Page 67 of Unconventionally, Elle
"But, Elle, I... I'm sure we can make arrangements. I..." Slow tears trickled down his face.
"I know," I said again, my voice feeling heavier as my headache intensified.
He parked in front of my building and shut the car off. "Are we okay?" His voice cracked at the same time as my heart. I reached for one of his hands and gently squeezed.
"Barrett, I have to write." I gave him a tender grimace and kissed him on the cheek. "I also have a headache from hell, so this all feels so bleh."
I turned to open the door, but he continued in a whimsical manner. "It could be cool, I guess." He kept his eyes unfocused and straight ahead. "Maybe Margaret and I can split custody or something. There has to be a way this will work for everyone."
Irritable and ready to go inside, I spoke before I thought about what I was saying out loud.
"I don't want to be a mom. I didn't ask for this. I don't want to raise a child. I don't like Margaret, and I don't want her to be a part of our lives." Fire was burning in my chest, and my head felt like someone had a dagger in my temple. Oh my God, I was going to be sick.
"You don't want to be a mom?" he asked quietly.
"Seriously, that's the only thing you got from that rant?" I snapped. I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. It was fine, I was going to be fine. "No. I've never wanted to have children. I don't dislike them; I just don't want to take care of one or to be responsible for them. I want to have my own life."
His expression fell, and he lowered his head to the steering wheel and groaned. He sat back up and looked at me with heavy eyes. "Just because your parents left you doesn't mean you wouldn't be a good mom."
"Excuse me?" My voice rose an octave with his assumption.
"It's a parent thing, right? You don't want to be like them or something?" he said, trying to explain himself.
"No, it's a me thing. I choose my life over having kids. I don't want them, and it's my choice, and now with Margaret, I feel like the choice has been made for me in our relationship."
Something in Barrett snapped. "Sometimes we don't have a choice, Elle. Sometimes life deals us a shitty hand and we have to take it. I don't want to be a dad right now."
"I refuse to accept that. I refuse to believe that we have to accept what life gives us," I replied irritably.
"Stop living in your dream world--or whatever you're writing about--and come back to reality for a minute. Shit happens you can't control, bad shit. You have to deal with it and do your duty. I don't want to run this company, but I have to now. I don't want a child with Margaret, but I have one coming." His jaw was tight and his knuckles were turning white on the steering wheel.
I felt the angry tears streaming down my cheeks. "How dare you! I know the real world. I choose to acknowledge that everything is a choice, because otherwise, what the fuck are we doing here? You had a choice to sleep with her. Now you have the choice to raise your child. I also have the choice not to."
"What does that mean?"
I was fuming. I couldn't think straight, and I couldn't see straight. "Barrett, I think you should go home tonight." My chest constricted as I felt a surge of anxiety. I winced as my head viciously throbbed.
"What? You aren't serious?" he stammered.
"I can't be with you right now. I can't think. I don't want to argue anymore. I don't want to talk about the baby or Margaret. Please just leave." I opened my door and got out of the car.
Before I shut the door, he shouted, "Elle, tomorrow is Christmas!"
I started running and didn't look back.
Once inside, I collapsed on the floor and heaved. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop crying. Louie came to me, licking my tears and nudging my head up. I was finally strong enough to crawl to the bathroom and lie on the floor.
I was in between sleep and awareness, still on the bathroom floor. I thought I heard the front door open but was too tired and sick to care. I felt a warm hand touch my forehead and then lift me gently into strong arms.
"I'm sorry, Elle. I couldn't stay away." Barrett's voice was the last thing I heard before sleep overcame me.
40
Six years ago
Jude walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but boxers and a soft smile. He fell onto the white oversized couch that took up most of our living room and groaned with his hands over his face.
"You okay?" I looked over the couch at his long, lean body. "Don't forget, we have dinner plans at Galatoire's tonight, yeah?"
