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As her hand claws at my shirt, I grab it and squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Lying is the only thing I can do for her now.
13
LAILA
“I thought I threw those away already.”
The admittedly beautiful bouquet is in a gorgeous crystal vase Arsen gifted me sometime during the second trimester. Before I can put the “gift” where it belongs, Mom thrusts a thin arm out to stop me. “You did, but I saved them from the trash. I like them.”
“You like bribes?” I arch a brow. “You like looking at meaningless gifts from a man who can’t be bothered to show up unless he wants something from you?”
It’s not lost on me that the crystal vase was also a kind of bribe, but at least Arsen’s bribes have a high resale value. The flowers my father sent are worthless and, therefore, goners.
Mom sighs, but she doesn’t argue as I rip the lilies out of the vase a second time and fling the dripping bouquet through the open window.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says once my breathing has evened out. Being eight months pregnant means just looking at my toes leaves me winded. “He’s trying to make amends.”
“You know what’s dramatic? Leaving your wife and daughter because you couldn’t deal with their hideous disfigurements—now,thatis dramatic. Andthat,” I say, jabbing a finger towards the window, “was a lazy attempt to get back in our good graces so he can steal what little money we have to our names.”
“They’re just flowers.”
“There is no such thing as ‘just’ anything with him, Mom. Dad can’t be trusted.” Pain shoots down my leg. Wincing, I plop down on the edge of her bed. “He left us high and dry after the accident. All because ‘he couldn’t deal with it.’ The rehabilitation, the doctor’s appointments, the therapy sessions—it was all ‘too much for him.’ But he wasn’t even in that car with us!”
“I understand why you’re angry.”
“What I don’t understand is why you aren’t.” I work my thumb into my hip and thigh, trying to push out some of the pain that has only gotten worse the more I resemble a watermelon on stilts. “How can you defend him?”
“I’m not defending him; I’m defending the version of me that chose him. That loved him.”
“Do you still have feelings for him?” I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to. Her answer will determine if I have to ask Dominik to direct all future flower deliveries straight to the garbage.
We can’t afford for my dad to weasel his way back into our lives now.
She screws up her face and swats at my arm. For the first time in weeks—months, even—Mom looks like herself. “Of course not! That part is over and done with. But I think he’s looking for some closure and… well, maybe I wouldn’t mind some as well.”
“Divorcing him was closure enough,” I mutter.
She smiles, but it’s tight. Maybe I should’ve left the damned flowers alone.
Before I can apologize, Mom proves she will always be the bigger person—emotionally, that is, because, again, I’m watermelon-shaped. “I’m sorry about putting the flowers out, Laila. I’ve just always loved lilies.”
I hear what she isn’t saying.He remembers how much I love lilies.
For one second, I understand perfectly. Once upon a time, my mom had someone who knew her favorite flowers and her favorite color. Someone who knew her order when they went out to eat. Someone who could guess what she was going to say before she even said it.
I’ve never had that, but I’m sure it’s a hard thing to give up.
Hell, just the promise of it can be hard to let go of. I know firsthand.
“Then I’ll buy you lilies.” I stand up, shaking off the sudden storm cloud forming over my head. “We don’t need anything from him.”
Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then I grab my stomach and gasp. Mom’s eyes flicker to my stomach where my daughter is busy kicking up a storm.
No.Hisdaughter.Hisbaby.
The baby that I will give up in a month and never see again.
