Liam

 

It’s difficult, but I manage to hold off on texting Kensley until I’m in my truck, the morning—and the following last-minute meeting—final over.

Hey, I write, had a meeting. I’m good whenever. Not sure what your day is looking like.

She’d told me last night she had an interview set up for this morning; surely, that was over now, but I didn’t know what else she would have had to do today.

I’m just about to put the truck in drive when her response comes through and, thanks to the hands-free system, the cab of the truck reads it to me. Can you come by my place? I’m knee deep in a project. Sorry! The truck then recites her address.

I pick my phone up from the cup holder and click the hyperlinked address, Google Maps opening automatically. Soon, I’m heading toward her apartment.

I recognize the address, so I know it’s in a decent part of town, but I’m not expecting how small the interior of the place is, once Kensley opens the door.

I’m torn between commenting on how tiny her apartment is, and about the white paint that’s on Kensley’s cheek, which is pretty fucking cute.

“Hey.” She sounds excited, so maybe I won’t say anything on either front.

“Hey.” I want to bend down and take her lips with mine—it feels like that’s how she and I are supposed to greet—but I refrain, knowing we’re not there yet. “Do you not want to go eat?”

“I do!” That excitement is still in her voice. “I just have to finish this coat, but then I’m good. I’m so sorry. I wanted to get this finished before I picked up the girls.” She steps back, holding the door open further and I step in. I think that the space I’m in is supposed to be the dining area of the apartment, if the light fixture from the ceiling is any indication. Immediately to the right is a small kitchen, and in front of me is the living area—and Kensley’s project.

“What are you up to?” I ask, ignoring everything but the dresser in the middle of the living room, plastic wrap on the floor and draping the couch.

“This is for the girls’ room. A dresser. I’m refinishing it.” Kensley moves past me and I watch as she paints the dresser white. “I did this one quickly but that’s okay. I just need to finish this coat and then add a wax layer. That can wait. It’s not going to dry in time.” She’s not even glancing at me; her focus is completely on the dresser.

“How was your morning?” she asks, still not looking at me.

“Good. Yours? The girls do okay?” It’s easy to ask about her daughters.

“It was a rushed morning. Everyone was tired.” She stands and tips her head, studying her piece.

“How was your interview?” Last night she shared with me how she wasn’t entirely thrilled to be interviewing at a grocery store. Not that it wasn’t honest work, but because she felt she outgrew that phase of life. It was a pride thing. She then went on to tell me how she berated herself for not finishing college, how she let Mark dictate things for her, and I’d found myself pissed at the guy all over again.

I mean, I got that some of those decisions were her own. I get it, I do. But I don’t exactly care to hear her beat herself up over the past.

She caps her paint, puts down the brush, and then…

Well, then Kensley does this little dance in her spot, one that makes her look like her daughters when they’re excited. “They offered the job on the spot! And!” she goes on, finally done dancing. “Because of the timing, I’ll be there long enough to receive short-term disability when the baby’s born.”

That makes me frown. I didn’t realize… “They could have denied you a paid maternity leave?”

Kensley waves me off. “It’s the politics of human resources. I don’t really pretend to know, but I was a little worried. So now, I just have to build my time-off bank and they said they’d be open to offering the hours I need, whether it’s twenty or forty hours a week. And I’ll qualify for insurance which, let me tell you, is probably the best part of the deal.”

I’m still frowning. “Are the girls still covered?” I’ve watched London jump from swings, and Sawyer run into walls, in her excitement.

She nods, “Yeah, Mark hasn’t taken them off his plan as far as I know.”

“And you were planning on having the baby while not insured? How much is a pregnancy?”

“Really expensive.”

My mind is racing in a thousand different directions. The rent in this area isn’t exactly favorable; between that and medical bills and regular every-day things…

“You gonna be okay?”

Now it’s Kensley’s turn to from. “What do you mean?”

“Like, financially?”

She takes a step back and her frown now almost makes her look disgusted with me, which was not my intent. “The girls and I are fine.” She shakes her head; the excitement is clearly gone from her. “You know, Liam, I told you to step back when you had the chance,” she says, doing what I’ve come to learn Kensley does best; go on the defensive. “I knew this was all going to be a problem. I knew it.”

When she moves past me and I reach for her arm, she jerks her shoulder away.

“Kensley. I didn’t—”

“I have to clean up before it’s time for me to pick up my daughters.”

She’s never before referred to the girls as ‘my.’ They were always ‘the girls,’ and her use of ‘my daughters’ feels deliberate.

“I thought we were getting lunch,” I try, following her down the incredibly small hallway. I hold my hand out to stop the bedroom door from closing after she’s moved into the room, trying to shut me out.

“I’m not hungry.” She turns her back on me and I watch as she walks beyond the unmade bed and to a mirror-sliding door closet.

There is hardly room to move in this apartment, and she’s planning on bringing a third child into it.

“I’m sorry,” I try. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just… I guess I didn’t fully realize just what you were going through. You make everything seem really good.”

“Because it is good.” She slams the closet shut and when she stalks back toward me, she doesn’t bring her eyes up to mine. “Excuse me.” Kensley doesn’t wait for me to move; she just pushes right past me and this time, when she goes into a second room—the bathroom—and closes the door, I stop myself from stopping the door from closing.

I can hear as she turns on the faucet and things are slammed on the counter top.

“Kensley,” I try again.

“Just go, Liam.” Her voice is muffled by the water and door, but even with those barriers, I can hear the hurt in her voice. I could kick my own ass right now.

“I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t answer this time and after standing in the hall for what feels like five minutes, I mutter, “Fuck,” then do as she requests.

And leave.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.