Page 100 of Child of Mine

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BELLA

As we get onto the Henry Hudson from the Saw Mill Parkway, Henry says, “I’ve never come into the city from the north. It’s not quite as dramatic as the view across the Hudson.”

Keeping an eye out for the George Washington Bridge, which will tell us that we’re almost to Manhattan, I ask, “Have you been back to New York?”

He glances over at me. “Since the last time I saw you there? No.”

“Not even to move out?”

He shakes his head. “My roommates sent me my belongings and divvied up my furniture. None of it was worth anything.”

It doesn’t seem like he wants to get into why, but just as I’m wondering if his relationship with his father was more complicated than I’d thought, he turns the question back on me. “What about you?”

“Did I give away my furniture?”

“No, have you been back?”

I shake my head. “Not since I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t have any reason to.”

“What about your things?”

“My father sent me my clothes, and I left the rest. Kind of like you and your roommates, I guess.”

“But he wasn’t just a roommate. He’s your dad.”

“He was just a roommate at that point. And he was barely home, anyway. I don’t know who he was sleeping with, but it wasn’t my mom.”

Traffic thickens, and the knot behind my solar plexus tightens the closer we get to Manhattan. Henry’s quiet as he navigates through the congestion, but when I reach across to place a hand behind his neck, he flinches.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About your dad?”

He nods, and a muscle in his jaw twitches.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know if you’d want to hear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, because… if I could have the chance to make things right with my dad before he died, I’d do whatever it takes.”

“What do you mean? I thought he was your biggest supporter.”

“He was. At first. But then when I’d been there a couple of years and was still only making enough money to share a crappy apartment in Hoboken with a bunch of other guys, he didn’t get why I wouldn’t just come home.” He blows out a breath. “Our last conversation got kind of ugly.”

Before I can argue that his dad didn’t steal money from him, I catch the expression on Henry’s face. Whatever happened, it haunts him still. “I’m sorry.”

He squeezes my thigh briefly. “Not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry that happened to you.”

A large blast from the horn of an eighteen-wheeler trying to make an exit by changing lanes cuts off whatever reply he was going to make. The George Washington Bridge looms, and as we pass under it, I make a decision. Taking Henry’s hand, I ask, “Can you take the exit at 95thStreet?”

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