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He snorted then grabbed his bottle again. After three long gulps—in which she did not stare at his throat while he swallowed—he set the drained bottle on the table with a loud clunk. “We weren’t together at all. I met her at a concert, fucked her once, then put her out of my mind.”
Hannah cringed at the crude description his time with Mary Anne, but she wasn’t naïve enough to dispute it. That’s what it’d been on both sides, confirmed by Mary Anne. At least he didn’t shoulder the blame for an ulterior motive.
“Oh, wow. Well, I’m sorry to hear she passed. I imagine it’s been hard for you to be on your own with a baby.”
With a grunt, he stood then slapped both hands on the top of the table. “Know what’s hard?” he asked in a disgusted tone.
She didn’t bother replying. He didn’t want her to. Clearly, the man needed to unload some pent-up resentment.
“What’s hard is when you’re at a barbecue with your family, and some random chick shows up, toting a seven-month-old baby she claims is yours. What’s hard is reading a letter from that baby’s mother that describes how she knew she was terminally ill but wanted a baby, so she picked you as the sucker to knock her up. What’s hard is reading that she poked a hole in the fucking condom, had my baby, and fucking died without giving a single shit about the number of lives she destroyed or the people she fucked over.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. Oh God, was that how he saw it? That Mary Anne didn’t care about the repercussions of her actions? If only he’d known how many nights Hannah had held her sister as she sobbed her regrets and fears for both her unborn child and JP.
Yet, how could she begrudge the man his thoughts on the matter? Despite multiple promises that she’d contact JP, Mary Anne never had. She let her nuclear-level secret fester until she died, leaving the mess for everyone else. His anger was appropriate and justified, yet it still cut her to the core to hear him spew hatred for her recently deceased sister.
The urge to tell him, to ease his troubles in some small way, grew so strong it was a physical ache inside her. But she couldn’t. Not without exposing herself and making his suffering worse.
“I’m so sorry, JP.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the fucking liar who saddled me with a lifelong responsibility I never asked for or wanted.”
Hannah swallowed. That statement hit too close to home.
Shoving away from the table, he crossed the kitchen then turned to face her again. with tense, jerky movements, he stalked back to the table. “Ask anyone in my family, and they’ll tell you I’m the exciting one. The you-only-live-once carefree schmuck who’s allergic to commitment. I don’t even have a real fucking job, Hannah. I flit between my siblings’ businesses, earning enough money to live and have some fucking fun while I’m doing it. I didn’t want kids, a house, a retirement fund, or any of the shit that weighs people down and makes them boring as fuck nine-to-five lemmings in miserable marriages, raising a pack of brats, and mourning the youth they lost because they didn’t take advantage of their freedom.” He took a deep breath. “I’m a selfish asshole who likes my life without any strings.”
Her hands started to shake, so she set the soda down. Were her parents correct? Was JP the wrong person to raise Kayla? This impassioned speech sure made him sound like it. Like a man with no interest in putting his child first. Or even claiming the child.
His face twisted into a mask of pain. “Now I’m bound by rope so tight, there’s no way of cutting free. I’m raising a baby alone, with no job and no savings. I live with my siblings and don’t have the first fucking clue about babies, toddlers, or kids. In a matter of minutes, my entire life flipped on its ass and will never, ever be the same again. No nine months to prepare for this guy.” He jammed a thumb into his chest. “Just a ‘Here’s your baby.’ And a ‘By the way, the mom was a selfish con artist who tricked you then up and died, so you’re on your own.’”
He pushed away from the table again. “So yeah, it’s fucking hard, Hannah. It’s really fucking hard.” Blowing out a breath, he gripped his hair with both hands. “You know what? I’m not hungry anymore. Sorry about all this. You can see yourself out.”
With that, he stormed out of the kitchen. The heavy clunk of his footsteps on the basement stairs mimicked the hammering of her heart.
Damnit, MaryAnne.
Guilt had become her constant companion. Guilt for adding to her parents’ grief. Guilt for deceiving JP. Guilt for being so angry at her deceased sister.
