Billie Rose
He didn’t come back.
And…I couldn’t blame him.
Even if I had lay awake in our bed for hours, listening hard, desperate to hear the rumble of his car’s engine or the sound of his key turning in the lock, his footsteps coming down the hall.
But I didn’t hear any of that.
And as the sun began to rise, I gave up on hearing anything, gave up on him coming back.
So, I showered and pulled on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved thermal, his flannel over the top of it.
Pretending I hadn’t just fucked up the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Ignoring that I was hurting inside.
Ignoring that I had hurt the man I loved.
It was just…I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring kids into my life, my world, my family.
I couldn’t.
So, I went back to ignoring, even though this time it was ignoring the scent of him in my nose, the way his flannel made me feel almost as warm as his arms had.
I grabbed my planner, my pencil case with pens and washi and stickers, and I got in my car.
I drove to the hillside—to our hillside.
But when I got out, when I started to do what I always did when I was upset—to plan my day, plan my future—I found that I couldn’t bring my pen to the paper, couldn’t lay out the stickers, use my washi tape.
Because Joel was my future.
And I’d just fucked it up.
Because I couldn’t plan a future without him.
Because I didn’t even know how to start.
The sun had barely begun to crest the hills on the far side of the valley when I gave up and shoved my planner into my tote, the pencil case following suit. A moment later, I was in the driver’s seat, the ignition was on, and I was pulling out of the parking spot that overlooked the valley below, the trees dotting the decline, the trail winding through, the glimpses of the gorgeous deep blue river that gave my town its name snaking through the land below.
But it wasn’t my town anymore, was it?
And Joel might not be my—
“No,” I whispered, putting my car into drive, steering down the twisting road, but instead of turning left at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, instead of turning in the direction that would take me back to Joel’s and my house, I turned right.
And I drove out to the edge of town.
Drove out to Bailey’s ranch, pulled to a stop, killed the engine, and saw that the lights were on inside the barn.
Bailey was up—because of course she was. Any time she came back from San Francisco and stayed at the ranch, she was up with the sun, up helping with the chores. Now she had a group of ranch hands and a manager that took care of all the cattle and horses and whatever other things needed to happen on a ranch this size (my eyes glazed over when she started talking about the merits of different types of fencing materials).
But when she was home.
She was here.
In the barn that had been rebuilt to resemble her grandfather’s (my uncle’s) stables. The original building had burned down in the fire, all of her grandfather’s belongings lost—the old tools and workbench, the ladder Bailey and I had gotten in major trouble for carving our initials in, the saddles we’d used to learn how to ride.
Most of the animals had survived.
And so had Bailey.
So, that was what was important.
But this was one of those times when I felt the loss wrought by that fire all over again.
It wasn’t the same.
It wouldn’t ever be the same.
I sighed, popped the driver’s side door, and got out, leaving my purse in my unlocked car, knowing that I could go away from my car for hours, not just because we were at the edge of town, but because River’s Bend was that safe.
Because I’d helped make it that way.
And now I was going to put that behind me, build a life…
Alone.
Very possibly alone.
The barn door slid open with a screech, and I watched Bailey walk out in her work boots, her shacket, and jeans. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and she was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in only the way that Bailey could be at this hour of the morning.
“Rosie?” she asked, hurrying over. “Is everything okay?”
Nothing was okay, but suddenly I didn’t want to dump it all on her. I couldn’t—or maybe I shouldn’t, not when this was a happy moment for her and—
“Everything’s fine,” I lied. “I just came by…” I scrambled to finish the falsehood. “…to help you with your chores.”
Which was the absolute wrong thing to say.
Because it was a surefire way for my niece to know something was wrong with me.
I never offered to willingly do farm work.
I always hung in the kitchen with Grams, baking up goodness, enjoying the quiet love, the peaceful space, the gentle encouragement.
“Wow,” Bailey said, taking my hand and drawing me forward. “That wasn’t even a good attempt at lying. Come on.”
