Page 18 of Trusting You
“It means,” I say when my bottle hits the table, “the moment you showed me that picture, you knew what you were doing—the second you stepped foot in NYC. You were going to change my life for good, whether or not I decide to meet this baby. And how can I, as a man, as a potential father to this kid, go on living, knowing my child is growing up somewhere away from me?”
Her shoulders smack against the back of the booth. Her features move with a supple wave of conflict before they settle. “I didn’t do this to ruin your life.”
“Not saying you did.”
The waiter passes by again, and I signal for another drink. “What I’m saying is, I’ll try.”
She blinks at that. “Try? You can’t try as a father. It’s not a suit you don’t like that you can get re-tailored when it doesn’t fit you.”
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “What do you want from me?”
“What I want,” she says, emphasizing by smacking her palms on the table, covering the mascot shrimp’s ahoy matey grin, “is for you to sack up and help Lily. And don’t get me wrong, I’m just as pissed as you are that shooting your wad in a girl gives you more rights than someone who’s been with Lily since day one, but that baby needs a home, and I’ll be damned if I lose her to some family that—”
“Won’t want you around?” I finish for her.
She’d halfway risen from her seat at this point, and in small millimeters, she sits back down. But I did it. I got her. Hurt her.
“What makes you think I’ll want you around any more than they would?” I ask.
“I can’t…I don’t know that.” She covers her emotion with a sip of her drink, but her hand is shaking.
It affects me, her fear, but damned if I’m going to submit to this chick who’s judged me before she even knows me. “You come into my city, my home, on fire with accusations that I’m a shit person who doesn’t deserve a chance with a baby I didn’t know I had. You reduce me to a sperm sample. You yell at me like I deliberately missed opportunities with my daughter.” I stick on the word daughter. “What the hell makes you think you have any better chance of keeping Lily in your life with me? Because that’s what it boils down to, doesn’t it? You don’t care that Lily could possibly go to a family who loves her—she’s young enough to be adopted and not grow up in foster care. All you’re focused on is your time with her. Your ability to stay in her life. Your selfishness.”
Her mouth opens and closes, and I blink out of my rant long enough to notice that her cheeks are shining, that her giant goblet of neon yellow slush has disguised the fact she’s crying.
Shit. Shit. I didn’t mean to make her eyes leak.
“I…I don’t,” she chokes out in answer, and when she pins me with those gold-carved eyes, my fingers clench around my beer. “I don’t know any of that. And I deserve everything you just said to me.”
Oh, fuck. Now she’s all trembly and agreeing with me. I’m an ass. I’m such a dick ass.
“I love her like her mother did,” she continues, her voice husky. She massages her throat like it’s not supposed to sound that way. “And I miss her every day I’m not with her. Some lady in a suit shows up at my apartment and says Lily has to come with her, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Three days after Paige’s funeral. But you’re wrong in assuming I don’t want what’s best for Lily. I’m trying to do what’s right for her while also honoring my best friend’s wishes. Paige wanted you to have a chance with Lily.”
I draw back at that and close my mouth when I realize it’s unhinged.
“Her last wish was for me to bring Lily to you,” Carter repeats, and with that flash in her eyes, I can tell she’s gearing up for something. It forces me to smother my surprise. I can’t, for one second, look weak in front of this chick.
“And it’s not like it’ll be easy for you to get her,” Carter continues. “You’ll have to go through official documents, home visits, social workers going in and out of your apartment until it’s found suitable for a toddler. Even after, CPS will visit you, make sure Lily’s in safe hands, now that her mother’s dead and didn’t give you any rights on official paper.”
“Okay, so what?” I’m dismissive, but it’s only to cover the waffling going on inside. The—what is that? Shit, right. Fear. Fear of measuring up. “You don’t think I can accomplish any of that?”
“I don’t think you have the balls, no.”
After a cool swallow, I peel my lips back while I slam my empty bottle down. “Then get ready, because Challenge is my middle name.”
She stares pointedly at my two empty beer bottles. “You’ll have to stop drinking.”
“Easy.”
“You can no longer bring random chicks into your apartment.”
“Can do.”
“And clean. That place you’re living in is—”
“All right. I get the point.”
“And a crib. And baby things. Diapers, bottles, changing station—”