Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“I—I have to go.” I move from the chair so quickly that it teeters on two legs before crashing against the wooden floor. “Dammit.”
“I’ve got it.” He rounds the tiny table before I can move, rights the tiny chair then takes my shoulders in both of his hands. “Stay, please. We’ve still got so much to talk about. There’s so much I want to know and stuff I want to say—”
“I have to go pick up Wilder,” I interrupt. “It’s time already.” If I can hear the lie, maybe he can, too.
“Kennedy.” This time my name is a groan, though his hands move from my shoulders to rake through his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere—I’m not running away, I promise.” Not permanently, anyway. “We can talk about this, all this, later. I swear Wilder is my absolute favourite topic!” The words are slightly manic. I just need to get out of here, right now.
“I don’t just want to talk about him. I want to meet him. Get to know him. Be part of his life.”
I guess that answers at least some of my own questions. It also turns the blood in my veins into ice water. This is the beginning of the end of our lives as we know it, and I have wronged this man and this child.
“Hey, it’s okay. I won’t rush it. All at your pace.”
This is what I hear as I hightail it out of the place.
14
Roman
PRESENT
GLACIAL BULLSHIT
All at your pace.
I’d said the words, and I’d meant them. Or, at the time, I had, given the colour her face had turned. Like a cross between putty and curdled milk. For a minute, I thought she might be about to vomit or cry. Fuck, I didn’t know what she was about to do. I just knew she didn’t look right.
So I’d said it. All at your pace.
But where does that leave me? Feeling like I’d slid down a snake when I’d only just climbed up a bloody ladder. Chute, I think they call it over here? Climb a ladder, slide down a chute? Either way, I’m almost back to square one. I’m a little more knowledgeable about my son, but the tiny insights into his life aren’t enough. To be fair, there probably aren’t enough hours left in the universe for me to hear all I want to hear about him. And then there’s all the other shit to unravel. The past. How did we get where we are? I mean, I assume it’s my fault. It usually is. In the past, I’ve been accused of being a bit flaky and feckless, of living my life no more than surface deep. But that’s all behind me now, along with those thoughts I’d had this morning about not knowing how I felt about her.
How could I not have known? Haven’t I always been a little crazy about her? Didn’t I always feel like I’d left a little part of my heart with her? And when she walked out. Just left—and I let her. Because it felt like I’d frightened her somehow. And now I feel like I’m dangling on a string that she’s holding the other end of.
All at her pace.
Sure, no drama. But I’m not gonna go in for any of this glacial bullshit. I’ve lost enough time already, I think to myself as I run my finger over my son’s face. Over a picture of his face, at least. On her way out, Kennedy had dropped a bunch of photos onto the kitchen worktop with the most god-awkward smile I’ve ever seen. God-awkward is a pretty apt description for our interactions so far. Fuck awkward an even better one. But there’s also a hint of longing that I don’t think is only on my part.
Being here, seeing her again, it’s brought it all back. The feelings I’d had that night. The desperation. The sense that just being with her could make everything right. Maybe not everything, I consider, remembering the following morning and the call from Rafferty. I push away the unhappier turn of thought. We’ll never be those people again, I think, looking down at the photographs of Wilder. Of my kid. But that doesn’t mean I’m done here. Not with either of them.
And on that thought, I send her a quick text.
Don’t forget to send me your bank details.
Don’t fuck me around, little love, I think to myself. You have to let me make this up to you. For not being around. For not looking for you hard enough. The thought of her struggling alone . . . I can’t let my mind go there. Anyway, what the fuck do I know about being poor?
While by no means perfect, I can start by depositing a hundred grand in her bank account for now. I make a mental note to transfer cash between my Australian and US accounts because a hundred k can’t be nearly enough. But that’s just money. The rest? She has no idea. But she will.