Page 2 of The Wish List
Those words struck like a blow. Of course she’d known he wanted a baby of his own. She was the one who’d spent the last five years dealing with fertility treatments—hormones and shots and sex dictated by her cycle and the calendar.
Beth was thirty-three. No spring chicken when it came to her ovaries. Even when she’d been younger, motherhood had eluded her. Getting pregnant she could manage. Staying pregnant, not so much.
A sad, secret part of her wondered if it was because she’d never felt truly enthusiastic about becoming a mom. The lion’s share of responsibility for raising her two younger sisters had been foisted on her a few weeks after her thirteenth birthday. As an adult, she’d never felt the hard pull toward motherhood the way so many of the women she knew did.
She’d tried. Tirelessly. Religiously. Without thought to the toll her consistent failure took on her body or heart. And when she couldn’t take it anymore, she’d let her husband go. Released him from their vows with a few comforting words about how she wanted his dreams to come true.
She’d believed that would release her to focus on her own dreams, even though she had little experience with that. But it wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“I didn’t realize you and Lucy had gotten serious.” She’d only seen Greg and the young medical assistant around town a couple of times.
“We weren’t exactly serious,” he said, having the good grace to look slightly abashed. “This changes things, doesn’t it?”
Beth knew he was asking the question for real and not in a rhetorical sense. He wanted her permission or for Beth to insist he do the right thing by the woman he’d knocked up. The sad part was that he clearly didn’t trust himself to do the right thing on his own.
“You want to be a father.” She repeated his words, surprised there wasn’t any pain associated with them. Only a strange sense of disconnected disbelief. Emotionally disconnected seemed to be her go-to right now. Her heart was encased in ice, whether to keep herself safe or because she didn’t have the genetic makeup for something more, Beth wasn’t sure.
The phone on the desk rang. “I need to go,” she repeated.
“So you’re okay with this?” Greg ran another hand through his hair. Was it thinning on its own or because he couldn’t stop tugging at the ends? “I asked her to marry me. I want to do this the right way.”
Beth didn’t bother to mention cart before the horse and all that. “I wish you nothing but the best,” she told him. It was true if not enthusiastic.
“I’m sure you’ll make right whatever happened with the patient. You’re a good nurse, Beth.”
“Thanks.”
“And a good daughter.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Plus a great ex-wife.”
One positive about being divorced was she didn’t have to worry about laughing at her ex’s feeble attempts at humor.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Greg,” she said and took a step toward the door.
“Oh, by the way. That reminds me. Any chance you’d send over your sweet potato casserole recipe? Lucy and I are going to her mom’s for Thanksgiving. We’re going to tell her family about...you know.” He made a face. “I want to impress them, and your sweet potato casserole is the best ever.”
“I’ll email it,” she said, ignoring the pang of resentment. She was a real pro at ignoring negative emotions.
“I don’t suppose you’ve bought the ingredients and have enough to double the recipe?” Greg flashed his best puppy-dog smile, the one she used to find appealing. Now it affected her the same way a rock stuck in her shoe might.
“Right, Greg. A surefire way to impress your potential new in-laws would be to have your ex-wife cook for them on Thanksgiving. Freya is handling the meal this year since she’s in town and staying at Mom’s house. We’re going to bring it to the rehab facility unless they give Mom a day pass.”
Greg grimaced. “I didn’t know either of your sisters could cook. You might want to—”
“We’ll manage. You’re on your own,” she told him and walked out.
The words felt right, but her glimmer of satisfaction managed to be short-lived. Was she mistaken or were more people staring at her as she started down the hall again? Did they already know about Lucy and Greg or did they assume her ex had reprimanded her for her earlier behavior with a patient?
Beth had mastered the art of the poker face. She kept hers intact until the heavy fire door of the stairwell slammed shut behind her then let loose with a slew of curses and a few halfhearted kicks to the wall.
“Stupid idiot,” she muttered, unsure whether she was talking about Greg or herself. She drew back her foot and kicked the wall with more force then yelped in pain.
“Unless those clogs are steel-toed, you’d better give the wall a break before you fracture something.”
Beth whirled with a gasp, shocked to see a man sitting on the stairs heading down to the lower floors. She’d been so angry and distracted that she hadn’t noticed him when she’d first entered the stairwell.
It was a testament to the crappiness of her day and her muddled mental state because the man staring at her was hard to ignore. Although he didn’t stand, she could tell he would be tall—well over six feet. His shoulders were broad underneath the battered leather jacket he wore with faded jeans and a dark shirt.
She’d bet her last cent he drove a motorcycle. He looked like the motorcycle type.
