32. Chapter 32
T he apartment is dark and quiet when I finally drag myself home.
After Sav’s meltdown and verbal lashing, I decided to give her some space, even though I didn’t want to.
I know she needs help, but how do you convince your wife to see a therapist?
I miss the spark in her eyes, but it’s hidden by years of childhood trauma that’s now competing with the fear of failing Lennon.
I blame her mom. The woman who failed Savannah, who’s strung her with years of torment. She’s terrified of something happening to her daughter because of the years of neglect she suffered.
Dropping my coaching bag on a stool, I look around the apartment.
A few dirty bottles are resting next to the sink.
A pile of mail I need to go through sits on another counter.
Blankets, toys, and hopefully clean laundry are tossed haphazardly around the living room.
Before I decide to tidy up the space, I check on my girls.
As quietly as possible, I twist the knob on Lennon’s door and press it open with my shoulder, careful not to let the kitchen light pour in.
Her sound machine is playing a lullaby, and her body is wrapped in a swaddle with her pajama-clad arms exposed.
She’s grown so much in a month. I take a second to breathe in her nursery scent and watch her chest rise and fall.
I could stay and watch her sleep all night, but I need to find my wife. I’m terrified of her mood swings. Afraid she’ll slip through my fingers, and I’ll never get her back.
Our bedroom door is cracked, lights flashing from the TV. She’s fallen asleep to her favorite show. I don’t understand how a show about criminals’ behaviors is comforting, but it is for her. And I think she has a crush on Derek Morgan. Man enough to admit, he is a stud.
Blankets cocoon around her, her face relaxed. There’s not a worry line anywhere. Carefully, I move a stray piece of hair and brush my lips across her forehead. Then I get the hell out of there before I wake her. She needs rest.
Back in the kitchen, I turn on the faucet, fill the sink with soapy water, and spend the next few minutes washing bottles, her reusable water bottle, and leftover mugs from this morning.
Bottles resting on the tree to dry, I grab a rag and wipe down the counters.
Nothing’s visibly dirty, but it’s a small OCD habit.
I can’t go to bed with a messy counter or living room.
If I wake up to a mess, it paralyzes me—should I clean, or just move on with my day?
As I move around the island, I reach out to move her laptop. My thumb accidentally grazes the trackpad, and the screen lights up. I don’t mean to snoop, but a picture of a house stops me. It’s a house listing for a two-bedroom home on the opposite side of town.
My stomach plummets with the urge to puke.
I notice more tabs are open, and I click on one. Instead of a house staring back at me, it’s an ad for a one-bedroom apartment ready to lease.
Another tab has information on baby blues and postpartum rage.
This is the first glimpse at the inner workings of my wife I’ve had in weeks. Is she leaving me? Is my future blowing up in my face?
Fuck!
I close the lid as if it’ll explode and grip the counter.
My chest heaves as I try to calm myself down.
If I don’t, I’m going to storm into the bedroom and demand she tell me the truth.
If she’s going to leave me, she’s going to have to try her damndest. I’m not letting her go.
She’s finally mine, and I’ll stop at nothing to keep her.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I’ll give her whatever she wants.
I’ll hate it, but if she wants a divorce and my rights removed as Lennon’s father, I’ll do it.
I’ll do anything to make her happy. Anything to give her spark back.
I’ll hate myself, but I promised I’d protect her, and if that means letting her go, then I will.
I reach into my pocket and dig out my phone. I need to talk to someone before I’m the one exploding. Pulling open my messages, I find an unread message from my mom.
Mom: Hi, sweetie. I’m not sure how to approach this, but I’m worried about Savannah. Has she been to the doctor’s for her postpartum appointment? I know it’s typically around six weeks, but her behavior is worrying me. She might want to try to get in sooner. I love you both.
I leave her on read because I have no clue how to respond to her message. I’m scared, too, Mom. She seems to be spiraling out of control. Oh, and she’s planning on leaving me and taking my daughter with her.
Instead of the asshole response, I find Q’s name.
I type and delete three different sentences before I finally hit the call button. He answers on the third ring.
“Sup, G? Everything good?”
I step outside, closing the front door quietly behind me. “Nah, man. Everything’s fucked.”
I explain everything to him in detail. From rage to fear and anxiety. To finding her crying on the bathroom floor and turning into a shell of my wife. How I found her looking for houses and apartments.
“Fuck.” Q exhales a heavy breath, and I can picture him scrubbing a hand down his face. “B and I will be out tomorrow instead of Friday.”
“You don’t have—”
“Fuck off,” he interrupts. “You’re my best friend, and your family is our family. We’ll be there. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”
His words do little to calm me, but I appreciate their willingness to help.
I only hope it isn’t too late.
The soft cries of my daughter wake me from where I’ve fallen asleep on the couch. I sit and crack my neck before pushing up. A blanket falls to the floor, and I walk on autopilot to the kitchen to make a bottle. Twisting the knob, I step into her nursery as her cries are rising.
“Hey, Lemon,” I whisper, lifting her from her bassinet. “You hungry, baby girl?”
She settles into my arm as I sit in the glider. It’s time for our nightly visit. With her in one arm, bottle in the other, Lennon seeks out the nipple before latching. Her tiny fists try to grip the bottle as bright blue eyes stare at me.
“Ahh, someone’s wide awake,” I say. “You know, your mom was a total wild child in college.”
She sucks lazily, and I swear she’s listening, focused intently on my voice.
“She’d probably kill me for telling you this, but we can keep a secret.
” I wink. “Your mom is smart as hell and spent a lot of free time in the library, but damn, could she have a good time. One night, we were walking home from the Eagles Nest, our favorite college bar. Your mom had lost a bet over a game of flip cup. Instead of backing out like a sane person would do, she stripped down to her bra and underwear, keeping her boots on as she sprinted down the sidewalk, yelling, ‘God bless Texas.’ I had to throw her over my shoulder and carry her off the main sidewalk before she was arrested.”
I pause, chuckling at the memory. “Don’t get any ideas, though. You can have your fun; lord knows your mom and I have, and I’ll try to be the cool dad, but please don’t be as wild as your mom and your Aunt Brynn. Bad hearts run in my family.”
A soft shuffle at the doorway pulls my attention. Looking up, I spot her. She’s leaning against the doorway, a long tee hanging at her thighs, showing off her sexy-as-fuck legs, her arms crossed, and her eyebrow quirked.
Busted.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t. I rolled over and heard you chuckling.”
She slowly walks toward us before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Lennon’s forehead. “I love the sound of your laugh.”
My chest warms. Maybe there’s still hope for us.
Sav kneels beside the glider, her head resting against my thigh as I rock and burp Lennon. Nothing else is said between us. We sit in silence, and Lennon lets out a big burp. I start humming another John Lennon song I learned and the three of us rock to the tune.
I don’t know how to fix this, fix us.
What if loving her isn’t enough to make her stay?
Will I ever recover if I lose them both?
Soft snores fill the silence, and I run my thumb across her cheek.
“Please don’t leave me.” My words are whispered in the darkness. I hold my girls tight and pray this isn’t the last time.