Take This Regret (Take This Regret #1)(34)
Author: A.L. Jackson

I stepped out into the hal way, and Elizabeth fol owed behind me, leaving the door ajar behind her.

We both breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief, the ordeal official y over.

Standing in the subdued light of Elizabeth’s hal way, the two of us were frozen, unwil ing to move. There were so many things I wanted to say—needed to say, the silence between us expectant. It stretched on and inevitably became uncomfortable.

“You’d better get some rest,” I final y said, wishing I didn’t have to say goodbye.

She fidgeted. “It’s real y late, Christian.” She wrung her hands. “Why don’t you stay? I don’t have a guest room, but the couch is real y comfortable . . . if you want.” The nervous edge to her words dissipated as she extended her hand, reaching out but not touching. “Lizzie wil want to see you in the morning.”

She seemed to think she needed to convince me.

Didn’t she understand I never wanted to leave? But as much as I wanted to stay, I understood this was a huge offering for Elizabeth to make.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yeah . . . stay.” Maybe she would never admit it, maybe she didn’t even realize it herself, but as I peered down at her, I knew she wanted me to stay. The armor she wore to protection of herself wasn’t enough to conceal the hope in her eyes.

I swall owed, searching for my voice. “Elizabeth—” She held up a hand to stop me. “Please, Christian . . . don’t.”

On instinct, I stepped back and closed my eyes to keep myself from saying things she wasn’t ready to hear.

Soon we would have to talk and lay it all out. But I heard her plea, and tonight I wouldn’t push her any farther than she was ready to go.

“Okay.”

The tension between us dissolved, and she moved into action. “Hang on a second.” She turned and disappeared into her room at the end of the smal hal before she returned less than two minutes later with a new toothbrush and a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Here.” She handed the smal pile to me. “Matthew left these here a long time ago.”

I looked down at the things in my hand and then back at Elizabeth, incredulous. Did she real y expect me to wear these? Matthew wasn’t exactly my biggest fan.

She laughed and shook her head. “It’s fine, Christian.

Just wear them.” She grinned and pointed toward the stairs. “There’s a bathroom off the family room.” I chuckled at the confounding woman in front of me who amazed me at every turn. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Elizabeth had always been the most caring, compassionate person I’d ever known, and she still was. I just had to peel the layers back a little bit to see it.

How sad they were there because of me.

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.” A gracious smile spread across my face.

“Goodnight, Christian.” A moment was spent staring at each other, swimming in nostalgia and what could have been, before I turned and left her standing at the top of the stairs.

In the smal bathroom, I shed my clothes and put on the blue, flannel, pajama bottoms, feeling a twinge of guilt as I did so.

I was tired, but there was an energy stirring in me, leaving me unsure of how much sleep I would actual y get tonight. So many times I’d imagined this, what it would be like to stay here, though the circumstances now were so different than what had taken place in my dreams. I’d be sleeping on the couch—not with Elizabeth.

Running dampened hands through my hair, I exhaled and hoped I’d at least catch a couple hours of sleep.

Opening the door and flipping off the light switch, I stepped into the dimly-lit family room and came face-to-face with Elizabeth.

I stopped mid-stride, surprised to find her waiting for me on the other side of the bathroom door. Her eyes grew wide when they hit my bare chest before her face flushed red and she averted her gaze to the floor.

“Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . thought you might like to see these.”

She extended her arms, snapping me from my shock as she brought attention to what she held in her hands.

There were three albums, the kind that were perfectly square and fil ed with hours upon hours of a mother’s artwork.

Elizabeth held them out farther, encouraging me to take them. I shook as I reached a tentative hand out to accept them, my mouth dry and unable to express my gratitude for her gift. As we both held the albums between us, she looked up at me with what could only be described as sympathy, a tenderness that broke my heart and healed it at the same time. She nodded as she withdrew her hands and then turned and rushed upstairs.

Acute anxiety and severe longing fil ed my chest as I thought of facing what was inside, the albums an oppressive weight. I slowly moved to the couch and placed five years of memories on my lap, memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. I ran my fingertips over the brown cover and struggled to find the courage to open it. It took five ful minutes before I did. The muted glow from the lamp on the end table shed enough light to il uminate what the first page held—a birth announcement.

Elizabeth Grace Ayers

Born May 23rd at 4:37

am.

18.5” long

5 pounds 3 ounces

Breathtaking—heartbreaking.

Tears fel , and there was nothing I could have done to stop them.

In my hands was the image of an infant child, her face red and new, her tiny mouth pursed; even then, her grey-blue eyes were wide and expressive. A mass of shiny, black hair sat atop her head, my cleft marking her chin.

My daughter.

My fingers traced the picture.

So small.

I flashed back to the day I’d seen Elizabeth before she’d given birth—how thin, even sickly she’d appeared.

Now to know Lizzie had been so smal , it sent reality crashing down on me. My stomach twisted, my head spun, and sweat broke out across my forehead. Elizabeth hadn’t just looked sick, she was sick. I’d left her when she was sick.

I was a monster.

I choked on the lump in my throat and forced myself to turn the page—snapshots of a swaddled baby asleep in the hospital nursery, rocking in Matthew’s arms, pressed to her mother’s breast. The last was by far the most beautiful, the way Elizabeth held her daughter as if she’d found the world because she knew she had.

And I had missed it.

Each page showcased my daughter’s life, every milestone I had missed—first food, first step, first word, first birthday. Lizzie grinned at the camera with a pointy cap on her head, two teeth on top and two on the bottom, and a round cake with one candle, sitting in front of her—surrounded by those who loved her.