Page 122 of Keeping the Score

“She really is off schedule.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re right—there are some things more important than that. Especially right now.”

I take Tilly into the bedroom and talk to her while I settle her into her cot, trying not show her how fucked up I am. Then I close the bedroom door behind me and turn on the monitor.

I return to the couch and pick up my phone and send a quick text, then toss it back to the coffee table. In response to Andi’s inquiring look, I say, “I just told Mabel not to come after all.”

She tilts her head. “She was coming here?”

“Yeah. I asked if she could look after Tilly for a while so I could come talk to you.” I’d run out of patience. I eye her uncertainly.

She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

Relief slides through me. “C’mere.” I sit and pull her into my arms, lifting her legs to stretch them across my lap. With one arm around her, I take her hand with my other and lift it to my lips.

“I thought a lot,” she says. “And… I talked to Willa.”

My head jerks in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. We talked for a long time, actually. About a lot of things. Mostly Tilly.” She slips her arm around my shoulders. “I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but in the end, she said it made things a little easier. For her to know us, that we love Tilly and will take care of her.”

I lean my forehead against hers. “Wow.” That took guts. Holy shit. And I thought she was being cowardly. Her inner strength blows me away.

“Yeah. And it made me feel more at peace, too.” She tells me more about the conversation with Willa, and I listen intently. “In the end, I realized that sometimes life sucks. But we need to live it and make the best of it while we’re here. Because it’s short.”

I close my eyes, my chest squeezing painfully. “Yeah,” I rasp out.

“Do you think we can really do this?”

I lift my head and meet her eyes. “I had my doubts,” I say honestly.

She nods. “Youarea good father,” she whispers. “You love her. You can be a good parent if you love your child and try hard.”

With a knuckle beneath her chin, I make her hold my gaze. “That means, you, too.”

She goes very still. Her lips quiver. “Yeah. Even me. I had my doubts, too. How can I do this? Am I really ready for a whole different life? Can I be a mother figure to Tilly?”

I kiss her temple. “You can.” I pause. When I speak, my throat feels full of sand. “But I understand if you don’t want to sign on for that.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. At all. I love you. I love Tilly.”

A champagne bottle of relief bursts in my core, sending effervescence sparkling through my veins. “Then you can do it. We both can. Knowing you believe in me gives me courage.”

She lowers her chin, then lifts her head and gazes into my eyes. “Me too.”

I stamp my mouth on hers, holding her in a long kiss, full of relief and gratitude, strength and adoration. When I slowly draw back, I say, “I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?” She touches my face.

“For putting you through this.”

“None of this is your fault.”

“I know. But this whole mess is part of the package.”

“I know that,” she says softly. “So is your rigid attachment to schedules and plans. Your ten-step hair-care routine. Your dirty jokes and your personal eating utensils and weird eye exercises.”

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