Willow

I’m a runner.

Not one who runs 5Ks for fun.

A runner from situations I don’t want to face.

I shut my phone off when it rings for what seems like the hundredth time and slip it into my bag. I’m not ready for this—for the reality of what’s about to become my life. I don’t want to engage in conversations about childbirth, epidurals, and midwives. And definitely nothing about moving.

Call me selfish, but I refuse to move thousands of miles for a man in love with another woman. A man who’ll always be in love with that woman. A man who, even though he irritates me to no limit, made me feel beautiful and wanted one night.

He gave me an intimacy I’d never had. All I’d gotten in the past was a boyfriend who lied and cheated like it was his job. The more time I spend with Dallas the more those memories of how he made me feel that night will pop up.

I check the time on my watch and relax in my seat, my shoulders drooping. It never fails that I choose the worst in the penis pool. Millions of men in this world, and somehow, I manage to always pick the screwed up ones who see me as nothing more than a disposable fuck.

“Did you think it’d be that easy?”

I tense at the sound of his sharp voice. It’s as if a knife has been jabbed into my throat. I’m terrified to face him. I can sense his eyes tearing into my back, feeling the pain as if they were breaking flesh.

I should’ve taken the Greyhound or hitchhiked. I probably shouldn’t have headed straight to the most obvious place—the fucking airport.

“You had enough balls to run away. Don’t be a coward now. Turn around and look me in the eyes,” he demands. “Tell me you’re not only selfish, but a liar as well.”

His bossiness and cruel words set a match to my already shitty mood.

How dare he judge me. How dare he act like he understands what I’m going through.

“Willow.” My name sounds like a threat, assuring me he’s not leaving until I give in.

I pull myself up from my chair with a dramatic moan and jerk my purse over my shoulder. The airport is no LAX, but there are plenty of people around with curious eyes.

Dallas’s face is challenging, like he’s ready to close a business deal. He did nice, and I took advantage of it. Now, he’s giving me something else.

I made a promise and broke it. He has every right to be pissed.

I’m ashamed it takes me a minute to square up my shoulders, to show him I’m not someone who can be scolded like a child.

“We’re not doing this here,” is all I say.

He sweeps his arm out. “After you, your highness.”

Since I’m not that familiar with the airport, I head to the women’s restroom, uncertain if he’ll follow me.

He does.

“This is a better place to do it?” he questions, locking the door behind us and leaning back against it when I nod. “Suit yourself.”

I throw my arms down to my sides with a huff. “What do you want from me, Dallas?”

“What do I want from you?” He lets out a mocking laugh. “I want you to act like a responsible adult. It might be hard for you to realize, but this isn’t only about you.”

“I know.”

“So, why run?”

“I’m scared!”

“And I’m assuring you, there’s no reason to be.” He comes closer as a long breath releases from his broad chest. “I know your trust in me is shit.” He signals between the two of us. “I’m not asking you to marry me or be with me or, hell, even like me. I’m sure we can both agree that a relationship is out of the question. You can think I’m a shit person all you want, but I’m not a shit dad, and you fucking know it.”

He’s hitting me with all the truths. You’d think someone would break entirely when the love of their life died. Lucy’s death shattered Dallas, but she left scattered pieces, so he’d be able to take care of Maven. She knew their daughter would be Dallas’s savior when she was gone.

He goes to grab my bag. “Come on. Lauren has a twelve-hour shift. We’ll talk, and then you can have her apartment to yourself for the night.”

I hold my hand out to stop him. “I’m getting on that plane.”

His lips press into a white slash, and he tiredly rubs his face.

“Scooby is waiting for me.”

He blinks. “I’m sorry, who is waiting for you?”

“Scooby.”

He folds his arms across his chest and kicks his legs out. “You two hanging out in the Mystery Machine with Velma?”

“Scooby is my cat, smart-ass,” I snap, jutting my chin out.

“Why you named your cat Scooby is a conversation for another time, but we’ll be having some serious talks about the name of our child. I won’t have a Shaggy Barnes running around.”

