Chapter 16
Noah
“Maxwell is my son?”
The words don’t make the least bit of sense, but when I say them out loud again, they fall into place. “Maxwell is my son.”
Devastation tears Liv apart right before me, her tears falling as silent sobs wrack her naked body. I can’t seem to make myself move to comfort her. All I can think about is the little boy in the next room.
As if I’d been drowning, I break the surface, suddenly feeling everything all at once—air in my lungs, the sound of a siren somehow reaching this building’s floor, my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room as if it’s noon.
I go to the bathroom and begin pulling on my clothes. I don’t care about wrinkles or that I’m tugging on clothes that were left in a pile on the floor. I just need to be ready.
For what?
A conversation with her?
To barge into that bedroom to wake up the baby? My baby.
Call my brothers, or talk to my mom?
I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do, but my thoughts are too muddled to think clearly. Before I button my shirt, I go to the sink and splash water on my face, hoping it wakes me from whatever this is—nightmare, daydream, requiem, celebration. “Fuck,” I mutter as water drips from my chin.
I look up and see Liv in the mirror—her beauty, full defenses in place under crossed arms, and the vulnerability of fear hanging in her eyes.
Clothed in a short robe, she leans against the doorframe, cautiously watching me.
I grab the towel off the nearby bar and dry my face before tossing it on the counter and turning around.
She says, “I know you’re angry.” I hate hearing her voice shake, and then I see her hand doing the same.
“I’m not angry, Liv. I just need to sit with this before—”
“Before what? I need to know what you’re thinking, Noah. Can’t you understand that the silence or the blowup was my fear all along? But at least if you’re yelling, I know where you stand.”
That only leaves one place for me to reside in this situation—in the middle of the two.
Keeping space between us, I lean against the counter.
I’m a big guy. My voice can boom if I lose it, and I don’t want to lose it with her.
The last thing I’d want to do is to scare her.
I lower my voice, trying my best to keep it even.
“I’m not mad at you. I just need . . .” I rub my forehead, hoping to get clarity before speaking, but nothing in my past has prepared me for this.
“It’s taking everything inside me not to go into that room right now. ”
Looking at the floor between us, she closes her eyes, but when she looks up, the fear’s subsiding, curiosity growing in her expression. “What would you do if you could go into his room?”
I glance at the door where she’s standing, estimating the steps to the baby’s room from here.
“Hold him again. If I would have known . . .” A pain in my chest grows, resentment sneaking in and feeding the ache.
I look away, not wanting to carry that burden, not wanting to assume I know the full story before she tells me.
“I wouldn’t have put him back in the crib.
I would have held him all night if I could. ”
Her crying voids my pain. If I can’t process my feelings, I can only imagine what she’s going through. This isn’t just about me. It’s about all three of us in different ways.
Closing the space between us, I should probably ask before I take her into my arms, before closing my eyes and dipping my head against hers, before reassuring her that everything will be alright when I don’t know if it will be.
But I don’t. I just do it. I do it because she’s in pain, and although it’s unlike mine, it’s not less intense.
She’s diminished in my arms as if the truth being put into the universe has stolen a part of her existence as well.
When her arms come around me, her cries soften, though.
It’s a small positive at the base camp of the tumultuous mountain we’re being forced to climb.
I don’t know the emotions that will be shed along the way, but I’ll take the risk if we can get to the top with less weight dragging us down.
I whisper, “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Lost.” Her arms squeeze me even tighter. “What happens next?”
Reaching around me, I take hold of her hands and bring them between us.
I rub the softness of her skin, needing the connection as much as I assume she does.
“We’ll get through this. Nothing will happen to him.
” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just know that Maxwell is safe, and I intend to make sure he stays that way. “Don’t be afraid.”
She pushes back, her eyes searching mine as if she’s lost a piece of herself and is desperate to find it again. “What would I have to be afraid of?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, Noah?” She starts gathering my socks and jacket before I have time to address the question.
“Look at me, Liv.”
