Hold My Breath(50)

“But…you…are,” she says the words slowly, like she’s trying not to scare me when I hear them.

They do scare me, though. They’re true. They’re truer than true. I was honest with Will when I told him I used to look for him...wait for him. My attraction to him came in waves, first adolescent-crush-type attraction, then the more adult kind, and I buried it every time I felt the tinge in my belly, the giddiness at seeing him. I had dreams about him over the years, and I got jealous of his girlfriends. I’d feel the sting, then push it down until I couldn’t feel in anymore. Evan was the safe choice, and I let myself fall for him because of it, but there’s a part of me—a part of my heart—that always wanted Will more. I question that part because now there’s nothing holding it back except for my fear of what other people are going to think about me.

“It isn’t right,” I say.

“Fuck that,” she fires back, and I both laugh and shoot my eyebrows high at once. “Seriously, this world is full of judgmental *s, and they would all be the first to throw rule books out the window if breaking the rules suited them.”

“You’re saying being with Will is against the rules?” I grimace.

“No, you’re the one saying that,” she says, picking up her glass and pointing it at me while she stands. “I’m just busting down that excuse, too. Knock it off and go let yourself be happy with that pretty, pretty man.”

Her eyes move from me to her empty glass, and she smirks.

“Refill time. And I’m sleeping here tonight,” she says, spinning and heading back inside.

I wait until the door snaps closed behind her before I let her lecture settle in. The thought of being with Will brings a smile to my face. It just happens, on autopilot, and anything that makes me smile like that can’t be wrong. Is it going to become a story, though? Is it going to be the thing people talk about, what dominates the trials and the media—Will’s interview? Does he need one more thing for the public to judge him about? First, he survived, then he nearly ruined his life. And now…he gets the girl—his dead brother’s girl.

A chirping sound pulls me out of my messy thoughts, and I shake my head when I realize Will’s jacket is still draped on the back of the chair. I pull it into my lap and feel along the pockets, finding his phone just as the call ends. Damn. I hope it wasn’t important, or about his trip—the mystery person with the sick child.

I feel the phone buzz in my palm, my body radiates with suspicion. Poison. I turn the phone in my hand to see the screen: TANYA. VOICEMAIL. My thumb hovers over the name, twitching. I’m about to give up when another buzz in my palm startles me. The message is right there, in my hand.

TANYA: He spoke today, Will. At therapy. He said your name, and he said Daddy.

I’m shaking. My hand feels numb. I hold it with my other hand, ten fingers working together trying to convince each other not to throw the phone through the window—where I can see Will walking toward me right now.

I swallow hard, and a million things run through my head—all of them bad ideas. Will has a son. He has a son he doesn’t talk about, doesn’t share with anyone. There could be a million reasons why this is a secret he’s kept, continues to keep. It has nothing to do with me and him, with us. But yet, it so does! How can he let me get so close, but keep something so important away from me? From all of us? How does he have a son!

“Maddy?”

He’s in front of me before I have time to move, and my hands…they’re still shaking.

“I didn’t mean to look. I…I was going to bring your jacket inside, and I felt someone calling, and I didn’t want it to be about your trip. I swear, Will…”

A deep crevice forms between his eyes, his mouth tightening as he steps closer, his eyes gazing along my hands, to his phone as he pulls it into his own grip slowly. I watch his eyes while he reads. I see the way his pupils scan, his eyes widening, his expression falling. Sympathy and regret and shame—they all mix right there in one look as his eyes move up to meet mine.

“You…” my lips are trembling too much to speak, so I bring my fist to my mouth to steady them, to feel something hard against my mouth to bring back the feeling. “You…have a son.”

His eyes begin to water, and mine follow suit. I don’t even know why, but the reaction is so visceral. Will has a son who is severely disabled, and needs care and attention. Will is here. With me. Why is Will here?

“He’s the one you’re helping,” I say. His eyes fall closed and his head slumps. “He’s who you were helping before…paperwork.”

Will takes a few slow steps back, sitting in the chair I’d just lifted his jacket from. His eyes remain on the ground, and his hands clasp in front of him, his elbows on his knees. All he can do is nod slowly. He’s agreeing with me. My chest twists so tight I can’t breathe, so I bring my palms up to my cheeks, forcing myself to inhale deeply and hold it in my lungs.

“How could you not tell me?” I ask, my words coming out a little angrier. My lip quivers again, this time, it’s the threat of rage. “How could you be so selfish, Will? What are you doing here? With me? Why aren’t you with him—when he clearly needs his father? Oh my god, Will…”

I fall into the seat opposite of him, sick with grief. I grieve that glimpse of happiness that I just moments ago talked myself into having. I taste the bitterness of contempt. My body aches with torment, trying to connect the man I was starting to believe in with the one unraveling right here in front of me. I don’t know how to do any of it. I don’t know how to even look at him.