“Someday we will,” Damien says as he slides his arm around my waist.
“I certainly hope so.” Caroline smiles fondly at both of us. “You two would make beautiful babies.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Damien adds, as he pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my temple. “Nikki’s going to make an incredible mom.”
I tense, my demeanor shifting from socially friendly to icily polite. This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. Not with a stranger. Not with Caroline. Not even with Damien, and I’m frustrated that he so seamlessly slid into the role of eager father. We’ve talked about this over and over, and I’d thought we were on the same page. Someday, yes, I want to hold our child in my arms. But neither of us are ready for kids yet. There are too many barriers, too many challenges. And the fact that he’s now speaking so cavalierly about something so important makes my insides twist up. Especially since I can hardly call him out while we’re standing on a lawn in Dallas and I’m so goddamn vulnerable already.
Fuck.
I pull out of his embrace, and when I do, Damien catches my eyes. I see the apology on his face, but I’m not in the mood. I’m too off-kilter as it is, and so I just shove my hands in the pockets of my summer skirt. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else, but then he turns his attention back to Misty and tells her that the car is unlocked.
As they speak, I head toward the house with Caroline beside me. With each step, my feet feel heavier and my pulse quicker. It’s silly, I know—it’s not as if I’ll find my mother lying in wait—but I haven’t been back in this house in years, and now that I’m about to walk inside, I’m positively crackling with nerves. I want Damien beside me. I want his hand in mine. And I’m angry and hurt and pissed that just a few little words have dropped a wall between us. Angry at him. And, yes, angry at myself, too.
Behind us, I hear Misty speaking to Damien. “I’ll wipe off his hands before he gets in the car. And feel free to look around as much as you want. It’s kind of a maze in there, though. We haven’t unpacked a thing.”
Caroline and I pause, and I watch as Misty hurries off after Andy, who’s running as fast as his little legs will allow toward the Rolls Royce. Damien turns but hesitates before walking toward us, his expression unreadable. Then he cocks his head just slightly, and when his brows rise in inquiry, I see everything he’s not saying aloud. I’m sorry. Are we okay?
The fist around my heart loosens, and I draw a breath, wait a beat, and then extend my hand. For an instant, relief flickers in his eyes. Then his expression clears, and he joins us, locking his hand with mine.
Caroline looks between us, then smiles so brightly that I have to wonder if she’s picked up on the tension. Not that I’m about to ask. Instead, we continue to the house. “How many times did I walk you home when you and Ollie were little?” Caroline asks as we step onto the porch. “Or come over here to drag Ollie back home when you two spent the day in your pool?”
“A lot,” I say, letting the memories distract me. The truth is that Ollie rarely came over here. When we were allowed to play together, we both preferred his house. Only in the dead of summer did we stay here to enjoy the pool, and then only after my mother had assured herself that I was covered head-to-toe with sunscreen. God forbid the beauty queen get a sunburn or freckles.
“Go on, sweetie,” Caroline says. “I’ll wait for you two out here.”
I nod, and when Damien squeezes my hand in silent support, I realize how clammy my palms have become. The door is already ajar, so I use my free hand to push it open. I swallow and then, before I can lose my nerve, I step over the threshold.
I hesitate, not sure what I expected. Memory-shaped ghosts drifting down from the ceiling? My mother’s face looking back at me from the hall mirror? Her voice ordering me to go to my room and rest because it’s almost nine o’clock and I need my sleep before that weekend’s pageant?
But there is nothing. It’s just walls. Just tile and hardwood, paint and wallpaper. I feel my body relax, and when I meet Damien’s eyes, the corner of his mouth curves up in a smile of understanding.
“Where was your room?” he asks as we move through the foyer to the open-style living area.
“That way.” I point to the long hallway that leads off to the right. “My mom was in the master bedroom, all the way on the other side of the house. But Ashley and I were both down here.”
“Show me.”
“I doubt it’s going to look anything like what it did when I was here,” I say, but I’m already heading that way. I’m right, of course. The walls are a plain, flat white where they had once been a pale pink. I’d wanted lime green. Something funky and fun and a little bit obnoxious. A counterpoint to the so-good-they’re-smarmy manners and perfectly proper clothes that had been foisted on me for my entire life.
My mother, of course, had vetoed that plan, because little girls who win pageants are the kind of girls who love pink. Girls who follow the rules. Who don’t make a fuss or cause trouble.
Girls who don’t have opinions of their own.
At least that’s what every word out of my mother’s mouth seemed to imply. I’ve learned better since, and I know several women I respect who’ve done the pageant circuit. But back then, I had my mother in my head. And every time I won a pageant, I had to wonder what that said about me. Was I truly that boring and empty-headed? Was that really all I was good for?
I remember going to Ashley, curling up among the pile of pillows on my big sister’s bed and whispering that I hated our mother. That I hated pink. That Mother was mean and I wanted my walls to be my walls and it wasn’t fair and why couldn’t I ever do anything I wanted, and on and on and on.
“Do you know what she did?” I ask Damien, after I’ve told him all of that. “She came home from school the next day with a tiny jar of lime green paint she’d swiped from the high school art department.” I blink back the tears that have gathered with the memory. “She told me I needed some green, and so we painted a tiny green square right behind my bedside table, and then we took a pencil eraser and wrote our initials in the paint. It would have been right about here,” I say, leading him to the far side of the room and pointing to a pile of boxes.
He bends, moves a couple of the boxes aside, and then crooks his finger for me to join him. I do, then suck in a breath when I see what he’s found. It’s been covered, but I can still clearly see the hint of a green square beneath the flat white. And in the middle—more texture than image—are the initials NF and AF.
My knees go weak, and I let myself slump to the ground, Damien’s arms going around me to cushion my fall.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” I murmur, my back to his chest.