“I wish you had been there. He sounded desperate, Renee. You should’ve seen him.” Again, Renee scoffs at the idea.
“He wanted to leave Beaufort?” She blinks comically, both hands wrapped around the coffee mug.
“As if I’d want to leave this place. I don’t … I don’t know where that came from.” Last night, I saw the same man who stood in front of me only a few feet away from where I am now, begging me to let him help. And just like back then, I told him no.
“You told him no, you’re never leaving this place, right?”
“Of course I did.” The mug clinks as I set it down on the counter. “I don’t know how he could even think of leaving. This is our home.” Renee’s eyebrow quirks at the use of “our,” but she lets it slide, opting to swallow down whatever sarcastic comment was hoping to slip out.
“So Brody comes along and suddenly Robert wants to put down roots.” Renee’s remark drips with implication.
Brody. Just hearing his name twists my heart.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone, but we need to do a paternity test. I get that Robert doesn’t want the town talking, but it is what it is.”
“The town is already talking.”
“What?” Instantly nervous pricks settle down my neck. I hate the rumors and gossip. It’s never done a bit of good for me. More importantly, this involves my Bridget. The town gossips can keep my baby girl’s name out of their mouths.
“I mean … it’s not a bad thing. That rumor started years ago when you came home pregnant.”
“Right, so nothing new?” I ask her cautiously. I’m always the last to find out what people are saying.
“Well,” Renee begins as she leans against the counter nonchalantly, “you used to just be a ho, but now you’re a nice ho with the cutest little toddler and an ‘interesting’ love life.”
I chuckle and when I do, Renee bursts out laughing. It’s all just ridiculous. It used to get to me and, judging by my initial reaction, I still have a bit of PTSD from it, but the labels they hurl at me don’t do a thing to knock me for a loop.
A broad smile spreads across my face and I can’t help it. “Well, they’re right that little Bridgey is the cutest.”
“Seriously, though, it’s a good thing you told him no.” Renee doesn’t get it. He loved me when I didn’t even like the person I was. My smile dims. They can label me with a scarlet letter and all if they want; that doesn’t matter. What does matter, though, is that someone is going to get hurt. I can’t let it be my daughter. The seriousness of it all feels like it’s drowning me.
“And what if we get the test and he’s the father?” I say the question I’m thinking out loud. “I just told him no and he very well may be her father.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s possible and you know it is.”
“When it comes to you marrying and settling down, it doesn’t matter who the biological father is.” Renee’s answer is firm.
“I know that,” I say, agreeing with her. “It just makes things awkward.” And he’s been there for us. The second bit stays silent on my lips. We’ve been there for each other for years.
“It’s not awkward, it’s just … what it is. It’s real,” Renee corrects me with a tip of her mug and a raised brow.
“Such a positive spin,” I comment dryly, feeling slightly better but I’m still an exhausted ball of anxiousness. How is that combination even possible?
“Just call me Positive Polly.”
As the moment ticks by, I finally pop a dry piece of cereal into my mouth, followed by another of the berry red morsels.
“I need … I need to be able to think straight. I don’t understand why I didn’t do it sooner. Even the cheek test … like why did I cancel it?”
“The cheek test?”
“I ordered a swab kit in the mail and then canceled it because I’m a chicken.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks, stealing the bowl of cereal for herself, dragging it by its lip across the counter. I guess “cheek test” isn’t quite specific enough.
“An at-home kit. For the paternity test.”
“Because of Robert,” Renee states and I shake my head, denying it.
“It’s because I feel almost certain she’s Brody’s.”
“Well, Robert didn’t help,” she says and bites the inside of her cheek. Like she’s holding something else back.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I’ve never questioned their relationship before. “We were all so close back in high school and after.” I would say college days, but Renee never went.
“He broke your heart.”
“If I can get over that, you should be able to.”
“Yeah, well …” Renee shrugs. “Maybe one day.” Sometimes I wish people didn’t know all the history between Robert and me. Including Renee. I wish all my mistakes weren’t published on every corner of this town.
Clearing my throat, I rest my lower back against the counter like Renee and check the clock. It’s after 8:00 a.m. and a Saturday. Of course Bridget would sleep in on the one day where I couldn’t get in a single wink.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say while grabbing my phone from the counter.
“What are you doing?”
“Sending out the most awkward text of my life.” The pit of my stomach argues that it’s more than awkward.
“What are you texting?”
“That I need them to go and get blood drawn for a paternity test.”
“You’re texting both of them that?” Renee questions.
“Both men in one chat,” I answer her as I press send and then add comically, “like the shameless harlot I am.”
That comment gets a laugh and an eye roll from each of us. This town and everyone else can call me whatever names they want. I know who I am, I just don’t know what I want or what I’m supposed to do with the curveball life threw at me.
Robert
Asher’s garage has this nostalgic scent to it. It’s an old airplane hangar from the ’80s he and his dad converted to a garage. He saved up all the way back in high school to add all the gear he needed to start his own shop. It smells like oil, hard work and well-used machines.
“Asher,” I call out as the gravel crunches beneath my feet at the large entrance. The garage door is up and I know he starts his day the second the sun peeks up from the skyline. I take a long look around the quiet lot, not finding him where he usually is: under the car on the lift right in front of me.
“Heyo,” Asher bellows from around the corner and that’s when I spot an ancient hunk of metal. It’s an engine that’s entirely too large to belong to a car, and it sits just before the door that opens onto a hall leading to more offices and storage.
Asher catches me studying the engine as he makes his entrance, a rag in one hand, cleaning up the wrench in his other.
“Isn’t it a beaut?” He takes a moment to nod at it.
“Depends.” I meet my friend halfway at the engine. “What is it?”