He shuffled in and plopped down on the floor at Natalie’s feet, setting his drink on an end table. “I never had the things in my life that Sebastian or Levi had to deal with. No OCD or anxiety, no child.” He glanced at Natalie’s bump. “But I did have a hell of a hard time seeing how I could change my life to be with Natalie. I thought there was no way I could do it. I thought I wasn’t capable of doing it. Even though I loved her and she knew it, I still needed to hear the hard words from her telling me it’s not enough to just love someone. You have to work for it. You have to let it ruin you a little.”
I sniffed. “We’ve definitely done that tonight. At least I did.”
“Then give him some time. Seriously,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think he needs to let this sink in. He’ll realize his life is better with you in it, and he’ll do anything it takes to get you back.”
“Geez, Miles,” Skylar said wryly. “When did you get to be such an expert?”
“Since your sister schooled me.” He shook his head. “I’d never had a woman turn me down or make me wait before, but that time between telling Natalie I loved her and her accepting my proposal was the longest, like, five minutes of my life.”
Natalie threw a pillow at him.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I do think I did the right thing. I’m just scared I’m walking away from the love of my life.”
“Oh, honey.” Skylar put her arms around me and tipped her head onto my shoulder. “Sometimes we have to.”
I stormed out of Jillian’s house, mad as fuck and scared as hell. From the heavy sound of my feet on the pavement, you’d have thought I had conviction about what I was doing, but I didn’t. God, why did I have to be so fucking stubborn? Why couldn’t I just admit to her that yes, I was scared, of course I was. Why couldn’t I just tell her she was right, tell her I wanted her in my life and Scotty’s life, that I wanted to build a life together? Why did I have to be such a fucking defensive asshole just because she got me?
Shouldn’t I be happy about that? Shouldn’t I feel good that there was another human being on this earth who knew the way my mind worked and still loved me? Who tolerated my dirty jokes and caveman habits and insatiable sexual appetite? Who knew the man I was, knew I wasn’t the man I wished I could be, and told me I was enough?
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I got in the car and hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand hard. Twice. Then three more times. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Should I go back up there? Apologize? Give her the chance to love us both, like she said? My eyes watered and I shut them tight. She probably could love us both. She had that much love in her. I reached for the door handle.
My phone buzzed on the seat beside me, and I looked at it in surprise. I hadn’t even realized it wasn’t on me, I’d been so anxious to see her. When I picked it up, I saw right away that I’d missed a call and three texts.
Scotty doesn’t seem right to me. Gave Motrin but can you call?
He spiked a fever. 103. Please call or come home.
Motrin not working. Fever up to 104.5.
Dropping the phone in my lap, I started the engine and tore out of the parking lot, tires screeching. As soon as I got on the road home, I picked it up, hit voicemail and heard my mother’s voice.
“Levi, Scotty had a seizure. I called 911 and the ambulance is taking him to the hospital. Don’t panic, he seems OK but sleepy. Please call when you get this or come to the hospital. I wish you had given me Jillian’s number.”
My heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins. My son, my son, my son. I hit the gas hard, blew a stop sign, and sped like a madman all the way to the hospital. I parked in the emergency room parking lot and ran at full speed into the lobby. If anything happens to him, it’s your fault! screamed a voice inside me. Your head isn’t in the right place, hasn’t been in the right place for weeks!
At the desk, I showed my identification and was given Scotty’s location. A nurse hurried me through two huge automatic swinging doors and showed me into a long rectangular room where patient beds were sectioned off by curtains. Scotty was in the last one on the left, lying on his back, sleeping soundly and looking pale, but breathing. “Scotty,” I croaked, my throat raw and tight.
“He’s doing fine,” said my mother, who sat in a chair at his side.
I didn’t believe her. I wanted to throw off the blankets and examine every inch of him. Wake him up and see for myself that he could focus and talk and smile and laugh and play dinosaurs and listen to music and tell me hundreds of useless baseball statistics. I’d sit and listen to him talk about them for hours, in fact. I wanted to hear him ask for his yellow spoon, his iPad, his dinosaur pajamas. I wanted him to rub my ear, make me smile, hold my hand.
I wanted him to forgive me. Tell me he was OK. Tell me we were OK.
My mother was saying my name, but I didn’t respond to her. I lowered myself onto my son’s bed and stretched out on my side, putting an arm over his middle—careful not to hold him too tight—and let the tears fall silently, sorry for everything.
• • •
They kept Scotty for observation for a few hours and then let us go. He seemed himself, just tired and even less talkative than usual, not hungry or thirsty, and not asking for anything. When we got home, I helped him into his pajamas and put him to bed, lying with him until he fell asleep, playing with his ear. You scared me, Scotty. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you, and I’m so sorry this happened and so angry at myself for not being here. I never should have left you while you were sick. I was selfish to think of myself, to put my feelings ahead of yours. You’ve been doing so well lately, much better in school, and it makes me happy to see you content. You’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I need to concentrate on you, not me. You’re what matters, and I love you so much.