Less than a minute later, I was inside the barn, approaching one of the stalls.
Data—named after the Star Trek character, not information—chuffed and moved toward me, bumping her head against mine, wrapping my arms around her neck.
Bailey let the horsey therapy go on for a couple of minutes.
“Okay, Rosie,” she said. “Now’s the time to spill.”
I inhaled the scent of hay and horses and Data then sighed and turned to face her. “Joel wants kids.”
Bailey stilled, head tilted, ponytail swinging behind her, brows drawn together into a deep v.
Then she flicked her eyes from side to side. “Uh, okay. That’s a good thing, honey. Considering you’ve always wanted your own brood of tiny terrors.”
“What?” I leaned back against the stall door and shook my head. “I’ve never wanted kids.”
Silence. Then, “That’s bullshit.”
“Bailey.”
“Billie,” she snapped, throwing her hands up. “We planned our kids’ names together.”
“That was grade school shit,” I countered, setting my shaking hands on Data’s neck, rubbing it to soothe the nerves currently rattling through me.
It didn’t work.
“Oh!” Her brows shot high. “So, you talking about getting a sperm donor and having kids on your own a couple of years ago was bullshit?”
“I—”
I froze, blinked.
Because I remembered saying that.
I remembered meaning that.
But why not until right then, until Bailey had said it?
“But—”
“And did you forget that we went shopping for sperm”—Bailey made a face, waved a hand—“pretend that doesn’t sound disgusting. Did you forget that week we looked through the book and actually picked a donor?”
I stilled, fingers tightening on Data’s neck.
She huffed out a protest, and I quickly dropped my arms.
I had forgotten about that.
I had.
What the actual fuck?
How could I have forgotten that?
“Bailey,” I whispered, eyes welling up. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I-I told him that I never wanted kids. And I believed it. I fucking believed it down to the depths of my soul.”
She came over, wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “You’re scared.”
“He loves me,” I whispered. “He all but said he’d adopt kids if I didn’t want to have them.”
“Oh, honey.”
“But before that, he said he couldn’t wait to make them with me.”
Bailey inhaled.
“And I-I—” My voice broke. “I told him I had never wanted kids and I never would, and I basically told him to go fuck himself and get on board with that…or to go.” My knees gave way, back sliding down the stall door, dropping onto my ass on the floor. “And he left, Bailey,” I moaned, dropping my head onto my knees. “He fucking left and I don’t even blame him.”
“First,” she said, settling next to me. “Stop and really think and remember. Take a second and truly think about kids. Do you see yourself having them?”
I stopped.
I thought.
I remembered the binder of donors now.
I remembered the names of kids I’d held dear.
I remembered my dreams of Joel’s and my house full of noise and chaos, kids in every room, remembered wanting to run PTA fundraisers and Back to School coffees and Fall Carnivals. I remembered planning what I would fucking say at my first parent-teacher conference and how I would handle it if my son or daughter was struggling in math.
I’d made plans.
I’d had hopes.
And I shoved them away, locked them up, pretended they didn’t exist.
Just like I had the yearning I’d shoved way the fuck down when I’d realized Bailey wasn’t drinking the night before, and what it meant.
If I didn’t want it, I couldn’t fuck it up.
If I didn’t want it, I couldn’t be hurt.
“Christ,” I muttered, still on my knees. “I’m so fucking messed up.”
“No,” she said, way too kindly considering that I was so fucking messed up. “You just love Joel to distraction, and now you’re terrified that you’ll be like your parents, and that if you bring a kid into your lives, you’ll hurt them.”
I stilled.
Because Joel had started to say the same.
“I am such an idiot,” I whispered.
“You are a beautiful soul,” she said, cupping my jaw, forcing my gaze to hers. “And your heart is so fucking pure. Any kid would be lucky enough to have you as a parent—whether or not you make them or welcome them into your family.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” She pulled me into a tight hug. “But I also know the way to fix that.”