Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“What is it?” he asks, raising his hand as if to touch me, then letting it drop when a car passes beside us.
“I told her about us. I trust her completely. She’ll never tell anybody.”
He nods. “That’s your choice.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m the one who wants to tell Noah and Elena, remember? You can tell whoever you like.”
I sigh, and then he reaches over but keeps his hand low. He touches my leg in a moment of blistering contact. Every time we touch, it’s like that. It’s like our bodies are driving us toward an inevitable conclusion—toward the act we tried last night.
“Sorry, Layla. I don’t mean to be a grumpy dickhead.”
“It’s fine. I get it. The guilt never goes away, and you’re right. You said we should tell them, but I get so nervous that I could puke when I think about it.”
“What was your friend’s advice?” he asks.
“To forget about all our problems for a while. To enjoy the date.”
“To pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist?” he says, and I nod. “That sounds like a plan to me.”
He starts the car, pulling out of the spot. We hit a red light almost right away. A family walks across the street—a dad with a toddler on his shoulders and the mother beside him pushing a stroller. I watch Miles follow them with his eyes and a smile on his face. He’s never looked so peaceful as he looks at them, their love, and their connection. He catches me looking. His smile drops.
“Thinking about having some of your own one day?” I ask, then I have to turn and stare out the window. He might sense my longing, the pulsing and unavoidable want deep inside—the one that brings to mind strollers, babies, milk bottles, crying, laughter, and all the big, beautiful mess of life.
“How could you tell?” he asks.
“You got this dreamy look like you imagined yourself in that man’s place.”
“What about you? Did you imagine yourself in the woman’s place?”
“Are you asking if I want kids?”
He pulls away from the red light, meaning I can look at him again without too much risk. He clenches his jaw, his forearms straining. I place my hand on his arm, hoping to calm him down. He seems amped-up suddenly.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I do, and I’d like more than one. Being an only child takes its toll. I want my kids always to have each other. Somebody to play with. Somebody to look out for them.”
“That sounds like a plan,” he says, his tone difficult to read.
“What about you?”
“I never wanted kids,” he says, and my whole world crashes.
Here it is. The reason I’ve been looking for. The reason we can’t be together. When I look into the future, there are always children there—a tiny baby in my arms, staring up with love bursting from them or little toddling footsteps. I’m even looking forward to teenage angst.
“Oh,” I murmur.
“But lately, I’ve been thinking about it.”
My hope soars far too violently. It threatens to burst out of me in a crazy scream of relief.
“What changed?”
He glances at me, sighs, and turns back to the road.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s just what you said about your kids looking out for each other. I want that too.”
“So, what’s the issue?” I whisper, wondering if he’s talking about us. I know I am.
“We said we’d forget about Noah and Elena.”
“We can talk about them,” I mutter, “if it will help explain.”
“How much do you know about our childhood?”
I swallow. “Only what Noah told me. It was bad. Your dad was violent. Your mom wasn’t around, and when she finally reconnected with you both, she got ill and passed.”
“Yep, that’s about the size of it. I always did my best to protect Noah from that evil bastard. I’d take the beatings so Noah didn’t have to. I’d purposefully make Dad angry if he started going at Noah so he’d focus on me instead.”
“Oh, Miles. That’s awful.”
“The awful part is what it does to a kid’s mind. It makes him believe he might end up like his old man if he wants kids when he grows up. He might end up just as evil.”
“No. Way.” I shake my head. “You’d never hit a child.”
“No,” he says, nodding. “I’d die or kill before I did that. I can’t imagine the sickness it takes, hitting your own goddamn kid. Hitting any kid is evil, but your own? The child who came from you?”
“It’s so deranged,” I whisper, “but you’re not him.”
“That was my reason for a long time, but as I got older and became successful, I got some distance between me and my childhood. Then it was simply a matter of never finding the right woman.”
“And if you did?” I whisper. He smiles, the same one aimed at the family when they crossed the street.