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Eight Months Later
Ben
Ilean against the doorway of our bedroom, watching Victoria fuss with her earrings, then her hair, then her eyelashes. I would interrupt to tell her she looks beautiful, but even in these short months living together at my house, not even a full year, I’ve learned to let her process. She gets there in her own time, her confidence waning and waxing like the moon until she’s full and bright.
As much as I would like to say that I learned to be patient, to allow life to unfold naturally, from decades of being a parent, I’m not entirely sure that would be the truth.
Did I ever sit back and let Ainsley figure things out for himself like this? Did I ever once patiently wait for him to change his outfit six times until some mysterious approval level was reached and we were able to leave the house? Never. His clothes were laid out for him by me. If there was ever a problem, he was reminded of how lucky we are to have the things we had and that he should fall in line.
What a joke that was. What a joke to think that having such an excess of money would somehow make up for the fact that our hearts longed for connection and softness.
It would be easy to let myself wallow in the missteps of my past, but even I can see the futility of it.
I made mistakes in my marriage to Breanna. We were so young and I was chasing down the world. Never a second to spare for frivolities like days off. Thinking of all those wasted moments I could have spent with her used to drive me to madness, but time was merciful, allowing the pain to ease.
I made mistakes in my cold, systematic upbringing of my son. I needed so badly for him to grow into the kind of person anyone could see the value in that I failed to account for the innate value he, and everyone, was born with. But he doesn’t hate me for it, which, I suppose, is the biggest miracle of them all. He blessed upon me this woman, offering me a lesson in letting go that I probably would have died without learning had it not been for him.
And for her.
Victoria’s dark hair is expertly tamed this evening, shining nearly black in the golden lamplight. Her gown, chosen carefully with the help of her new girlfriends from the Pilates studio over the last few weeks, fits her like liquid mercury, draping over her curves and pooling behind her tall, black heels in a puddle of starlight.
“What time is it?” she asks, drawing me out of my meditative adoration.
I glance down at my watch. “Quarter to seven.”
Her face expands in all directions with surprise. “Weren’t we supposed to leave at six-thirty? You should have told me I was taking too long.”
I push off the doorway and cross the room to take her hand and twirl her before pulling her into my arms. “It’s my party. We’ll arrive fashionably late.”
I watch her eyes search mine for any hint of condescension. She finds none because there is nothing but love and adoration on my mind.
The party tonight is celebrating my ten years as partner, a milestone generally marked by choosing a mentee from the pool of lawyers working their way through the ranks. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t harbored fantasies over the years of bringing Ains up on that stage and presenting him that honor, but I can see now how ridiculous and self-indulgent that idea was.
Once again the ocean of regret for having ignored the kid’s true nature and potential for his whole life threatens to overtake me, but Victoria’s at my hand. I give hers a squeeze and she returns it, smiling up at me as I lead her down the sweeping staircase into the main foyer.
“I’m a little nervous about tonight.” Her eyes avoid mine, and I can see her biting the inside of her red painted lip.
This is going to be the first official appearance we make together as a couple. We’ve been spotted lunching and shopping around the city before, and I’ve made no secret of my new relationship to anyone in my office or extended circle. But this is the first time that I will help her out of a limo and walk into an event with her on my arm. Introduce her to the whole community.
I’ve never been less nervous about anything in my entire life.
“You look amazing. They’re going to adore you.”
Her lip-biting persists.
“What are you worried is going to happen?”
“They’re going to think I’m too young for you. That I’m a gold-digger.”
I crack a smile as the words take shape. “Shall I offer you a romantic quip about your heart of gold and my pan?”
Finally, her smile returns. “You mean your pickaxe?”
“Is that how this went, lover? I spotted a promising looking rock and broke it apart to find my treasure? I don’t think so. My metaphor with a pan and a gently babbling river seems more succinct.”
She just shakes her head, heading for the front door, where our car is waiting, but I can tell I’ve set her at ease.
I wonder if I could do one step more.
