Page 18 of The Game Plan
After Grant left this morning, Ridge and I sat in silence. I needed time to process. In twenty-four hours, my apartment was held up, and now I’m being asked to move in with the man I’ve wanted for forever. Ridge left me alone until mid-afternoon, then showed up with takeout and cardboard boxes. “No sense in putting it off,” he said. “I’m not leaving Texas until you’re safe.”
Now the golden haze of the setting sun fills this tiny apartment as Ridge moves another box for me. I wasn’t supposed to be packing my life into cardboard boxes again so soon. Yes, this dingy apartment above a Chinese restaurant—with peeling paint, thin walls, and a temperamental water heater—was supposed to be temporary. It was my first place on my own, the steppingstone to my future. I was supposed to live here, have my baby, graduate from college, and get my feet underneath me.
But no, this building had to turn into a crime scene and wreckmy plans.
Leaning over, I sort through the pile of notebooks from previous semesters, tossing the ones I don’t need. I plan to keep the least amount possible so I’m not arriving at Grant’s doorstep with a mountain of boxes.
Grant.
Just thinking about him has my pulse quickening. It has nothing to do with the fear of the unknown, but everything to do with the man himself. Sharing a space with Grant is dangerous. There’s a current between us; it’s constant, unyielding. And soon, a single wall will be all that separates us.
The ripping of tape startles me as I stand, wiping sweat from my brow. Summer heat sticks to my skin—a perk of this apartment’s faulty air conditioning.
“Would you sit down and let me pack for you?” Ridge grumbles from behind me.
“No,” I mumble, moving into my bedroom and pulling open a drawer. What I find inside has me crumbling to the floor. In my haste to get away, I didn’t think about which drawer I was opening. The contents make me want to scream. It’s the drawer I don’t touch. The drawer of memories.
Hesitantly, I reach inside and pull out the pastel-colored crocheted blanket. It’s worn and fraying in some places, but I can still smell the faint scent of baby detergent. Emotion grips my throat, and I refuse to fight the sting in my eyes. I welcome the tears as the sobs rip from my chest. Clutching the soft blanket, I hold it close to my heart and let the pain erupt until the blanket is damp.
Strong arms pull me tight. Ridge doesn’t say anything, letting me have my moment. Normally, I’m stronger than this. I don’t let my emotions show easily. Damn hormones have me crying more often than not.
No words are spoken between us. He just…waits.
I hold the blanket tight, and for the briefest of seconds, I wonder what life might’ve been like. What would life have looked like ifhe—the man who fathered me—had stuck around and been there for my mom? Would his fear come true? Would we have been in danger? Or would he have kept us safe and given me a stable home?
As problematic as my mom was, she kept the one thing my father gave me.Fatherfeels too formal.Dad?He was never one.Sperm donorsounds…gross. Yet I always knew the blanket’s significance. The older I got, the more I clung to it as my safety net. When I was finally old enough to understand, my mom told me its story.
He hadn’t been a bad guy, just a young one who made the wrong choices and didn’t know how to undo them. My mom had been dating him off and on for a few years, never too serious and far from ready to settle down. At first, he’d been excited about the news of becoming a father. He wanted to be a dad. My mom said he broke down in tears and thanked her for the gift.
But fear has a way of souring even the best news.
One night, when Mom was halfway through the pregnancy, he arrived on her doorstep, a small gift bag in his hands. Inside was the crochet blanket and a letter—one he wrote for the baby he’d never meet. He told Mom he couldn’t be in our lives. He said he loved us too much to bring his mess into our world. He left town not long after, and Mom said she hated him for it, but a part of her understood.
On the day I was born, she wrapped me in the blanket anyway. I carried it everywhere as a kid, never knowing it was stitched with a goodbye.
Now, holding it in my hands again, pregnant and terrified myself, the weight of that choice—the sacrifice, the protection, the loneliness—crushes me. Little did he know that leaving my mom would cause her pain that would never heal. She turnedto the bottle, and to any guy who would numb the pain and resentment when she looked into my eyes. The same eyes of the man who left because she was pregnant with me.
As I sit here with this blanket gripped tightly, my tears soaking the yarn that once cradled me, I make a promise—not just to my baby, but to the girl I used to be. The scared little girl who never understood why her mom was so cold. The little girl who moved in with her aunt and cousin because her mom ran away from her responsibilities, from me.
I won’t run. I won’t choose someone else’s love over my baby’s. I will not let fear make my decisions.
I might not have it all figured out, and I sure as hell didn’t plan this, but my little Jellybean will always know love.
Real, unconditional love.
I amnotmy mother.
I amnotmy father.
We’ll build something better.
Starting now.
With a final heave, I welcome the deep breath. Bringing my palms to my eyes, I wipe the tears away.
“You good?” Ridge finally asks, his voice soft, easing his grip on me.
I nod, but then shake my head. “I don’t know what I am.”
