would even imply he had any such obligation. I had to trust that his sense of duty to my brother was strong enough to hold him here, and trust wasn’t one of my strong points.
“You have the right because I give it to you.”
We stood like that, locked on each other, his hand beneath my chin, warring silently until I sighed and let my eyes close. “Okay. But don’t let him down.”
“I’m not going to. The sooner you believe that, the sooner I can pick up a little of that burden you’re so hell-bent on carrying solo. Have a little faith in me.”
I sucked in an unsteady breath and tried it out, the faith thing. “Soccer.”
He grinned. “Soccer.”
Chapter Twelve
Beckett
Letter #18
Chaos,
I ran into Jeff’s parents at the grocery store about an hour ago. It doesn’t happen often, maybe once or twice a year when they’re up to vacation, but it always slices me to the quick when it happens.
Why is that? After seven years, you’d think I’d be immune to seeing them, but I’m not.
There I was, standing in the drink aisle, staring at every flavor of Gatorade known to man, debating which flavor Maisie might not throw up. She’s been so nauseated lately, but I know she has to stay hydrated because of these new meds and the potential for renal failure. Anyway, I’m thinking sour apple, right? Because at least it’s green, so when she inevitably throws it up, at least I don’t panic that it looks like blood. And when I was pregnant with the twins, sour stuff was the only thing that kept the nausea at bay. So I fill the cart, and when I get to the end of the aisle, there are Jeff’s parents, picking out their turkey for Thanksgiving.
It’s not like I don’t know that it’s Thanksgiving, or that people need turkeys. But I’m standing there, trying to figure out what to buy to keep my daughter alive, and they’re debating the merits of a sixteen-pound over an eighteen-pound turkey.
Just like Jeff, they’ve never seen either of the kids. I wrote them off the minute his dad showed up with a big check, divorce papers, and a request to terminate my pregnancy.
Then, two weeks ago, I swallowed my pride and asked his dad to add Maisie to Jeff’s insurance—since Jeff works for him. He threw me out and told me that the kids were none of their concern. I guess Jeff’s dating a senator’s daughter, which makes my kids a liability. Maisie’s dying, and they’re more concerned with Jeff’s image.
So, yeah. We don’t speak.
But today, for some reason, it hit me harder than usual. Maybe it’s because Maisie’s so sick. Because when I think about Jeff, and the twins’ questions about him that I can’t avoid for much longer, I always think that the kids can seek him out when they’re old enough. That’s on him. And now, I realize Maisie might never get that chance. And though I don’t want anything to do with him, I would never stop them from seeking those answers. But time might stop her.
And yet, I’m not asking her if she wants to meet him. I want all of the time she has. I don’t want to share her with Jeff, and I honestly don’t think he’d bring her anything but heartache.
The first thing I did after I got some of that Gatorade down Maisie was grab a pen and write to you. Because for the life of me, I can’t figure out if that makes me a bad person, a selfish person. And worse, if it does, there’s an overwhelming part of me that just doesn’t care. Isn’t that worse?
~ Ella
…
“Are you ready now?” I asked as Colt raced across the hallway of his mom’s house, into the mudroom. The kid had been practicing for three weeks, and today was finally the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend—game day.
The twins would graduate kindergarten—whatever the hell that meant—on Monday. Why they needed tiny caps and gowns was beyond me, but they’d sure looked cute for the little photo shoot Ella had done out by the lake.
“Cleats!” he shouted.
“In your bag.” I lifted the small Adidas bag in the air as he skidded to a stop in his socks in front of me.
“You have them?”
“Yep, and your shin guards, and the sunscreen for your noggin. Now, are you ready to play, or what?” We had twenty minutes until we were expected at the field for warm-ups.