My hand falls to my chest at the sound of a knock on the door. Dallas holds a finger to his mouth. The knocking stops, and I open my mouth to tell him that I’ll see him later when it starts back up again. The person on the other side must really need to go because the knocks get louder and faster.

“Out of order!” Dallas finally yells. “Go somewhere else.”

The knocking subsides, and I narrow my eyes his way. “You do know, this is the women’s restroom? They’re probably going to security.”

I shrug. He can’t badger me if he’s in jail.

“Then, let’s make this quick.”

“My mom is watching Scooby for me. I told her I’d be back by tomorrow. I also need to tell her about the whole becoming-a-grandma thing.”

Family—Dallas’s weakness.

I realize I chose the right words when his face falls into an apology.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

I wrinkle my nose. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not the most open person.”

“That makes two of us. What a pair.” He gives me a gentle smile. “Go home, Willow. Tell your mom, but keep in contact.”

My shoulders slump. “I will.”

“Promise me.” I open my mouth to do what he asked, but he stops me, scowling. “Actually, don’t bother. Promises don’t mean shit to you.” He unlocks the door. “If you don’t answer my calls, the next time you see me will be when I’m standing on your mom’s doorstep, introducing myself.”

* * *

“I don’t know why you won’t let me keep him,” my mom whines while running her fingers through Scooby’s thick white hair.

A few strands stick to her hand because he sheds like no other. We have the whole let-me-keep-Scooby talk every time she cat-sits.

I flew into LA, got my car from my apartment, and then drove to my mom’s house. She lives in the same house I grew up in, in a small suburb three hours out of LA. The ride gave me time to figure out how I was going to break the news to her.

“Mom, you bought him for me as a present.”

After Stella moved away, he was a birthday gift to keep me company, but I think she used me as an excuse to buy herself an animal.

“You’re out of town so much, and you don’t give him the attention he deserves,” she goes on.

She’s right. I’m not much of a cat person, but I couldn’t ask her to return him to the animal shelter. Scooby came from a good place. I only wish she’d chosen something that needed less upkeep—like, say, a goldfish.

“You seem to enjoy spending time with your grandcat,” I reply. “I’m doing you a favor by traveling so frequently.”

She lifts her chin. “When are you going to move home, find a good man, and settle down? Stella is doing it. Maybe you should follow her example.”

Here we go again.

This is why the majority of my visits with her are when she’s Scooby-sitting.

“Men and I aren’t on the same page right now.” I have a feeling we’ll never be.

“If you’d quit looking in all the wrong places, they’d be. Come to church with me tomorrow, honey. They expanded, and traffic is booming! God-loving young men are scouring the place for a good wife to start a family with.”

I can’t stop myself from scowling. “Men scouring the place for a wife? Not my type, Mom. That sounds not only desperate, but also scary.” I’m sure those men wouldn’t approve of me carrying someone else’s baby out of wedlock.

I drag my phone from my pocket when it beeps. I turned it back on when my plane landed but have yet to reply to the seventy-eight text messages from every citizen in Blue Beech.

Dallas: You make it to your mom’s okay?

I set my phone to the side, ignoring it, and then pluck it back up. His threat wasn’t empty, and the last thing I need is him showing up here.

Me: Just got here. Talking to her.

Dallas: You break the news yet?

Me: I need to loosen her up with a glass of wine first.

Dallas: Good luck.

Me: I should be the one telling you good luck. She’ll probably take it better than your parents.

Dallas: I haven’t told them yet. I’m waiting for you to be here. Consider your mom practice.

Me: Not happening.

He’s eating bath salts if he thinks I’ll be attending that shitshow. Dallas’s family is as traditional as it gets. They’re nice people, don’t get me wrong, but super old school.

Dallas: We’ll talk about it.

We’ll talk about it?

The hell kind of answer is that?

I toss my phone onto the pillow next to me on the couch. “How about we go to dinner at La Vista tonight?”

* * *

My plan of liquoring my mom up, so I could spill the beans wasn’t as bright as I’d thought it was an hour ago.

