After Ever Happy (After #4) (37 page)

She opens her mouth to respond, but the goddamn waiter returns with our food. He sits the steaming plate of whatever the hell Tessa ordered and my burger in front of us and lingers there awkwardly.

“Do you need something?” I snap at him. It’s not his fault that I’m pouring out my hopes of a future to this woman and he’s interrupting, but he’s here and he’s wasting my time with her by standing here.

“No, sir. Do you need anything else?” he asks, cheeks red.

“No, thank you so much for asking.” Tessa smiles up at him, easing his embarrassment and making up for my asshole tendencies. He returns a smile to her and finally disappears.

“Anyway, I was basically just saying everything that I should have said a long time ago. Sometimes I forget that you can’t hear my thoughts, you don’t know all the things I think about you. I wish you did; you would love me more if you did.”

“I don’t think it would be possible for me to love you more than I do.” She twists her fingers in her hands.

“Really?” I smile at her, and she nods.

“But I need to tell you something. I don’t know how you’ll take it.” Her voice catches at the end, making me panic. I know she’s given up on us, but I can change her mind; I know I can. I feel a determination that I never felt before, never knew existed.

“Go on,” I force myself to say as neutrally as possible, then take a bite of the burger. It’s the only way to keep my damn mouth shut.

“You know I went to the doctor.”

Images of her crying while mumbling about her doctor fill my head.

“Is everything still okay over here?” the fucking waiter asks, popping over. “How’s everything taste? Would you like more water, miss?”

Is he fucking
serious?

“We are fine,” I growl at him—literally growl, like a rabid fucking dog. He pisses off, and Tessa lifts her finger to her empty glass.

“Shit. Here.” I slide mine over to her, and she smiles, then gulps the water down. “You were saying?”

“We can talk about it later.” She takes the first bite of her food since it arrived in front of her.

“Oh, no you don’t. I know this trick, I invented this trick. After you get some food into your belly, you’ll tell me. Please.”

She takes another bite, trying to distract me, but, nope, it’s not going to work. I want to know what her doctor said and why it’s making her act so strange. If we weren’t in public, it would be much easier to get her to talk. I don’t give a shit about making a scene, but I know she will be embarrassed, so I’ll play nice. I can do this. I can balance being nice and cooperative and not feel like a total fucking tool.

I let her get away with another five minutes of silence, and soon she’s picking at her food aimlessly.

“Are you finished?”

“It’s . . .” She glances down at the plate full of food.

“What?”

“It’s not very good,” she whispers, looking around to be sure no one can hear.

I laugh. “Is that what has you all flushed and whispering?”

“Hush.” She swats at the air between us. “I’m so hungry, but the food’s so
bad.
I don’t even know what it is. I just pointed at something because I was nervous.”

“I’ll tell them you want something else.”

I get to my feet, and she reaches across to grab my arm. “No, it’s okay. I’m ready to go.”

“Cool. We’ll just hit a drive-through and get something for you, and you can tell me what the hell is going on in that head of yours. It’s driving me insane guessing.”

She nods, looking a little insane herself.

O
ne drive-through taco joint later, Tessa is full and my patience is withering with each silent moment between us.

“I freaked you out talking about kids, didn’t I? I know I’m laying a lot of shit on you at once, but I’ve spent the last eight months keeping shit in, and I don’t want to do that anymore.”

I want to tell her the crazy shit inside my head—I want to tell her that I want to stare at the cheesy way the sun hits her hair in the passenger seat until I can’t see anymore. I want to listen to her moan and close her eyes when she takes a bite of a taco—that I swear tastes like cardboard but she loves—until I can’t hear anymore. I want to tease her about the spot just below her knee—that she always misses when she shaves her legs—until I lose my voice.

“It’s not that,” she interrupts me, and I look up from staring at her legs.

“Then what is it? Let me guess: you are already questioning marriage; now you don’t want kids either?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“I fucking hope not, because you know damn well you’ll make the best mum ever.”

