Ugly Love: A Novel(47)

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Her name was Wanda.”

“How long were you married?”

He looks at me and cocks an eyebrow. “I ain’t never been married,” he says. “I think Wanda’s marriage lasted about forty years before she passed, though.”

I tilt my head, trying to understand what he’s saying. “You have to give me more than that.”

He sits up straighter in his chair, the smile still on his face. “She lived in one of the buildings I did maintenance for. She was married to a bastard of a man who was only home about two weeks out of the month. I fell in love with her when I was around thirty years old. She was in her mid-twenties. People just didn’t get divorced back then once they got married. Especially women like her who came from the type of family she came from. So I spent the next twenty-five years loving her as hard as I could for two weeks out of every month.”

I stare at him, not sure how to respond to that. It’s not the typical love story people usually tell. I’m not even sure if it can be considered a love story.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Sounds depressing. More like a tragedy.”

I nod, confirming his assumption.

“Love isn’t always pretty, Tate. Sometimes you spend all your time hoping it’ll eventually be something different. Something better. Then, before you know it, you’re back to square one, and you lost your heart somewhere along the way.”

I stop looking at him and face forward. I don’t want him to see the frown that I can’t seem to remove from my face.

Is that what I’m doing? Waiting for things with Miles to become something different? Something better? I contemplate his words for way too long. So long, in fact, I hear snoring. I cut my eyes in Cap’s direction, and his chin has dropped to his chest. His mouth is wide open, and he’s sound asleep.





chapter eighteen


MILES


Six years earlier

I rub her back reassuringly. “Two more minutes,” I tell her.

She nods but keeps her face pressed into the palms of her hands. She doesn’t want to look.

I don’t tell her we don’t actually need the two minutes. I don’t tell her the results are already there, clear as day.

I don’t tell Rachel she’s pregnant yet, because she still has two minutes left of hope.

I continue to rub her back. When the timer goes off, she doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn to look at the results. I drop my head to the side of hers until my mouth is close to her ear.

“I’m so sorry, Rachel,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She bursts into tears.

My heart is crushed at the sound.

This is my fault. This is all my fault.

The only thing I can think to do now is figure out how to rectify it.

I turn her toward me and wrap my arms around her. “I’ll tell them you don’t feel well and you can’t go to school today. I want you to stay here until I get back.”

She doesn’t even nod. She continues to cry, so I pick her up and carry her to the bed. I go back to the bathroom and package up the test, then hide it underneath the sink in the very back. I rush to my room and change clothes.

I leave.

I’m gone most of the day.

I’m rectifying.

When I finally pull back up our driveway, I still have almost an hour before my father and Lisa are due home. I grab everything from my front seat and rush inside to check on her. I left my phone behind in my rush this morning, so I haven’t had a way to check on her at all, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t killing me.

I go inside.

I go to her door.

I attempt to turn it, but it’s locked.

I knock.

“Rachel?”

I hear movement. Something crashes against the door, and I jump back. When I realize what’s happened, I step forward again and bang on the door. “Rachel!” I yell, frantic. “Open the door!”

I hear her crying. “Go away!”

I take two steps back, then lunge forward and shove my shoulder against the door as hard as I can. The door flies open, and I rush inside. Rachel is curled up against the headboard, crying into her hands. I reach her.

She pushes me away.

I walk back to her.

She slaps me, then scoots off the bed. She stands up, shoving me back, pushing her palms against my chest. “I hate you!” she screams through her tears. I grab her hands and try to calm her down. It makes her angrier. “Just leave!” she yells. “If you don’t want anything to do with me, just leave!”

Her words stun me.

“Rachel, stop,” I plead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her tears come harder now. She screams at me. She says I left her. I put her in bed this morning, and I left her because I couldn’t handle it. I was disappointed in her.

I love you, Rachel. More than I love myself.

“Baby, no,” I tell her, pulling her to me. “I didn’t leave you. I told you I was coming back.”

I hate that she didn’t understand why I left today.

I hate that I didn’t explain it to her.

I walk her back to the bed, and I position her against the headboard. “Rachel,” I say, touching her tear-stained cheek, “I’m not disappointed in you,” I tell her. “Not in the least. I’m disappointed in myself. Which is why I want to do everything I possibly can to turn this around for you. For us. That’s what I’ve been doing today. I’ve been trying to find a way to make this better for us.”