Chapter Thirty-Two
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NOSEY BITCH
PRESENT
“ I told Miley.”
The girls are running around in the backyard as I watch from the porch. The sun is hiding behind some clouds, but I love how cool it is after having several scorching days in a row. Penny yells at Jilly not to throw rocks at her and I learned a long time ago that I don’t always have to step in and save them from each other.
“What did you tell her?” Abraham asks, his voice so clear in my ear that I envision what it would be like to have him here with me, watching the girls play. Staring at me in that way of his whenever he isn’t keeping an eye on them.
“Everything,” I rush out, leaning against the wooden railing, catching my reflection in the sliding doors. “She knows everything.”
He sighs, and I hear the squeals of excitement behind me as the sprinklers come on. I love when they’re like this, getting along so well. It reminds me of my sister and I, growing up.
It wasn’t until we were much older that we started talking shit to each other. And even then, that phase of our relationship didn’t last very long.
“Part of me is worried about her opinion. But the larger part of me is happy someone knows,” he tells me, taking me by surprise.
“For someone who doesn’t give a shit what people think…”
“It’s different. You care what she thinks,” he says, pausing before he continues. “It’s important that you have support.”
I think about his words, about his actions. About what the years have been like with Peter and without him. I’ve had support. And maybe I don’t have Peter’s anymore since our blow up yesterday, but my village is strong. I made sure of it, if only for my babies.
I know what it’s like to grow up without a village; to be at the mercy of what happens behind closed doors.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts with little effort. And the way he asks…it reminds me of our third first kiss. Of his hands on my face that roamed to my shoulders and traveled downward until he was binding me to him by my waist.
It reminds me of the sex we’ve had, back before my body knew what it was like to carry one child, let alone two.
I’m not the same as I once was.
Motherhood is a battle. And I wear the silvery scars across my soft stomach; my nipples tough from nourishing my babies.
This isn’t the same body he once loved to lust after.
Before I can answer, my Jilly lets out a loud shriek and I turn to watch her take off across the yard, Penny not far behind her. When she leaps into my sister’s arms, I quickly tell Abraham I’ll have to call him back before I hang up.
Jilly is in her arms as she approaches me, her auburn hair picking up the bits of sun that’s started peeking through the clouds. Her skin is fairer, and her body is smaller and shorter than mine.
I look like my mother. It’s something I can’t escape.
And because I don’t have many memories of her father, I have to guess that she looks like him. More Irish than any Greek I’ve ever met.
“What are you up to? Aside from dodging my calls,” she says, grinning as she walks up the steps, toward me.
“So, you just show up?” I tease, grabbing my girl from her.
“Wonder where I picked up that trick,” she mumbles, leaning down to smack a kiss on Penny’s cheek. “You girls go inside and get a snack. I need to borrow your dear mother for a moment.”
“Ohhh,” Jilly says, her big eyes peering up at her aunt. “Candy?”
Before I can answer, Penny speaks, her face scrunched together like she can’t believe her little sister’s suggestion.
“Candy isn’t a snack.”
“Is too,” Jillian insists, stamping her foot.
“Is n?—”
“Fuck it, have some candy,” Denise interrupts and I stare at her with wide eyes. We both agreed not to swear in front of our children, a feat that’s hard to accomplish most days, but I’ve slipped up more than Denise has.
The girls rush inside and when I hear something fall, followed by Penny yelling that everything’s okay, I wonder what the hell Denise is about to harass me about.
“I heard from Peter,” she starts, and I sigh as I plop down on one of the patio chairs. How could he snitch on me? “He said you guys got into an argument and he needs to cool off. But he wanted me to come check on you and the girls to make sure everything is okay.”
Maybe he hadn’t snitched.
“But in all the years I’ve known Peter, I’ve never even heard the man rattled. So, I’m here to find out what the fuck is going on.”
Maybe my sister is just a nosey bitch.
She sits on the chair across from me, crossing her legs and leaning to the side, as if she’s waiting on me to speak. And, hell, if I’m already telling Miley and Peter, I owe it to the one person who’s been my partner for the largest part of my life.
But she isn’t like Miley.
She isn’t going to brush it off with jokes about hot sex. She’s going to wonder why I never told her. And how can I say that I was too busy trying to save us to be the sister she wanted me to be. I was too busy trying to be strong and perfect and unaffected. And in doing that, I missed out on the opportunity to bond with my sister over something that likely would’ve brought us closer?
How can I blame her troubled past, her miscarriage, on why I couldn’t be honest about my pregnancy?
So, I start where I can, right at the innocent beginning. I take my time through the sinful middle and make my way to the sordid ending.
All while I tell her, I try to gauge her reactions. But sometime in the last few years, maybe since becoming a mother, she’d fine-tuned her poker face to rival my own.
Reliving these moments through sharing with her, without her interrupting me, I’m able to dissect my own journey. I’m able to see my mistakes as well as his. I’m able to acknowledge that though our time was short, it was more than impactful. It shaped me as a woman.
The thought of our time together is a balm on every bad day; a memory of a time when I felt freest.
When the recollection is done and I’ve said all I can say, I expect words from her, even questions.
Denise was mistakenly under the impression that I’d never experienced heartbreak and therefor couldn’t tell her shit about Gavin .
I’m more intimate with heartbreak than she’d ever know. It’s been in my bed as I slept, lathering up against my skin in the shower, and embracing me as I have a morning cup of coffee.
Now that she knows this, will she think of me differently?
She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, pushing her hands through her hair and staring at her feet.
I almost wonder if I broke her. But then she finally speaks.
“You need to talk to Abraham,” Denise whispers, looking up at me, her body still bowed. I see the strain in her eyes, the hurt.
But she’s wrong.
The person I need to speak to is Peter.