Over coffee with Bailey’s we described our dream vacations (both of us were torn between the mountains and the beach) and described our perfect day.
“Hmmm, no schedule. I’d definitely sleep in,” he said, lifting his cup to his lips. “Then I’d make a big breakfast for Scotty and me, and maybe take him to an afternoon ball game. We’d eat a bunch of junk food and yell for our team and overpay for souvenirs. Then maybe a nap. Then I’d make dinner—Italian food, because spaghetti and meatballs are his favorite. Cold, of course. After that I’d take Scotty to the symphony. And there would be no tears, no meltdowns, no frustrations.”
Listening to him tell me about his favorite things and perfect day, I could see what he meant about balance—everything was about his son. “What about you?” I asked. “Do you like classical music?”
“I do,” he said, setting his cup down. “I didn’t know much about it until Scotty got interested in it. But I find myself putting it on at work sometimes, or in the car.”
“What’s your favorite meal?”
“You mean besides Jillian pie?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yes. Besides that.”
“I like red meat. Maybe a pan-seared rib eye with roasted potatoes.”
“I’ll remember that.” Although I’d have to learn how to pan-fry a steak. Roasting potatoes sounded easy enough, though. “And what about a perfect day that’s just for you? Would you still do the baseball game and symphony?”
“Just for me? Then no. I’d wake up with you, and we’d never get out of bed.”
I laughed, my heart fluttering madly. “That sounds nice.”
“And you? Perfect day?”
“Oh, I like the one you described, where we never have to get out of bed. Although we’d get hungry.”
“Well, I’d eat Jillian pie all day.”
I shook my head. “You’re a fiend. But I like it.”
“Good.”
“OK, last question. If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?”
“A million dollars,” he mused, staring into his cup. “Honestly, I don’t know. The things I want most don’t cost money.”
I tilted my head to one side. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away, and all other sounds in the restaurant seemed to fade away as he thought. “Mostly I’d like to stop feeling guilty.”
“Why do you feel guilty?”
“Different reasons. But I guess what I think of most often are the promises I made to Scotty the day Tara left.”
My throat got tight, and I swallowed hard. “Can you tell me about it?”
He played with the handle of his coffee cup as he spoke. “While she moved out, I took Scotty to the park and held him while I rocked back and forth on a swing, which always calmed him. I told him it was only going to be him and me from now on, and even though it would be hard sometimes, we’d be OK. I promised to take care of him, to be the best dad I could be, to give him everything I could. And I promised myself that somehow I would make up for the fact that I’d…” His voice trailed off and he took another drink of his coffee.
“You’d what?”
He set the cup down again, still staring into it. “That I’d brought a child into a fucked up relationship, that I hadn’t been enough to make his mother want to stay, that I was all he had.”
I took a deep breath, not at all sure I wouldn’t start to weep for him there at the table.
“And I try every fucking day to live up to that. To do right by him. By everyone I care about. But I feel like it’s not enough.” He took a breath and exhaled, finally meeting my eyes. “I wish I were more than I am.”
“Levi.” I reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re enough.”
He smiled, although I could tell he didn’t believe me, and glanced down at our hands. “I’m not, but you make me feel that way.”
God, I wanted to crawl over the table and get in his lap. “I know what that’s like, to feel like you’re not enough,” I said softly, still fighting tears. “But you are. I promise you. With me you are.”
He nodded, his eyes meeting mine again. “With you I am.”
The mood had shifted, the playful tone of our conversation replaced by a quiet intensity. He squeezed my hand, and I wondered if he wanted me as badly as I wanted him—needed him. And my need was different now. It wasn’t only physical—I realized at that moment how he made me feel like I was enough, like I was worthy of him, worthy of love. The way he wanted me, the way he shared himself with me, the way he was willing to change things in his life to be with me…he was spending a night apart from his son for the first time in years for me. How could I show him what that meant? How could I make him see what I saw—this gorgeous, giving man who worried so much about doing right by the people he loved? I needed him to know he was more than enough.
I needed to show him love, and make him feel like he deserved it—because he did.
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
His dark eyes had fire in them. “I was just thinking the same.”