“I’m paying them,” he argues. “They love it. Although your daughter talked me into an hourly rate which is, frankly, exorbitant.”
The doorbell rings. “That’s the pizza,” he says. “Do you mind grabbing drinks from the basement?”
I nod and head downstairs, expecting another demolished room. Instead, it’s so crammed he couldn’t fix it up if he wanted to. Boxes and furniture are stacked high on every wall. And a whole section is labeled Kate. Kate-books, Kate-closet, Kate-bathroom. This girl left her whole life behind, and Caleb’s spent the better part of a year simply hoping she’d reclaim it.
I move toward the fridge but then stop and look at her belongings again. At the crisp white frame leaning against the wall behind the boxes.
It’s a crib. A new crib. I step closer and spy a rocking chair beside it and a folded-up changing table just to the left.
He and Kate bought these things. And they’re nothing you’d buy unless you were really certain you’d need them.
Kate’s drug addiction, the personal stuff Kayleigh alluded to...did it all begin here, with a crib and chair and changing table Caleb now has no intention of using? I grab drinks and climb the stairs slowly, wondering how I can ask. Wondering if he’ll tell me the truth.
Upstairs, Caleb’s grabbing paper plates and napkins. “I’ve only got two chairs,” he says. “So should we sit outside?”
It’s probably for the best: if we were all around his table, it would feel a lot like playing family.
Which is something it seems he might have wanted, once upon a time.
“Sure.” My voice is slightly too cheerful, but he doesn’t notice.
We get down to the beach and the twins take their paper plates to the shore while Caleb and I sit in the Adirondack chairs. When he’s been down here with us before, watching the kids’ antics…did it hurt? Have I been rubbing something in his face I didn’t even think he wanted?
Sophie comes up to him and starts speaking gibberish. “Oooh, blah, blah, la, la, oh lay.”
He raises a brow, waiting for her to explain, his mouth softening.
“That was French,” she announces.
He grins. “Y.A.I.E.”
He’s playing the code game with her. I melt, but she frowns at him.
“That’s too hard,” she says, placing her hands on her hips.
“It stood for ‘your accent is exquisite.’”
Her mouth curves upward as she returns to her pizza.
All his bullshit about children being a pain in the ass—is it really what he thinks, or is it simply easier than admitting they were something he once wanted but didn’t receive?
He reaches for another slice. “You’ve gotten very quiet.”
I force a smile. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”
“There are worse things. At least I’m not alone while locked in your attic.”
“Are you still on that? You know I wouldn’t have gotten around to soundproofing the room. You’d have heard her screaming by now.”
I laugh and then fall silent. I want to ask him about the crib. I want to know if, once upon a time, he did want kids. Except I can’t think of a single way to broach these topics without potentially causing him pain.
After another long moment of silence, he sighs heavily. “You saw the crib, didn’t you? I forgot all about it until you were halfway down the stairs.”
I turn toward him. “I did. It’s none of my business. I was just surprised.”
He swallows. “Kate and I had a daughter. Hannah. She only lived for a few minutes.”
My stomach sinks like a stone. The day they handed me my twins was the happiest of my entire life, the one I’d spent nine months building toward. I can’t imagine reaching that point and having them taken from me. I can’t.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally reply. “What happened?”
“Meconium aspiration,” he says. My brow furrows and he reluctantly continues. “Meconium is held in the baby’s intestines, but sometimes during labor it gets expelled, and if the baby inhales it …” He stops talking. His voice is lower and quieter when he continues. “She lost lung function. It happened so fast. Kate was holding her and trying to nurse, and then Hannah started gasping.”
“Oh, Caleb,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. That must have been so hard for you both.”
“It was hard on Kate,” he corrects, excluding himself entirely. “I wasn’t even there when it happened...I’d gone to this meeting in San Diego and by the time I got to the hospital, it was too late. She went through the whole goddamn thing alone.”
He hasn’t said it directly, but there’s blame in his voice. He’s holding himself responsible for some reason, but then…he’s the sort that would. There are men in the world who blame everyone but themselves. He’s the opposite.
“It wasn’t your fault, Caleb,” I reply. “You know that, right?”
“I should have been there. There were signs I might have noticed. And I wasn’t there for Kate afterward, either. She completely fell apart. I avoided it because work was easy and she was hard. This whole fucking thing, start to finish, was my fault.”
This is why he waited for a woman he hasn’t heard from in nearly a year, a woman who stole from his corporate accounts and God knows what else. Because he thinks he’s the reason she did it.
“Caleb, you were grieving too. Maybe you couldn’t deal with Kate because you were trying to keep yourself afloat.”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t grieving, Lucie. I just wanted to work. My dad was exactly the same way. Sometimes it’s best to accept your limitations early on.”
“So you work too much. People change more significant pieces of themselves than that.”
“Except I don’t want to change,” he replies. “I’m responsible for a company and I don’t ever want to be responsible for anything or anyone else.”
It seems like a really lonely way to go through life. And I also don’t believe him. He says he didn’t grieve. He says it was hard on Kate. But Caleb cares about things a lot more than he lets on, and there’s no way what happened didn’t hit him hard.
He’s punishing himself with all this enforced isolation, and some ridiculous part of me is already hoping I can change his mind.
19
CALEB
I’ve never minded traveling. Living in a hotel is simple, easier in many ways than living at home. There’s no excess, there are no chores to be done. Your life is stripped bare, and you don’t have to feel bad about how empty it all is because you’re there to do a job, to save your company, and no one can criticize you for that.
But my hotel room in Austin looks out over a parking lot, and I miss the views at home. I don’t wake up excited to see anyone. I miss that too.
For the next three days, as I travel to Houston, then Chicago, then Denver…not a single person makes me laugh. Not a single person has me throwing off my covers in the morning and feeling as if something worthwhile might happen. I’m not going to turn a corner and discover Lucie there in the green dress. I’m not going watch that slow, unwilling smile open wide on her face when I find myself in her path or hear her laughter echoing over the water while I throw a frozen dinner in the microwave.
So what if I miss seeing them? Yes, I thought I wanted complete privacy, but is it a crime that I prefer not being out there alone?
I head to the Denver airport on Friday afternoon. I’m supposed to be in Seattle by seven for drinks with a possible investor.
I open my phone to pull up my boarding pass and then turn around and walk to the ticket counter. “How fast could I get on a flight to San Francisco?” I ask.
This doesn’t mean anything. There’s nothing wrong with a man just wanting to go the fuck home.