She wisps her hair, the same color as mine, away from her eyes to better stare at me. She’s been eyeballing me since our drink order was placed five minutes ago. I’m doing my best to avoid direct eye contact with her, scared she’ll read my mind.

The restaurant is packed. It always is on Saturday nights, given it’s the nicest place in our suburb. A few of my mom’s friends stopped to talk to us while we waited for our table, their eyes scrutinizing and judging me for the wrongs my ex-boyfriend did to a young kid who was the star of his little league baseball team.

“I take it, you have something to tell me,” she says.

A knot ties in my belly. “Huh?”

“You’ve been nervous since you got home today. You then bring me to La Vista and order a glass of wine for me before the waiter even got the chance to introduce himself. You bring me here whenever you have news you don’t want to break to me.”

Come to think of it, she’s right. I brought her here when I decided to move to LA, when I got back with Brett, and then when I told her I’d officially broken things off with him.

I lower my head in shame and blurt out my confession, “I’m pregnant.”

She takes a long drink of wine before giving me a response. Her brows pull in as she carefully chooses her words. “This isn’t some April Fool’s Day joke, is it?”

“It’s June.”

I’m trying to read her, but I can’t pinpoint what’s going on in her mind. She’s not happy, but she’s not unhappy.

“How do you feel about this?”

My heart thrashes in my chest, and my chin quivers. “Like an idiot.” An idiot for not using protection. Go figure, my ovaries are the .01 percent that gets pregnant while taking the pill.

“Do I know the father?”

“It’s not Brett’s.”

A rush of relief releases from her lips. “Thank Jesus.”

“It’s Dallas Barnes.”

“Stella’s old bodyguard?”

I nod. “And Hudson’s older brother.”

Mortification floods her face. “Isn’t he …” She grabs the glass of red wine and chugs the remainder of it down, her emerald eyes wide. “Isn’t he married?”

Oh, fuck. She’s afraid I’m a homewreckin’ ho.

“His wife passed away almost a year ago.”

She nods slowly, digesting my answer, the familiarity of it flashing across her face like a burn. “You didn’t tell me you two were dating.”

I can’t distinguish if she’s asking a question or giving a warning. My mother knows the nightmare of never getting over your first love—a memory that bites at every inch of your body until your last breath.

“We’re not dating,” I answer. “It was a one-time thing. Too much whiskey, not enough thinking.”

I take a sip of water, a breath of courage, and proceed to tell her everything minus the details of the actual baby-making, and I am unable to stop the tears from falling from my eyes … and hers.

She stretches her arm across the table to grab my hand in hers. “If Dallas wants to be in the picture, give him a chance.” Her voice is soft, caressing, a vocal hug. “He’s a father, a single one at that, who knows the responsibility of taking care of a child.”

“I’m strong, Mom.” My throat is dry, causing my words to come out raspy. “I can do this on my own.”

“Honey, I’m not denying you can, but I know from firsthand experience, it isn’t easy, doing it alone. No mother can replace the void of a father. We can both agree on that.”

A knife slashes through my heart. The reality of what I did smacks me in the face, like I’ve been unconscious this entire time.

I was that child, the one without a father. It was by choice for the first fifteen years. He didn’t decide he was ready to be a dad until he was diagnosed with stage five colon cancer. My mother welcomed him with open arms. I didn’t.

He passed away at the young age of forty-one when I was sixteen. My mother forgave him at his deathbed. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The bitterness was still wrapped in my heart. I couldn’t forget all the times I’d been a jealous-filled child when I watched my friends have fathers.

Everyone has choices in their life. He chose to leave. You can’t take that shit back when you find out your time is limited, and you have no one to help you through it.

She drops my hand and sits back in her chair, the wine now relaxing her. “Your father always wanted grandchildren.”

I want to tell her that I don’t care what he wanted. My mom has gone through hell since he left her … both times.

“I doubt that dream included a love child,” I mutter.

“A grandchild is a grandchild. A blessing. No matter what the situation.”