“Don’t you mean Olivia?” she snaps as if her name is a bad word all of a sudden, as if I’ve sworn it off as such.
“Don’t do this.”
Offense straightens her back right quick. “Don’t do what?”
I go to her and take my shoes out of her hands. “I meant that I know he’s safe in the current situation.”
She cradles the rest of my stuff to her chest like a lifeline. “Current situation? I’m all he knows.” Her voice tightens, her hands fisting the clothes to her body. “You’re not coming in here to disrupt his life.”
“I don’t want that either.”
“But I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know how to feel or . . . My world hinges on what you decide to do. What do you want, Noah? Tell me. Please. Please tell me.”
“I can’t. I just found out I’m his father, and you want me to make a life-altering decision on the spot. Here’s one—I want to get to know him. I want him to know me as his dad.” I hate that my voice rises, but I can’t seem to control it any longer. “We need to calm down.”
“Calm down?” Panic rises in her eyes, but her tone is clearer, firm in her stance. “I want you in his life, but I can’t lose him. I won’t. You can’t have him.”
If there was a button, she just pushed it. “I can’t have him? He’s my son. If I want to—”
Dropping the clothes, she walks into the bedroom, leaving me with the great proclamation I was ready to make hanging on the edge of my tongue.
“Fuck.” Yep, she knows just the buttons to push.
I follow her into the bedroom, ready to hash this out tonight.
Before I can get a word out, she points at the door. “I think it’s best if you leave.”
“Leave? What the hell are you talking about? Don’t act like this—”
“It’s not an act. You’ve crossed a line—”
“I’ve crossed a line?” I balk, tapping my leg.
“Let’s get something straight. The reason you are all that Maxwell knows is because I fucking didn’t know about him.
So I haven’t crossed a line. I haven’t even gotten close to it.
” She stands her ground when I get even closer to her.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though. You turn this into a fight, we’ll fucking fight.
” I point toward his bedroom. “But you have no right to control how I react to finding out I have a child, a child that I’ve missed every day of his life for fourteen months until now. ”
I leave her in the bedroom, needing space to think, to pace, and to clear my head.
Though it’s tempting to leave altogether, I have a son to consider .
. . a son? I have a child, a part of my soul in the other room.
How can I leave and act like I don’t know that?
How can I leave him behind and walk out her door?
I can’t.
I know I can’t, but I may have no choice tonight.
This is her apartment. She has rightful custody of him. She’s raised him. She’s everything to him. I’m nothing to him but a guy who babysat for a few hours.
Dropping to the couch, I let go of my shoes, and my head falls into my hands.
My eyes water under the strain of the shock I’m in, the anger of being forced out before I have a say in the matter.
“What the fuck?” I want to rage, to throw something, to punch a wall, to turn back time and get to be there for him before he was born.
A tear escapes, which fucking angers me even more.
The couch dips beside me. I can’t look. I don’t want her to see me this way. I’m in no place to be rational or reasonable, to behave in some way that she deems respectable. I just need to sit here to process what the hell is happening.
Liv’s hand covers the back of my neck, and she whispers, “I’m sorry.” Her head falls forward to rest against my shoulder, and she says, “I didn’t know your last name.”
First names were enough. That was the deal we made.
I regretted it then. I hate myself for it now.
My anger felt justified when it was aimed at her. Now, I don’t know how to feel other than numb. I lift my head and wrap my arm around her.
None of this makes sense, but we made a deal that we can’t change the terms of now. So is it fair that I hold some resentment toward her? I don’t fucking know.
The answer is likely no, but I know it won’t fix the damage.
Angling toward her, I lift her chin until our eyes meet. Hers are red around the lids and puffy underneath. There’s also not an ounce of hate to be found, despite how I just treated her. But I have a fucking stubborn side that won’t let this go without getting some answers. “Tell me you tried.”
Her eyes well with tears that gather in the corners.
“I tried to find you, Noah. I swear I did. I went to the house and knocked on the door. I called and emailed every rental management property in the area to find out who rented it for the summer season. I was desperate to find you but didn’t know how. ”