He melts into my shoulder, curling himself close to my body, his cue that it’s time for bed.
Standing, I get him in his crib, turning on the sound machine that sits on a small table next to his crib. Max follows me with his sleepy eyes.
He points to the framed photo that lives next to his crib. “Mama.”
I swear the word takes the air right out of my lungs the way it has every day this week.
“That’s uh . . .” I swallow hard. “That’s Miller.”
“Mama!”
“Yeah,” I exhale in defeat, not saying anything else because truly, I don’t want to correct him.
I lean over his crib to kiss his head. “I love you, Max.”
After making sure the baby monitor is on, I turn the lights off and close the door behind me, heading straight for the fridge for a beer.
A Corona specifically, because that’s all I have stocked, which feels like a big fuck you from the universe.
Taking a seat on the couch, I pop the top and take a swig, unable to block out the visual of the way Miller looked with her lips around that Corona the first day I saw her in the elevator.
God, I’m a fucking mess. How do people do this?
Fishing out my phone, I scroll, eager for an iota of information on the girl I’m desperately in love with.
The same girl who is off chasing bigger dreams.
Every night when Max goes to bed, I’m nose deep in my phone, typing in her name, and whenever those jade green eyes and dark brunette hair come into view, my stomach dips, wishing I could reach through the screen and touch her.
She’s been interviewed at least once a day through different blogs. Violet truly kept her promise of filling her schedule when she returned to work. I’m annoyed for her. This is the pressure that set her off in the first place, but I know Miller, I know she can live up to the expectations if she chooses to, and judging by these interviews, she’s doing exactly that.
Then there’s the part of me that’s thankful Violet has thrown her back into the thick of it because it’s the reason I have a bit of her. I can read what she said that day, and yes, this hopeless, longing side to me is trying to read between the lines, searching for a hidden meaning. I’m trying to find the words “Miller Montgomery is moving to Chicago” somewhere in an article that’s titled, “Miller Montgomery—Back to Business.”
It hasn’t been long since those insecurities of not being enough were drowned out by Miller. Those voices were quieted but never truly extinguished, lingering just below the surface.
They’re there again, wondering, dreading the confirmation that she got back to her regularly scheduled life full of chaotic kitchens, traveling the country for work, and being interviewed for fancy magazines only to laugh at herself for ever believing she could get attached to this quiet and simple life with my son and me.
Mid-read of her latest interview, my phone dings with a new text.
Ryan: Family dinner is happening. Thought you were coming by after your game?
Shit. I didn’t even realize. That calendar that I once stared at and memorized, the one that moved at the speed of light while Miller was here, is now moving in slow motion, days ticking down when it feels like I should be crossing off months.
So, yeah, I forgot that it was Sunday because how the hell have I lived through this pain for an entire seven days?
Or maybe subconsciously I made myself forget because the idea of hanging out with my friends, the same friends that are hopelessly in love with their partners, while I’m wallowing in heartbreak sounds like the last thing on earth I want to do.
Me: Sorry, I spaced. I’ll be there next week.
Maybe.
Ryan: Next week, me and my wife will be on our honeymoon.
Shit. The guy is getting married on Saturday and I completely forgot.
Me: I’m a terrible friend. Of course, I know that. I’m looking forward to Saturday.
Ryan: Don’t sweat it. I know you’re going through it right now. We’re here for you if you’d let us be.
Me: I’ll be all right.
Before I can get back to Miller-stalking, a new text thread comes through.
Indy: Ryan can bring you leftovers if you haven’t eaten yet.
Me: Thanks, Ind, but I’m okay.
Indy: Love you and Max. Thinking of you both.
I intend to swipe out of our conversation, but I can’t help myself, hovering my thumb over the keyboard.
Me: Have you heard from her?
A pathetic amount of hope mixes with dread.
Indy: I texted her the other day to tell her she was missed. She said work was kicking her butt, but she missed everyone here too.
I begin to respond, wanting to tell Indy to relay a message for me, that Max misses her, that I miss her, but I talk myself out of it. If she’s going to hear that, it should come from me.
Me: Looking forward to Saturday.
Indy: Me too!!!!!!
The idea of family dinner without Miller is bad enough, but to sit through my friends’ wedding alone? God, that’s going to be rough. I have six days to try to pull it together, to attempt not to ruin their day with my shitty attitude.
Any and all resolve leaves me when I mindlessly find her contact in my phone. It’s staring back at me, taunting me.
Would it really be the worst thing in the world if I got to hear her voice? If I could just tell her how much we’re missing her. Maybe I’d feel better if she knew. Maybe she’d feel better too. Or, and more likely, I just want to hear her say it back.
Without another moment of thought, I press her name and call.
My knees are bouncing with nerves as her phone rings. It continues to do so two more times, until finally on the fourth one, she answers.
My heart soars out of my chest at the knowledge that she’s on the other line, that she can hear me. “Miller?”
I’m fairly certain my voice cracks on her name which would be real fucking embarrassing if I could feel anything other than excitement.
“Uh, no,” someone finally says on the other end. “This is Violet, her agent. She’s in the middle of an interview, at the moment.”
Instant deflation.
“Oh, okay. Do you know when she’ll be done?”
“I’m not sure. She’s got a long night in the kitchen afterward. I’d guess she’ll be free around 2 a.m. or so.”
Two a.m. in Los Angeles which would be 4 a.m. in Chicago.
“Do you want me to have her call you then?” Violet asks.
“No. No, don’t worry about it. I know she’s busy.”
“She is, but it’s all very big and exciting things for her. And she’s happy here. She’s jiving well with this kitchen. She’s got a bright future in the industry. Take it from me. I’ve represented a lot of chefs in my career, but none as promising as her.”
This is what I wanted, for her to succeed. I just didn’t realize it’d hurt so bad to watch from the sidelines. But taking myself out of the equation, I couldn’t be prouder of that girl. It sounds like she’s finally finding what makes her happy.
“Hey, Violet.” I clear my throat. “Do me a favor and don’t mention to her that I called.”
She pauses on the line for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thank you. Have a good night.”
“You too, Baseball Daddy.”
I huff out a small laugh, knowing she saw my name on the caller ID.
I hang up the line feeling as if it were last Sunday all over again. Like I’m starting from scratch in missing her. Only this time, I have the confirmation that she’s happy. That she’s off succeeding, doing bigger and better things than I could ever offer her here.
Chapter 38
Miller
“How’d it go?” Violet asks, following me around the bustling kitchen as I hustle to prepare for dinner service.
“It was fine. The same as all the other blog interviews have been this week. Fine.”