She whimpers, holding her hands over her stomach. “I can’t.”

“We can.”

“No, Hardin, I
can’t.
” The way her eyes look down at her belly and her hands makes me thankful we are parked; I would have swerved off the damn road.

The doctor, the crying, the wine, the freaking out about Karen and her baby, the constant “can’t” from today.

“You can’t . . .” I understand exactly what she means. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? I did something to you, didn’t I?” I don’t know what I could have done, but that’s the way this works: something bad happens to Tessa because of something I did, always.

“No, no. You didn’t do anything. It’s something inside of me that isn’t right.” Her lips tremble.

“Oh.” I wish I could say something else, something better, anything, really.

“Yeah.” She rubs her hand over the bottom of her stomach, and I can feel the air disappearing from the small space of my car.

As fucked-up as it is, as fucked-up as I am, my chest feels like it’s caving in, and little brown-haired girls with blue-gray eyes, little blond boys with green eyes, little bonnet things and tiny socks with little animals—all kinds of shit that used to make me want to vomit repeatedly—swirl through my mind, and I feel dizzy as they are torn away, tossed into the air, and carried off to wherever ruined futures go to die.

“It’s possible, I mean, there’s a very slim chance. And there would be a high risk for miscarriage, and my hormone levels are all messed up, so I don’t think I could ever torture myself by trying. I wouldn’t be able to handle losing a baby, or trying for years with no result. It’s just not in the cards for me to be a mother, I guess.” She’s spitting this shit out, trying to make me feel better, but it’s not convincing me, not making her seem like she has it under control when it’s obvious that she doesn’t.

She’s looking at me, expecting me to say something, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say to her, and I can’t help the anger I feel toward her. It’s fucking stupid and selfish and absolutely fucking wrong, but it’s there, and I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I will say something I shouldn’t.

If I weren’t such an asshole, I would comfort her. I would hold her and tell her it will be okay, that we don’t need to have kids, we can adopt or something, anything.

But this is how reality works: men aren’t literary heroes, they don’t change overnight, and no one does anything right here in the real world. I’m no Darcy and she’s no Elizabeth.

She’s on the verge of tears when she squeaks out, “Say something?”

“I don’t know what to say.” My voice is barely audible, and my throat is closing. I feel like I’ve swallowed a handful of bees.

“You didn’t want kids anyway, right? I didn’t think it would make such a difference . . .” If I look over, I will find her crying.

“I didn’t think so, but now that it’s been taken away—”

“Oh.”

I’m thankful for that, because who knows what the fuck would have come out next.

“You can just take me back to the . . .”

I nod and put the car into drive. It’s fucked-up how something you never wanted can hurt this way.

“I’m sorry, I just . . .” I stop; neither of us seems to be able to finish a sentence.

“It’s okay, I understand.” She leans into the window. I suspect that she’s trying to get as far away from me as she can.

My emotions are telling me to comfort her, to think of her and how this is affecting her and how she feels about it.

But my head is strong, so fucking strong, and I’m pissed. Not at her, but her body and her mum for whatever she was born with that doesn’t work right. I’m pissed at the world for slapping me in the damn face again, and I’m pissed at myself for not being able to say anything to her as we drive through the city.

A FEW MINUTES LATER,
I realize that the silence is so loud it hurts. Tessa’s trying to stay quiet on her side of the car, but I can hear her breathing, the way she’s trying to control it, to control her emotions.

My chest is so fucking tight, and she’s just sitting there, letting my words stew in her mind. Why do I always do this shit to her? I always say the wrong thing no matter how many times I promise that I won’t. No matter how many times I promise that I will change, I always do this. I pull away and leave her to deal with the shit herself.

Not again. I can’t do it again; she needs me more than ever, and this is my chance to show her that I can be here the way she needs.

Tessa doesn’t look at me as I turn the wheel and pull over to the side of the highway. I turn my hazard lights on and hope that a damn cop doesn’t come and start shit.

