“Bad milk.”
“Bad milk?” I don’t know if his question is serious or not as he drops his arm to nearly the bottom of the pail.
“Apparently whatever I’m eating is giving her gas,” I confess to him, “because I can’t even feed my little girl without hurting her.” Watching a baby struggle with pain and knowing it’s your fault … that’s a part of motherhood I wasn’t prepared for. It hurts more than I could have ever imagined.
“You aren’t hurting her,” he says, consoling me the second the admission leaves my lips, and I can’t stand the look in his eyes or the comfort in his voice, so I turn away. “You’re a good mom,” he tells me as I do everything I can to keep my composure. I don’t know what made him come back in, but I wouldn’t have ever guessed he’d come back to clean the money he threw in the trash.
He moves to the sink and I watch his broad shoulders flex as Robert washes the bills, rinsing off the old pumped milk I had to throw away. The faucet squeaks as he shuts it off, the cash laying on a paper towel to dry. With a palm on either side of the sink, his tall form hunches over.
“I don’t want to fight, Mags.” Hearing him say my name and then noting the pain in his voice does something to me. Misery loves company but my God when it gets what it’s after, it calls on regret to save its soul.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him and I mean it. I don’t know what I’m doing; all I know is that everything feels heavy and like I can’t hold it up. The trembling of my shoulders as I let out a heavy sob is lessened when Robert wraps his arms around me.
Rocking me gently, he kisses the top of my head and I wish he wouldn’t. Because everything in me wants to lean against him and rest.
“I’m not going to take it,” he says.
“Then don’t kiss me. Please. Stop helping me.”
“You need help, though,” he states matter-of-factly. I’ve lost everything in the last year, including my pride.
With a shuddering breath I push away from him, upset that I’ve sunk so low. I don’t recognize who I am and I even hate myself a little.
The baby monitor flares to life with a wail from my baby girl and it’s all I can do to ask Robert to leave. To let me be so I can go back to her.
“I’ll get her,” he tells me and then leaves me standing there to let his words sink in. I’m so tired, I can barely comprehend what he’s said. I’ve been by myself all day with her and there’s never a break.
I didn’t know it’d be this hard.
I listen to his steady strides down the hall. I hear him tell my baby girl to hush and go back to sleep as if he’s done it a million times before. She calms down in his arms as he sways her back and forth, patting her bottom and shushing gently. With the baby monitor in my hand, I watch him comfort my daughter better than I have all day and it dims any anger I have toward him for starting the fall of dominoes that led to this point.
When she stops crying, it’s peaceful for a moment and I’m grateful. I’m so grateful that every wall I’ve put up comes crashing down.
Magnolia
Present day
Guilt doesn’t mix well with morning coffee. Even still, I gulp down the French vanilla and pretend everything’s easy to swallow. The regrets, the uncertainties … all of it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Renee questions and startles me, dragging her feet along the floor as she slowly shuffles into the kitchen. A bit of mascara from yesterday lingers under her eyes and she rubs it away, yawning as she does.
“Barely,” I comment, rubbing the tiredness from under my eyes as well. Just seeing her eases the tension that’s wreaked havoc on every fiber of me since last night when Robert pulled out that velvet box. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early.”
“Yeah, well, the curtains in your bedroom suck.” Humor traces each of her words and picks up her lips.
Her amethyst silk pajamas have an expensive feel and look out of place in my modest townhouse kitchen. Moving my glance to the worn, baggy tee I use as a nightgown, I note how at odds our wardrobes are. I know I could match her with any number of dainty nighties I have tucked in the bottom drawer of my dresser, but last night I needed comfort. So I turned to an old sleep shirt I used to wear in college. Robert’s seen me in this shirt plenty over the years. He’s stripped it from me and left it a puddle of cloth on the floor next to my bed half a dozen times … and just that thought brings my mood down even farther.
A loud yawn from Renee, which if I had to guess, I’d say was exaggerated, pulls me from my thoughts. Grabbing the coffeepot and pouring herself a cup in her favorite mug of mine, a rose gold number that says “Manifest It” on the front, Renee repeats her question. “So, couldn’t sleep?”
“You were hogging the bed,” I rebut weakly, letting the playfulness come out more than giving a serious answer. An asymmetric smile pulls at my lips, but the tension still wrestles inside of me and I can’t hide that from Renee. Her raised eyebrow tells me as much.
She doesn’t push and I turn my back to her, opening the cabinet in search of a bowl so I can pour myself cereal.
Her spoon tinks as she stirs in creamer. Renee tells me I’m the one who steals the covers and as the tiny spheres of sugary sweet morsels fill the ceramic bowl, she adds that her staying over has never stopped me from sleeping before. The cereal box hits the counter with a dull thud and a beat passes in silence as my hunger for anything at all leaves me.
“You’re sad about Robert?” Renee asks as I leave the bowl behind me, opting instead for an empty stomach and more caffeine. The breakfast of champions.
I could barely speak last night when I got home. It’s hard to explain how difficult it is to look into the eyes of one of your best friends and tell him you don’t accept his marriage proposal. It was more than a bruised ego that stared back at me from his baby blues. He was devastated … and I did that to him.
“I just feel guilty,” I confess into my coffee and blow away the steady steam before taking another sip and then another. I have to tilt the cup nearly all the way back to get the last few drops. I love Robert and I always will. And he loves me; I know he does.
“Here.” Renee gestures with the pot, offering to fill up my cup and I meet her halfway. “You shouldn’t feel guilty,” she tells me like I don’t deserve to feel like crap for putting him through that last night.
“I’ve never turned down a proposal before, but I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to come with a few negative feelings.” I can feel my eyes roll, which is better than pricking with tears.
Renee snorts. “Yeah, on his part.”
Staring at Renee, her hair already brushed and looking like silk compared to my mess of a bun, I wish she understood.
“He was talking about leaving and starting fresh.”
We can start over. Us and Bridget. If you’re ready for more, I want it with you. I want to be with you forever, Mags.
Remembering his confession makes me grip the counter behind me to remain upright. The words were spoken with raw vulnerability and I couldn’t stop him until he pulled out the box.