Malcolm shot straight up in bed as if the gun had gone off. He threw back the covers, was on his feet and then by my side in a matter of seconds.
“Claire, what’s going on? Are you alright?” He threw an arm around me protectively.
I was completely numb, and the frog in my throat was ruining my princess fantasy. My prince was a mobster with a gigantic gun on his bedside table.
“What the hell is that for?” I was the daughter of a teacher and firefighter from Cleveland. Sure, I worked with runaways and homeless kids, but I’d never held a gun in my hands. Just the sight of it made me feel dirty and corrupt, like I was breaking the law just finding it.
“Protection,” Malcolm said. He gently slid the drawer closed. “I have a rifle in the basement as well, I guess you should know.”
He looked so gorgeous, all sleepy and hair disheveled, my instinct was to curl into him and cuddle for days. But, my righteousness, my upbringing, my moral compass told me differently. I firmly believed that only criminals had weapons and reasons to need them.
I glared at the now closed drawer and willed the tears not to fall. Why did I have to go and fall in love with this dashing charlatan. I was working my ass off every day to decrease violence on the streets and here Malcolm was courting me but engaging in exactly what I fought to make obsolete.
No words would exit my mouth on account of the frog. I shook my head back and forth and stared at the spot where I’d seen the gun. “I can’t—” was all I managed to emit.
“Claire, for crying out loud. I watched my whole family die in front of me when I was seven. You think I don’t have coping mechanisms to process that shit?”
He was defensive and rightly so. I understood the motivation, but I didn’t know if I could deal with the reality.
“I want to adopt Skylar, if she’ll let me. I was going to ask you if you’d join me in the adoption. I want to have children.” I felt so dumb, almost too dumb to say it aloud. “I imagined having them with you, Miller.” I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t break down. “I can’t live in a house full of guns and kids. I understand why they’re here, but it’s a deal breaker for me. If my child accidently used one,” I swallowed, “and killed themselves or someone else… that would be it for me.”
Malcolm scrubbed his fingers through his wavy hair and ran a thumb and forefinger over his stubble. His emerald eyes looked pained and I hated to put him on the spot, to back him into a corner like this. But the truth of the matter was, it was a deal breaker for me. My whole life revolved around witnessing the damage that violence could bring, on rehabbing from the trauma with hundreds of kids. I couldn’t do it.
“I love you, Malcolm Miller. I understand it, but I still can’t do it.”
I grabbed my phone that had fallen just under the four poster bed, gathered my clothing from our beautiful day and sadly stepped into them. I slowly descended the stairs, my hand sliding along the polished banister. I hoped he would chase after me, that he’d renounce the weapons and dramatically toss them into the fireplace or the communal dumpster, destroy them in front of me. But Malcolm didn’t come after me and I understood why. Defending what he loved was what had kept him alive. It was how he dealt with the guilt and the shame. It was how he took power back from that horrible night and how he comforted the seven-year-old child inside him who couldn’t fight back that day. Understanding all of that didn’t make it hurt any less. Last night had been the first of our lives together, our future ahead of us, and I hadn’t expected it to all come tumbling down before we’d even had breakfast.
I called an Uber and the app told me I’d have to meet him at the main gate. It had started to drizzle and the clouds crowded in overhead trying to make me forget how the sky had rejoiced with the two of us mere hours ago and bathed us in her magical sunlight as we were falling in love.
The ride home was quiet and heavy and hard. I dragged my feet up the stairs to my apartment building which, in comparison to Malcolm’s immaculate house, seemed like a dump. The only glimmer of hope left in my now cavernous chest, was a great hug from Skylar that could help mute some of the pain.
Once inside, I texted her to come home whenever she was ready. I tried to block out the memories of Miller that every corner of my apartment now seemed to hold. Breakfast at the kitchen table, stolen kisses in the doorway. I picked up some of the ten gazillion books he’d bought for Sky and took them to her room. Stacking them on her bookshelf, I looked down to see a framed picture of the three of us, taken just a couple weeks ago. Sliding it out of the frame, I turned it over and read: To Skylar, from Malcolm. Days spent with you and Claire are the best I’ve ever had. Here’s to many, many more of them.