He sighs. “Maybe you should have filed a report.”
“And have a media circus outside our apartment? Reporters taking pictures and following me? Dragging up what happened with our parents? Yes, there’d be support from people, sure, and I appreciate that women are believed these days, but there are also assholes who’d exploit every facet of our past. So, no. He won’t come back. Not if he wants to play football.”
His expression hardens. “It’s what the fucker deserves.”
My head dips as I stare at the hardwood floors. Something snapped in Vegas, like a rubber band that had been stretched too thin. He hurt me.
“You aren’t getting back together with him, are you?” His eyes search my face.
A panicky feeling tugs at me. “Of course not. Go. Shower. I’ll make coffee and breakfast.”
Leaving him, I walk down the hall to the nursery. Painted a soft lilac color, the furniture is white French country. I lean against the doorjamb as Londyn struggles to push up to sitting, her cry changing to coos when she sees me. She manages to stand by gripping the wooden rail of the baby bed. Delighted at her accomplishment, she squeals loudly enough to wake the family in the apartment below us. At nine months, she is freaking adorable.
I tug her up and press my nose to her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin as joy ripples over me.
“Good morning, baby girl,” I murmur as I sway with her in front of the window, where the sun is starting to peek over the Manhattan skyline. The city is coming alive as the first rays of sunshine reflect off the skyscrapers and brownstones. The tranquility is layered with the rumbling of the subway and the honking of yellow cabs. It’s like music to my ears compared to the vastness of the desert.
“Bu, bu, bu.” She watches a bus screech to a stop at a red light and points.
“Yes, the bus is going too fast, but it stopped. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.” I rub my hand over the tufts of wispy blonde hair on top of her head. “How was your night? Any dreams?” I love talking to her, and I’ve read all the baby books. Communication is key in helping her develop language skills, and she’s going to be a little genius.
She grabs my hair and tugs. “Daaa.”
I rub our noses together. “Yes, my love. You want a fresh diaper?”
After changing her, I sweep her up in my arms and head to the kitchen of our apartment. Located in Manhattan and bordering the East River, it’s over three thousand square feet and takes up the top level of the six-story Bradford Building. It’s not posh or fancy—in fact, it’s old and needs updating terribly—but the apartment has been in my family for five generations, counting Londyn. My grandmother was born here. My great-grandfather helped build it.
A shadow creeps into my thoughts. When Gran passed away, she left us a hefty second mortgage. My teeth worry my bottom lip as I prepare Londyn’s milk, then sit with her at the table.
After I’ve fed and set her up on the floor with some toys, it’s another half hour before Jane walks into the kitchen. My hair is more platinum, while hers is honey colored. Like me, her eyes are a bright green, slightly tilted, and thickly lashed. Taller than me, she’s the kind of beautiful that makes you blink to make sure she’s real.
My eyes snag on a family photo framed on the wall across from the kitchen table. My father stands with an easy smile on his face, although he was never easy. My mother gazes down at Jane, her expression blank. Gran holds baby Andrew. It’s the last photo of all of us.
Grief blooms like a rose in my chest. You’d think I’d be better after a year of Gran being gone, that I would have been prepared for it, since she’d been dealing with a series of strokes, but the sorrow crushes me over and over. I blink tears away and swallow thickly. After her first stroke, six years ago, I took over caring for her and also made sure Jane and Andrew had what they needed. Andrew was fourteen, Jane fifteen. I was twenty-two, fresh from college, and in charge of everyone. My world shrank as I focused on my family.
Jane gets her coffee, then plops down at the table.
“Morning,” I say as I set down creamer for her.
She douses it in her coffee, her eyebrows lowering.
“You had a late night,” I murmur. She didn’t get home until two in the morning. “You could have texted.”
“I wanted to see friends. We had dinner and drinks, then went dancing. Not a big deal.” She pauses. “I feel your eyes on me. Don’t judge me, Emmy. You aren’t raising a baby alone. I needed a break.”