But I also hate them.
And when I walk out the door, shoving it so hard it slams against the wall behind it, a bitter taste is in my mouth over words I’ll never be able to take back.
I glance back and see Hawkin standing in the darkened studio, his shoulder resting against the wall, and his face an expression I hope I never see again.
Disappointment.
Worry.
Pain.
Pity.
Fuck you, Hawke.
Just fuck you.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bristol
“He’s getting so big,” I murmur to no one as my mom collects her things behind me and gets ready to head back to her place. Jagger is on my apartment’s small back patio. He’s set up a makeshift track and is “driving” his trucks around on it and occasionally smashing them into each other with the sound effects to go along.
“It goes by in the blink of an eye, doesn’t it?”
“It feels like it.”
“Just yesterday you were that age and now look at you.” Her chuckle is bittersweet, much like how I’ve felt over the past few days. “He brought up wanting to learn how to play the guitar again today.”
She says the words as if she already knows what I need to tell her. As if she already knows Vince is in town.
“I’ll have to get him lessons.” I sigh. “Just another thing to try and manage, another expense to figure out . . . and another thing I don’t want to deprive him of.”
She slides her arm around my shoulder and pulls me against her. “If you weren’t so damn stubborn and independent, things could be easier for you, you know. Less stressful. Living with me would mean a bigger yard for Jagg. Less work for you because we’d halve our expenses. A built-in babysitter that you don’t have to stress about asking to stay over because this or that got crazy at work—or God forbid, you had a hot date and wanted to get a little action. I’ve heard that relieves stress now and then too.”
I laugh as she bumps her hip against mine, but it sounds as distracted as my thoughts.
She deserves to know, doesn’t she? After all, she has been through all of this with me. Finding out. The aftermath. The heartbreak. The decision.
And yet, I’m hesitating.
Shit. Here goes nothing . . .
“Talking about stress, I need to talk to you about a few things, Mom.”
“Are these good things or bad things? They better not be you’re moving out of state and away from me type of things.”
“No. It’s nothing like that. It’s more like, I’ve gotten a temporary promotion at work.”
“You did?” She screeches loud enough that Jagger looks up from his demolition derby, offers an I’m glad you’re laughing but my cars are more interesting than your conversation smile, and then goes back to making a crashing sound. “That’s awesome, Bri. Tell me all about it. What are you doing? Why is it temporary? Does this mean that that McMann guy finally figured out what I already know? That my daughter is an absolute force to be reckoned with, and he’s missing the boat if he doesn’t utilize her full potential?”
I take a step away from her and motion in the calm down gesture. It doesn’t mean that the praise doesn’t feel good even if it’s your mom saying it. “It’s mostly because of a client. The one I had to stay late for the other night. McMann wants me to hold the guy’s hand while we’re working on repackaging him to the public, so to speak.”
“Please tell me that doesn’t mean the client gets to treat you like shit. McMann does enough of that already.” To say my mom hates my boss is an understatement. But then again, I don’t exactly like him either. To me, he’s a stepping-stone to get where I want to go.
“Actually, the client has stuck up for me numerous times thus far.”
“I like him already. Are you allowed to tell me who it is?” she asks. I always tell her though, even when our client’s identity is supposed to be kept confidential.
“Well, that’s the second part of what I wanted to tell you.”
“Oh?” She takes a seat on the couch, distracted by straightening the pillows on either side of her. But when she glances up and notices my expression, she pauses. “What are you not telling me?”
Rip off the Band-Aid, Bristol.
After a quick glance to Jagger, I confess. “It’s Vince.”
Her mouth falls into a shocked O. “Bristol.” My name is a warning, a question, and an exclamation.
“I know.”
“You knew this day might come someday.”
“I’m well aware of that fact.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel on the defensive, but I am.
“I don’t even know what to say or ask.”
“Neither do I, if I’m honest.” And I’m not sure why it suddenly feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest, but it does. I’ve been stewing on this for the past couple of days, worrying about this, and now I feel like I finally have a sounding board.
Albeit a very opinionated sounding board, but one nonetheless.
She glances toward Jagger and smiles softly. “Are you going to tell him?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
“I didn’t intend to.” Do I want kids? That’s a hard fucking no. His words the other day struck me hard and reaffirmed my decisions. Then and now. “He didn’t want kids back then, and he still feels the same. Who am I to upend his life for a decision I made and would make again if I had to?”
“That’s one school of thought. The other is that he has every right to know. That maybe he’d feel differently once he met his incredible son.” She purses her lips. “You could get some financial support then, and you wouldn’t have to work your fingers to the bone—”
“I don’t want money from him.”
“You have a right to it.”
“I have a right to a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I take advantage of them.”
She nods but her stare is weighted. “Why did you tell me if you don’t want any of my advice?”
“I do, I just . . .” I blow out a heavy sigh and move around my place. It may be small, but it’s mine and filled with so much love for Jagger that it makes me happy. “It’s complicated. My feelings. My thoughts. Just everything is complicated.”
“Anything to do with a child is complicated. I mean, look at Dad and me. We waited to divorce until you were nineteen because we feared how it would affect you. And even then, it devastated you.”
“We’re talking about apples and oranges,” I say but understand her point.
“We’re talking about your son and what you’re going to do or not do when it comes to his father.”
“I worry that I’m hurting him every day because he doesn’t have a father who’s present. You know that. I know that. But wouldn’t it hurt him more to have a dad who knows about him and rejects him than to not know him at all?”
“Telling Vince isn’t the same as Jagger knowing.”
I force myself to stop moving and sit down. She’s right. Maybe it’s my own heart I’m protecting. Maybe I’d be devastated if I did tell Vince and he rejected Jagger on the spot. That would be worse than ripping my heart out and stomping on it.
“I did tell him I was pregnant. Or tried to anyway but was railroaded by the manager. And then he wouldn’t answer my calls. Then he blocked them. I mean . . . that told me enough in and of itself.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. She knows all of this, but it’s almost like repeating it makes me feel better about my decision. “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe, even though I was scared and heartbroken, I was worried Vince would try to talk me out of having Jagger when I knew I wanted him more than anything in the world.”
“Maybes aren’t going to give you your answers, sweetie.”
“I know. Believe me I know.” I rest my head on the back of the couch and look at the ceiling. Those fairy-tale visions I’d had in the past come back. The ones where Vince and Jagger are sitting on the floor playing. Where Vince was shirtless and holding our newborn son. Where Father’s Day is celebrated instead of being a day where I try to fill in for the things Jagger is missing out on.