If Ever(94)

"Oh, baby. I'm sorry." I hold her as she sobs into my chest. She's devastated and there's nothing I can do. I want to wring that asshole's neck as the love of my life trembles like a wounded animal.

"Let's get you out of this bulky coat." I fish my hands under her chin and unwrap her scarf, find her coat zipper and maneuver the coat off of her. Finally, I can wrap my arms around her lithe frame. Her face, damp with tears, is pressed against my chest, her hair catching on my chin.

I whisper in her ear and rub her arms. "It's going to be okay. I promise." Her sobs eventually ease until she's left with ragged breaths as she comes back to me.

"He doesn't give a damn about me. He never did." Her breath hitches.

"Shh. He's an asshole. He doesn't deserve you."

Tears roll freely down her face, soaking my jumper, and her teeth chatter. I hold her tightly in hopes she'll register the security I'm here to offer. My sweet Chelsea is grieving another blow from that bastard. "I love you. You hear me?" I kiss the top of her head.

"I love you, too," she answers. I murmur every soothing thing I can think of. Seeing her like this, rips my heart out. After a while her trembling subsides and her body goes slack, her energy spent. I smooth back her hair and kiss her forehead, loosening my grip. She places her hand on my chest. I was going to propose tonight at the restaurant, giving her the perfect birthday gift, but now it will need to wait until a time when she can feel joy again.

We stay there for a long time, me by the wall with her nestled between my legs and leaning against my chest. I'm afraid to move her or do anything that might upset the fragile thread she's clinging to, but then she shivers.

I rub her arm. "Let's move to the couch and warm you up? Okay?"

She nods and lifts herself off me, leaving my chest cool as the air hits my tear-dampened shirt. I sit her on the couch and tuck a throw blanket over her shoulders.

"How about some hot chocolate?"

"Thanks," she says, and stares across the room with an empty expression.

I whip up the drink, keeping an eye on her. I've dealt with plenty of disappointments in life, but nothing compared to the rejection of a parent.

"Here you go." I place the warm mug in her hands and sit beside her, my arm around her slumped frame.

"You're too good to me," she says quietly, contemplating the lettering on the Something Rotten mug.

"No, I'm not, but I love you so much and wish I could fix this."

"No one can fix it." She sips her drink and pauses a long time before she speaks. "I was finally happy, and seeing him after all this time churned up all the ugly truth."

"I know it seems impossible, but this will pass, and you'll be happy and stronger than ever. I promise."

Her lip trembles. "You know why I went into International Business and learned French?"

I shake my head, but I have a good guess.

"Because I wanted him to approve of me. I thought maybe he'd love me if I was more like him." Tears well up in her eyes again and she sniffs back her cry. "What's wrong with me that my own father doesn't love me?"

I regret not slugging the guy when I had the chance. "Shh. There's nothing wrong with you. This is all on him."

"All I ever wanted was his love."

"I know. But I love you." And God I hope it's enough.

She turns her glistening eyes on me. "I love you, too."

Huddled together she drinks her hot chocolate until I eventually feel her body warm up against me.

"Thank you for the wonderful day. I'm sorry I ruined it."

"You didn't ruin anything, and you're going to be okay." But I don’t think she hears me as she stares into the distance.





33





The next morning Tom enters the living room in plaid pajama pants with his hair sticking up at odd angles. He slides in beside me on the couch and stretches out his legs on the coffee table.

"How are you?"

"Fine," I say, because I can't possibly put into words the chaos in my mind.

"Were you able to sleep?"

"Some," I lie. Last night after a couple hours with the heat of his body pressed against mine, I feared my tortured thoughts would wake him, so I escaped to the solitude of the living room where I've been wrestling with the renewed reality that my own father doesn't love me. I've felt unlovable much of my life, and he's reminded me of that fact once again.

Tom studies me. "Are you hungry?"

I smile weakly. "You don't have to take care of me. I'm fine."

He frowns. "No, you're not. What can I do?"

I caress his face. The shadow of scruff has grown since yesterday. "Nothing." I brush my hand against the bristly hair, enjoying the touch of him and how he smells in the morning.

His hand covers mine. "But I need to do something."

"You must have things you have to do today other than worrying about me. I'll be fine." He's been busy every day.

He smooths my hair as he speaks. "I'm scheduled most of the day. I'm sorry, but I can't change it."

Which is good because I don't have the energy or interest to do anything after last night. I’m a wreck, and I guess I always have been. It’s unavoidable when you grow up without a parent around. And I suppose it explains why I’ve never been able to keep a long-term relationship.