Crashed

Get a grip, Thomas! It’s been one frickin’ week. Man up. My internal pep talk fails because one day or ten days, it doesn’t matter. I miss him like crazy. Whatever the opposite of pussy whipped is, I’ve got it bad.

“And she finally lets it out,” Haddie says, putting her arm around my shoulders and pulling me into her side.

“Shut up!” I tell her but don’t mean it.

I mean I’m sitting in a bar on a Friday night with my best friend and I should be having a great time, but all I can think about is Colton. Is he okay? Has he taken the paternity test yet? Is he going to call me? Why hasn’t he called me? Is he thinking about me like I am him?

“So I’m gonna throw this out there because we both know that even though we’re sitting here together, Colton is figuratively between us. And as much as the idea might excite him …”

I finally give her the laugh she’s been working for. “Ugh! I hate this.”

“Then why don’t you call him?”

And therein lies the million dollar question.

“This whole thing with Tawny fucked him up. It’s dredging up shit from his past and as much as I want to be there—to call him—I won’t take the brunt of it. I called Becks to check on him, make sure he’s okay.” I shrug. “He said he did and that Colton’s still kind of fucked up. I want to talk to him,” I admit as she smooths a hand up my arm, “but I need to give him the space he asked for. He’ll call me when he gets his shit together.”

“Hmm, I wonder where I’ve heard that phrase before?” she teases and I just shrug.

“A very wise woman said it, I believe.”

“Very wise indeed,” she laughs, rolling her eyes and clinking her glass to mine. “And being as I am that woman, may I offer you another tidbit of advice?”

“A Haddie-ism?”

“Yes, a Haddie-ism. I like that term.” She nods her head in approval as she takes another sip of her drink and smiles again at the guy across the bar. “I asked you once before if you thought Colton was worth it … and now that you have more time invested in it, do you still feel that way? Do you see the possibility of a future with him?”

“I love him, Had.” The answer is off of my tongue in a split second. No hesitation, no doubt, complete conviction.

She stares at me a second and I can tell that beneath the surface she is gauging my reaction, trying to figure out the whole picture and a little surprised at my all in response. “Do you love him because he’s the first guy since Max or because he’s the one you choose? Not because you want to fix him, because we both know you like the damaged souls, but because you choose the him he is now and the him he’ll be five years from now?”

I don’t answer her, not because I don’t know the answer, but because I can’t form the words over the lump that’s strangling them in my throat. And she can see my answer, knows the person I am enough to know how I feel.

“And if the baby is his?”

I find my voice. “Geez … you’re really hitting with the hard questions tonight. I thought tonight was supposed to be thinking about absofuckinglutely nothing? I thought there was a Haddie-ism in here somewhere?” And it’s not like I haven’t asked myself these questions, but hearing her say them makes it all seem so real.

Because sometimes baggage can be a powerful thing and love just isn’t enough to overcome it.

“I’m getting there,” she says, pushing my drink toward me. “But this is important because my bestie is hurting so take a drink and answer the question.”

I take a sip and can’t fight my resigned smile. “It’s not if the baby’s his that’s the problem … it’s his reaction that scares me.” And for the first time, I’m actually admitting aloud what I fear the most. “What if he is the father and he can’t handle it? How can I love a man that can’t love his own child regardless of who the mother is? Writing a check to buy her off and acting as if a child doesn’t exist? What if that’s the option he chooses? How could I spend the night in the bed of a man who writes his own child off and then go to work in a houseful of boys who had the very same thing happened to them? What kind of hypocrite would that make me?”

And there. It’s out there. My biggest fear, I’m in love with a man that will walk away from his own child. That I’ll have to walk away from the man I love because he can’t face his own demons, can’t accept the fact that he can be the man his child would need him to be. Compromising choices, preferences, and wants to be in a relationship are one thing, compromising who you are—the things ingrained in you, your beliefs, and your morals—are non-negotiable.

I sigh and just shake my head. “What happens then, Haddie? What if that’s the choice he makes?”

“Well…” she reaches out and squeezes my hand “…there are no answers yet so it’s a moot point right now. Secondly, you have to give him the benefit of the doubt … he was shocked, upset, pissed off the other day when she blindsided him … but he’s a good person. Look how he is with the boys.”

“I know, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see how he reacted when—”

“You know what I say?” she says, cutting me off and raising the two shots of tequila that have been sitting untouched on the bar in front of us. I look at her, trying to figure out why all of a sudden she wants to toast mid-heart to heart talk, but I raise my shot glass. “I say, never look down on a man unless he’s between your legs.”