Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(79)
“Yeah. Me, too.” He scooted over to one side of the sofa. “Now that that’s settled, sit over here with me and let’s build a dream nursery for my baby sister. She can have Eli’s room. Do you know Pinterest? We should start a board.”
oOo
They moved Jordan out of the dorm that weekend, and after a few days in which he lingered in nervous indolence, using a new, light snowfall as his excuse to stay in his pajamas and watch television, Jordan packed up the RAV4 that had been his mother’s and drove to Brooklyn.
Theo was alone again.
He was quickly back in the campus swing, though, and his job was a demanding one. On a normal week, he easily put in sixty hours of teaching, meetings, service, advising, preparation, grading. The first week of any semester tended to be chaotic, full of students begging for seats in an already-full course, or needing last-minute schedule changes, or just generally being confused about life. Every single committee wanted to meet in the first couple of weeks, too. His schedule was packed, and that was a good thing. It kept his mind occupied.
Colleagues stopped by Theo’s office with some regularity, inviting him for lunch or coffee, or, more complicated, drinks at the end of the day. The Department of Literatures and Languages at Colson College was, by the strained standards of academe, a collegial group. They went to each other’s houses for cocktail parties, they played poker together, they met for drinks. They bowled and played softball. Sure, there were some gasbags, malcontents, and shit-disturbers in the mix, but for the most part, people got along and even enjoyed each other. That kind of amity among faculty was rare, and it was another reason Theo could not consider changing jobs to move to Quiet Cove. You simply did not walk away from the job of your dreams.
Even if it meant going home to a completely empty house, knowing that the woman you loved and the child she was carrying would not come to you and make it full.
Carmen was wrong. She was wrong. She was using his reluctance—fine, his unwillingness—to leave his life as an excuse not to see that his life was the right one for them both. She was unhappy in her life. Why would she cleave to it so hard when she had no joy in it?
Because she was afraid. Even as she admitted her fear, she seemed unable to fight against it.
He knew that he’d been stupid and impulsive in their last fight, drawing the line too starkly and serving up an excuse for her to give into her fear. Perhaps if he apologized…but it was too late for that. Now she would see any attempt to convince her that Maine was where they belonged as a refusal to see her perspective. And that was wrong. He saw her perspective, and he saw that it was skewed and incomplete.
They were blocked from each other by mutual stubbornness.
She had sent him papers from a lawyer. A proposal for a visitation arrangement. Offering him one f*cking Saturday a month in Quiet Cove with his own daughter.
So, no. He would not apologize. No, he would not concede. And no, he would not sign those blasted papers. He’d contacted his own lawyer.
And this was what they had become.
When she’d called on Christmas Eve, saying that she’d missed his voice, he’d felt a heart-racing surge of love and hope. And then ire had suffused and overwhelmed the love. Fucking bitch. To send him that terrible document from her lawyer? And two days later to call to tell him she wanted to hear his voice?
No. He didn’t play games like that.
But he wanted her. He wanted his daughter. He wanted his family, and he knew he wouldn’t be complete again without them.
So he filled his days on campus, and saw as many friends and colleagues as he could. If they noticed he wasn’t drinking, they didn’t remark on it—at least not to him. And then he came home and prepared the next classes and graded papers. In the free time he had left, he worked on turning Eli’s room into Teresa’s room.
Maybe someday he’d be able to bring her here, and she’d sleep in the crib he’d bought her.
oOo
Near the end of January, in Lewiston after a gloomy meeting with his lawyer during which the specifics and complications of interstate custody and visitation law were shared in demoralizing detail, Theo sat behind the wheel of his old Cherokee, staring at a strip mall across the street. It was one of those bare, industrial-looking buildings, thrown up quickly, with no thought of aesthetics. All about the bottom line. The resident businesses were no more inspired than the building in which they were housed. A nail salon. An national tax-preparation franchise. A Chinese takeout joint. Two empty storefronts, their windows swirled to opacity with soap. On one far end, Lewis Liquor, its sign glowing orange neon. And on the other end, a perfect bookend, The Dugout. A bar.
He really needed a f*cking drink.
He drove across the street and parked in front of The Dugout. The bar was better—at least then the drinks would be coming one at a time, and maybe he’d be okay with just one. Or two.
He went in.
It was a typical local-hole kind of place, a little dreary, a lot beer-soaked. The walls were covered with photographs of Little League teams and fishing tournament catches, bowling leagues, softball leagues, memorabilia from the Boston teams. Behind the bar, between the shelves of liquor, were three shelves jam-packed with trophies. Two televisions were installed high in corners opposite each other, currently showing a Bruins game and the local news, respectively. Aside from the stools at the long bar, the only other seating was a row of four wood-grain Formica tables, each with four red, cafeteria-style chairs. This was a place you went for a drink, not a meal.