“Tess.” I attempt to get her attention while I scramble through my thoughts. She doesn’t look up from her hands in her lap. “Tessa, please look at me.” I reach my hand across the console to touch her, but she jerks away and her hand smacks against the door loudly.

“Hey.” I take off my seat belt and turn toward her, taking both of her wrists into one of my hands, the way I do so often.

“I’m fine.” She raises her chin slightly to prove her point, but the moisture in her eyes tells another story. “You shouldn’t be parked here; this is a busy highway.”

“I don’t give a shit about where I am parked. I’m fucked-up, my head isn’t right.” I stumble for the words to make sense. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

After a few beats she lowers her eyes to me, staring at my face but avoiding my eyes.

“Tess, don’t shut down again, please. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I never even considered having kids anyway, and here I am, making you feel bad for this shit.” The confession sounds even worse as the words fall between us.

“You’re allowed to be upset, too,” she quietly responds. “I just needed you to say something,
anything
 . . .” The last word is so low that it’s barely audible.

“I don’t care that you can’t have kids,” I blurt.
Fucking hell.
“I mean, I don’t care about our kids that we can’t have.”

I’m trying to rub salve onto the wound I’ve created, but her expression lets me know I’m doing the opposite.

“What I’m trying—and utterly fucking failing to accomplish—to say is that I love you, and I’m an insensitive prick for not being present for you just now. I put myself first, as always, and I’m sorry.” My words seem to pull her out of herself, and she brings her eyes to mine.

“Thank you.” She pulls one of her wrists from my hand, and I hesitate to let it go, but I’m relieved when she raises her hand to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry that you feel like I took something from you.”

But I can tell she has more to say. “Don’t hold back. I know you; say what you need to say.”

“I hate the way you reacted,” she huffs.

“I know I’m—”

She puts a hand in the air. “I wasn’t finished.” Tessa clears her throat. “I have wanted to be a mother since I can remember. I was just like every other girl with her dolls, maybe more so. Being a mother was so important to me. I never, ever questioned or worried that I may not be able to be one.”

“I know, I—”

“Please, let me
talk.”
She grinds her teeth.

I really should shut up, for once. Instead of responding, I nod and stay silent.

“I’m feeling this incredible loss right now. And I don’t have the energy to worry about you blaming me. It’s okay for you to feel the loss, too; I want you to always be open with how you feel, but you haven’t had any of
your
dreams crushed here. You didn’t want children until ten minutes ago, and so I don’t find it fair for you to be this way.”

I wait a few seconds and raise a brow at her, seeking her permission to speak. She nods, but then the loud horn of a semi blares through the air, making her nearly jump out of the car.

“I’m going to drive back to Vance’s,” I say. “But I would like to come in and be with you.”

Tessa looks out of the window but gives me a small nod.

“I mean, in a comforting way, like I should have been.”

With a gesture just as slight as her nod, I catch her rolling her eyes.

H
ardin shares an awkward glance with Vance as we pass him in the hallway. It’s strange, having Hardin here with me after everything that has happened. I can’t ignore the effort and restraint he’s showing by coming to this house, Vance’s house.

It’s hard to focus on just one of the many problems that have cropped up of late: Hardin’s behavior in London, Vance and Trish, my father’s death, my fertility issues.

It’s too much, and it seems never ending.

In a way, the relief I feel after telling Hardin about the infertility is huge, massive.

But there’s always something else waiting to be revealed or thrown at one of us.

And New York is that next thing.

I don’t know if I should just say it now, now that we already have an issue between us. I hate the way Hardin reacted, but I’m thankful for the remorse he showed after his callous dismissal of my feelings. If he wouldn’t have pulled the car over and apologized, I don’t think I could have found it in myself to speak to him again.

I can’t count the times that I’ve said, thought, sworn, those words since I met him. I owe it to myself to think that I meant them this time.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, closing my bedroom door behind him.

Without hesitation, I answer honestly, “That I wouldn’t speak to you again.”