8. Mara
8
MARA
I t was a bold thing to say––especially to someone I just met. I can fully admit that, but Beckett didn’t have to splutter and act like it was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard in his entire life.
Glaring at him, I say, “You’re being a bit dramatic, aren’t you? I’m not suggesting we get married. I just think that all three of us living under the same roof is what is best for Embry. Isn’t that what we both want?”
“I can’t… I won’t… It’s not…” He has clearly gone completely daft.
I shake my head as I listen to him struggle to find his words. It’s becoming obvious that I have broken him.
When he finally stops attempting to string together an objection, I try to be the voice of reason. “It’s not that big of a deal. We would just share space and make sure that Embry has as much love and support as possible.”
His thoughtful expression makes it obvious that his brain is starting to comprehend that this might not be the worst thing in the world. Even though I know I should quit while I’m ahead, I can’t seem to stop my mouth from saying, “And if we happen to sleep together now and then to curb the aching loneliness a bit, then so be it.”
I shrug my shoulders to accentuate that I meant the comment in a casual sense, but Beckett’s eyes still look like they may pop right out of their sockets at any moment.
“That’s not happening,” he says a little too adamantly.
“Okay,” I hold up my palms in mock surrender. “No sex. But we still should do this… for her.”
Beckett’s gaze darts to Embry after I tip my chin in her direction. She and another little girl are pushing their dolls on swings and pretending to be mommies.
“Embry and I are doing just fine on our own,” Beckett says stubbornly.
“Definitely,” I agree, before adding, “But you could be better than fine with me in your lives. Little girls need a mother figure.”
He seems to be pondering it, so I go for the jugular. “Look, this is happening either way. I will be a part of my daughter’s life going forward. We can do it the easy way or we can both lawyer up, but now that I’ve met Embry, I won’t walk away. I can’t leave her.”
“Again,” Beckett reminds me.
The single word stings, but it’s true, so I nod in agreement. “Right, again. I don’t have it in me to leave her again.”
We are both silent for a long moment as we stare at our little girl––each lost in our own thoughts.
I’m startled when Beckett blurts, “I read your book.”
“Really? When? I just left it last night,” I remind him.
“I don’t really sleep, not since Sandra––” he leaves the rest unspoken, since I already know exactly what he’s referring to.
I always get nervous about people’s opinions when they say they’ve read my work, but those mild jitters are nothing compared to the ice-cold fear slicing through my veins as I wait to hear Beckett’s review.
My leg jiggles up and down enough to shake the entire park bench.
Tilting his head toward my bouncy leg, he says, “You seem nervous.”
“Of course, I’m nervous,” I snap, irrationally annoyed that he’s making me wait so long to hear his thoughts on my book.
His head jerks back as if I have slapped him with my snippy tone, so I soften it when I add, “I poured my heart onto those pages for Embry. She’s too young to read it now, but I hope that someday it will give her some peace and closure about why I felt like I had to do what I did. In the meantime, you are the closest person to her, so I would like to hear your thoughts on it.”
He rubs his chin and stares out at the playground as he formulates his response. While I appreciate his careful word choice, my mind spirals downward as I wait. What if he hated it? What if he thinks I’m a terrible person for not figuring out a way to keep my baby? What if he turns her against me? What if…?
The wild train of terrifying fears must show on my face because when he finally turns to face me, he immediately alleviates my worries by saying, “I loved your book. It was raw and real, and it made me empathize with the situation you felt trapped in when Embry was born.”
Air whooshes out of my lungs as I turn back to watch my little girl play. My whispered words, “That’s a relief,” are the understatement of the year. Beckett’s opinion of me and my choice matter so much because he has a great deal of power to sway Embry’s feelings about me.
It’s tempting to ask him a thousand questions, but I force myself to remain quiet and let him lead this pivotal conversation, even though he’s being pensive and moving things much more slowly than I would prefer.
He’s gazing back out toward Embry when he finally says, “I’m so glad you didn’t let her grow up in the dangerous situation you were in while you were pregnant.”
I nod and stare down at the concrete as I say, “Yeah, I knew when he hit me while I was that far along in the pregnancy that she would never be safe with him.”
Beckett’s clamped jaw twitch catches my attention in my peripheral vision, but he remains silent, so I continue, “He would have never given up on tracking us down if I ran away with her. He wouldn’t search for us out of love––.”
I verbally scoff at that thought before continuing, “He felt like he owned us, so he would never have let us escape his control.”
Beckett shakes his head. I’m sure he must be wondering how I managed to get myself into such an awful situation in the first place, so I feel the need to defend myself. “He wasn’t like that at all––at first. He was loving and sweet, but I should have seen the signs earlier than I did. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“Understandable.” The simple, soft-spoken word is like a healing balm to the dull ache of shame that has been rubbing my chest raw for years.
I had been so focused on Embry and Beckett that I failed to notice the dark gray clouds rolling in overhead, until the first few giant raindrops plop down on us.
Beckett seems just as startled by the rain as I am when he looks up at the menacing-looking sky.
Embry squeals and runs in our direction after a loud boom of thunder makes the ground practically shake. She shields her dolly under her shirt, like a protective momma.
Despite how much I would love to continue this conversation with Beckett, the time has come for us to run for cover.
So, we do. We run and laugh all the way home.