Page 54 of Emerson

“Yeah,” I croak, then clear my throat and give the pillow one last hit before turning around and flopping down on the end cushion. I pat the one next to me, but I have a hard time looking to see if she’ll come.

She does. She tucks her feet under her, and I exhale when she leans over to rest her head on my shoulder.

Sabrina and I weren’t together when I got her pregnant, or even for a while afterwards. She was chasing a dream of opening her own boutique, I was working all the time. We were both busy, ambitious people who came together to let off some steam.

I was teetering on the ledge of acceptance when I got the call from her, but still very much battling with how I could have missed something so fucking huge about myself.

I don’t even want to think about it.

“We don’t have to do this, Dill,” she whispers after a tense moment of silence.

And that’s the thing. We don’t have to do this. We never had to do this. I don’t have to try to hype myself up to going back to a bed with my girlfriend every night and try to pretend that it doesn’t make my stomach twist picturing me actually following through. I don’t have to pretend that the idea of her rolling to me, reaching out for me, wanting me doesn’t make me sick with self-disgust.

Because I don’t have to pretend, and I never had to put her in this position.

But the thought of not pretending makes me want to fucking weep. Because what's on the other side of pretending? A broken family. A daughter that has to split her time between two parents. A daughter that is raised knowing her dad couldn’t make love enough to keep her mom happy.

I thought pretending was the only way to keep from failing her.

From failing either of them.

Sabrina gave me the greatest gift in the world when she told me she was going to keep her pregnancy, even if the prospect of what that meant scared me shitless at the time. Then she handed me a small, bundled baby, and I thought I knew what I needed to do. I thought there was only one choice.

To give our baby the family I never had. A present, patient father. A chance to show her what two parents in love looked like.

Sabrina put her trust in me when I said we should try. And fuck, have I tried. But I’m so goddamn tired.

Tired, and forced to face the reality that in my attempt at doing what I thought was the right thing, I made the worst possible choice.

We don’t have to do this and we shouldn’t do this. We never should have, and I never should have pretended that I could. Pretending I could do this any longer would be the biggest failure of them all.

Sabrina deserves more than a man pretending. She deserves to be loved and cherished for more than just being the mother of my child.

I sniff, wiping my cheek. Sabrina grasps my hand and pulls it up to her lips.

“I’m so sorry, Sab.”

She squeezes my fingers in a soft show of comfort I’m not sure I deserve.

“You know, every time we go to the Bennets’ you look for Emery. I’ve noticed it before, and you did it again tonight. They might not see the disappointment when he isn’t there, but I do. And I see the way you relax into yourself when he is, the change in your eyes when you look at him. Like for just a little while, you can breathe. I think I finally understand.”

“Sabrina,” I start, but she squeezes my hand again, more firmly this time.

“It’s okay, Dill. We’ve tried, and I love you…but, I don’t think I’m in love with you.” She sucks in a breath, then she says softly, “and I don’t think it will ever be a woman that you want. Right?”

To: EBStyles

From: DMont95

Subject: Emerson

Considering the fact that my text from this morning still doesn’t say delivered, I’m guessing you were actually being serious about not unblocking my number. Can you be persuaded?

“I managed to sell out all that stock I was worried about. So now I have a bigger area I can fill with kids' stuff. I didn’t expect the demand there to be so big,” Sabrina steals one of the fries from my plate and bites into it.

I lock my phone and put it on the bench seat next to me in the booth. Maybe if I can’t see the fucking thing, I won’t feel the need to check it every ten seconds.

“That’s good though, right? You said you found a local designer. Do they do kids’ clothes?”