I smirk. “Is that a crack?”
“It’s a compliment,” he says innocently.
“At least I got to say goodbye to Sara,” I sigh. “I left Tonya without a word.”
“Yeah…”
I frown at Artem’s reaction and study his expression. “You mentioned you met her, too, right?”
He nods. “You may have hurt her feelings, leaving the way you did.”
“Fuck,” I sigh. “I knew I would. But I was just so panicked when I made the decision to go, and I didn’t think I could deal with another goodbye. I had to leave that place.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he reassures me. “My only question is why didn’t you leave sooner. That place was depressing as fuck.”
I nod, remembering just how awful it felt. To be surrounded by so much grief and heartache was… overwhelming, to say the least.
“I’d just given birth to Phoenix, my body needed time to recover, and I couldn’t afford to rent out a place of my own, especially considering I had no money coming in. The shelter was my best option to recuperate.”
I look at Artem, and realize how much he still doesn’t know.
But his eyes are looking at me and they’re soft and gentle and they’re saying, Tell me.
So I tell him.
I tell him about Sara and Ruby and the third trimester of my pregnancy.
I tell him about cramps and sporadic doctor’s appointments whenever I could find the money for them.
I tell him about the time I woke up believing I’d lost the baby because I had bled into my underwear.
I tell him about going to the bus station late at night, only to have Geoffrey drive me to the hospital as I went into labor and subsequently lost consciousness.
I tell him about waking up to meet my son, only to flee the hospital hours later.
I tell him about my time at the shelter and the unexpected friendship I’d found with Tonya.
I tell him about Nancy and the moment when I realized I wasn’t about to endanger my son’s life by staying at the shelter any longer.
I tell him about accepting an under the counter job at the day care, because it meant I would get to earn money as well as be with Phoenix.
I tell him about sleepless nights and busy mornings.
I tell him about leaking breasts and bouts of incessant crying.
I tell him about walking by the ocean in the evenings with Phoenix.
I talk so much that, by the time I’ve run out of things to tell him, I’m parched and my throat is dry and I feel emotionally drained.
I hadn’t even realized how much I needed to tell my story.
Artem, to his credit, doesn’t say a word the entire time. He just listens to me, holding my hand or stoking my back while I let it all spill out of me.
And when I finally fall silently, he takes a deep breath and shakes his head.
“Esme,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”
I frown. “You’re sorry…?”