“You think I don't want this baby? You think I'm giving it away because I don't want it?”
Wilson's eyes searched mine, and a myriad of emotions crossed his face as he struggled for words that weren't easy to say.
“When you told me that you had decided not to keep your baby, I thought you were making a mistake. Yet how could I say a bloody thing? My sister is over the moon with joy. And you seemed at peace with your choice.”
The wind moaned and the sky darkened. Wilson reached for me, but I stepped away, letting the wind howl and pull at me. It seemed fitting.
“My mother didn't give me up for adoption, Wilson. But she should have. She should have!”
Wilson braced his legs against the wind and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“She didn't love me enough to give me up. I am not going to ruin this baby's life just because I need someone to love.”
Thunder rolled and a flash of lightning had Wilson reaching for me again. This time I wasn't quick enough, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me toward the car. The rain hit as we slammed our doors, and we were cocooned in grey, the rain so heavy that the world was liquid beyond the windows.
The Mercedes purred to life, and heat billowed at our feet and warmed the seats beneath us. But Wilson didn't resume our journey. There was still too much to say.
“I didn't mean to hide it,” he appealed, his grey eyes entreating me. I looked away, not wanting to listen. But he was insistent, and he turned my chin toward him, demanding that I hear. “I didn't speak up when I should have. It never seemed appropriate or timely. And then it was too late. And honestly, the fact that I was adopted, it's irrelevant, Blue.”
“Irrelevant? How can you say that?” I cried, yanking my chin from his grasp. As if Wilson's opinions had ever been irrelevant to me. He had become the most relevant thing in my life. Redemption, resolution, revelation, and now relevance. I fisted my hands in my hair. “I've been blindly trying to figure things out. I am days away from giving birth, and you don't think your own adoption is relevant? Your perspective might have changed everything.”
“Exactly. But instead, you've come to your own conclusions, you've made your own decisions, and that is how it should be.”
“But you said I was making a mistake,” I whispered, trying not to cry again. I looked for the anger I had felt, but it had blown away somewhere between the restroom and the car, and I couldn't call it back.
Wilson reached over and clasped my hands in his, turning toward me as much as the wheel would allow.
“Blue, this whole experience has been a revelation to me.”
I tried not to recite all the R words in my head as he continued.
“I, like every human being, needed to know who I was. My parents understood that, and, unlike what you've dealt with, there were no secrets in my life. I knew everything . . . except the why. I never understood why my biological mother made the choice she did. I always thought if someone really loved me, they would never give me away. Watching you go through all of this, I think I finally understand that that isn't necessarily true.”
My eyes were glued on our clasped hands, our fingers laying side by side. I couldn't look at him. Not when the words he spoke were so intensely personal that the glare from the truth hurt my eyes. Wilson continued, his voice choked with emotion.
“Loving someone means putting their needs above your own. No matter what. Somehow, you figured that out. I'll be damned if I know how, but you did. So, no. I don't think you're making a mistake, Blue. I think you're bloody amazing. And when I get home, Jenny Woodrow is going to get a call. She deserves a little thank you – finally – for loving me and letting me go.”
We sat quietly for several breaths, letting the emotion ebb, our hands intertwined, heat circling the interior of the car and fogging the windows.
“What did the old man say?” I questioned softly.
“He told me not to worry. He said, 'Women cry. If she's crying over you, she still loves you,'” Wilson tried to mimic the shaky voice of the old man. He looked at me and grinned playfully. “He said I should only worry when you stop.”
I couldn't smile back and swiftly looked away. I was the one who should worry. Not because I had stopped crying, but because I'd started in the first place. The old man had it all figured out.