sent Scotti a message to make it to an appointment I made last night, thinking I would cancel.
Now I am sitting in a sterile visitation room, in a place that is nothing like I expected it to be. A place that is far from the way the TV shows depict, mostly because you can’t smell something through a screen.
A buzzing sound and a loud click announce my mother and I look up as she walks in head held high, eyes sharpening like daggers as they land on me. Then she smiles that malicious smile that tells me she’s already decided what she is going to say to try to hurt me.
I could play that game too, tell her she’s aged like shit, tell her I’m so glad she finally got caught, and that orange is so not her color, but I don’t. And I don’t because that is exactly what she would throw at me if she could.
Then her eyes land on my stomach.
“Look at you.” I tighten my jacket to shield my stomach as she sits down. “All knocked up and single. Three generations of single mothers,” she laughs. “You must be —”
“I’m almost twenty-five, will have my degree, and I’m not single.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
“You don’t have to be married to be in a relationship.” I say trying my best to keep my voice even.
She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes, “I saw your ‘man’ on TV. Big shot athlete?” She makes a tsk sound. “You should know better than that.”
“My father played football in high school and knocked up fourteen years old.”
“I was fifteen, and he was seventeen,” she says defending him.
“When you had me at fifteen, and he was a second-year senior, at nineteen. But I didn’t come here for a math—”
“You have always been such a smart mouth little bitch,” she shakes her head. “You must think even more highly of yourself now.”
I stare at her for a moment, remembering the days or months she was trying to get her life together, the few times she even got an apartment on her own and got us out of that trailer park.
How she loved the Gilmore Girls and said that was us, me and her and it lasted all of two months before my father rolled back into town and played house for a week or two and left her.
There are three times that I remember that very same scenario.
“Don’t you think I always prayed you’d realize you deserved better?
” The words come out before I can stop them.
“Don’t you think I wanted to believe that one of those rock bottom nights, maybe the one that you woke up outside to me crying because I burned my hand, putting out one of those backyard campfires roasting marshmallows turned into a group of people getting so fucked up they didn’t remember there was a first grade girl amongst them? ”
She laughs, and it’s cruel. The insults start immediately.
Lazy —that’s what she called me when I was reading.
Delusional —when I began applying for college scholarships.
Ungrateful— her go to when on the rare occasion I complained about anything, like oh I don’t know, there being no food or the electricity was out, and I couldn’t finish my homework.
Every sentence sharper than the last, it’s always been like this, but I realize now it doesn’t hurt like it did back then, like it did when I didn’t know I could fight my way out using my brain and doing the work.
I let it go on for a little while longer and then decide I am done.
I stand. “That’s enough.”
She stops mid-sentence. “Excuse me?”
“You do what you want,” I say quietly. “But I will fight for her.”
I reach into my bag, pull out the bunny that had to be scanned and inspected before I could give it to her, and set it on the table.
Her eyes drop to it, and there is just a brief bit of emotion, enough to show she is human, and then it’s gone.
“She’s so sweet,” I say quietly. “She wanted you to have the only thing that ever made her feel safe.”
I swear I see her eyes soften, but truly, I do not care, not anymore, I can’t allow myself to.
“If by chance you don’t sign,” I add, “Lucy will likely be eighteen by the time you get out.” I meet her eyes. “Regardless, no judge will ever pull her from a family that loves her.”
Silence fills the room. Then I take a slow breath and allow myself to give her one last chance.
“If you can make one good choice for her. She’ll forget a hundred bad ones. I know this because I don’t hate you nearly as much as I used to.” I clear my throat. “Because of you, I have Lucy.”
I manage to hold the tears at bay until I walk out of the gate. Scotti isn’t there waiting; Lenzin is.
We both walk toward each other; he is quicker than I am, and he holds me while I fall apart.
Once I have stopped crying, he helps me inside his vehicle and hands me tissues from his console.
“Talk to me,” he says, dabbing under my eyes softly.
“Where is Scotti?” I sniff.
“I sent her back when I arrived,” he answers quietly.
I wipe under my nose, “I’m not going to lie, I’m not happy she called you.”
“That makes two of us unhappy with her,” he says.
“Why are you upset with her?” I ask.
“Not upset, unhappy that she didn’t tell me there was a change of plans.”
“Then how did you know I was here, if she didn’t tell you?” I ask, completely confused.
He turns and hits the button to start his vehicle, “We share locations.”
“You and Scotti share—”
“You and I do.”
“We do not.” I huff, pulling my phone from my bag.
“We have for a while now.”
“You’ve stomped all over my privacy, Len—”
“Guilty,” he says easily, not even pretending to be ashamed. “But in my defense, when I’m not with you, I like to watch your little dot bounce around.”
I huff as he pulls out of this god-awful place, gravel crunching under the tires. “Your defense is that you like to watch my little dot bounce around?”
“It settles something in here.” He reaches over, takes my hand, and presses the back of it flat against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath my palm.
“I want to yell at you,” I say, staring out the windshield. “Tell you that sharing implies the other person, at the very least, knows the occurrence has taken place.”
“But you won’t,” he replies calmly, “because you know it’s because I love you.”
“No,” I mutter, dragging my hand back to my lap. “I won’t because it will turn into a fight instead of a discussion, and I am very… pissed off right now, and not just because of you—”
“Being able to be here when you needed me,” he finishes softly, “even though you didn’t think you would.”
“You’re such a—”
“Save that anger for later.” His voice gentles, but there’s a firmness to it that makes me glance at him. “Right now, talk to me about your visit to Rikers with that awful woman who gave birth to two beautiful souls.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Because that… that right there is exactly how he is, so very different than any other man has ever been in my life.
He’s not defending her. Not excusing anything she did. But also refusing to let the worst parts of her define Lucy or me.
Two beautiful souls. My chest tightens in the most inconvenient way.
Great. Fantastic. I clearly have daddy issues if a man saying something like that makes my heart melt a little. Actually, scratch that, not a little, a lot.
Because my childhood was a carousel of men who drifted through the smoke-filled trailer. Some loud, some quiet, most drunk, none of them there for me. I learned early to stay small, stay quiet, stay out of the way.
And when I got older, one of them noticed me anyway.
My stomach twists at the memory, I try not to keep too close to the surface. The smell of cheap beer. The creak of a door and hands where hands shouldn’t be. Resulting in my feet and fists hitting hard enough to stop him.
No one ever stepped between me and that life. No one ever looked at me and decided I was something worth protecting.
Until him.
Lenzin doesn’t know every detail of my past. I’ve never laid it all out, never said the words out loud, and I’m not sure I ever will. But I do know the idea of someone choosing to stand between me and the world has done something to my heart. Which is unfair when I’m trying to stay mad at him.
I fold my arms and stare straight ahead through the windshield while the city slides past us in gray blocks of buildings and brake lights.
“You’re very good at that,” I mutter.
“At what?”
“At saying things that make it really hard for me to stay pissed at you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but he doesn’t push it. Doesn’t tease.
Instead, he just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel, the other one taking mine.
Patient, waiting. Which somehow makes it even freaking worse.
“She looked smaller than I remembered.”
“That’s because you became more than she ever wanted you to believe you could.”