He exhales and looks up at me. “Tamarra’s condition is called congenital limb defect. Basically, her legs didn’t fully develop in her mother’s uterus.”
I roll my lips inward, fighting off so many questions.
“I had a million questions when she was born. Was it something I did? Something in my sperm from drugs I’d taken. Was it genetic? Mary had been sick during her pregnancy. Was Tam’s condition the result of a virus? Who knows? I didn’t care. I had this beautiful baby girl hardly bigger than a football in my hands and she became my purpose in life. Not tossing a ball. Not the millions of dollars. Not endorsements.”
His shoulders fall. “Suddenly, I was thirty-one years old with a newborn baby . . . Tam is my world.” He points up at the ceiling, determination and dedication firmly in his tone. “I walked away from the NFL. It had already cost me too much.”
My eyes burn with tears I fight. Everything in me wants to rush him, hold him, tell him how amazing he is. But I stand my ground as an invisible wall builds between us.
“That pity right there on your face is why I didn’t share all this with you.” His dark eyes turn to coal as his focus narrows in on me.
“I… I’m not pitying you,” I stammer, swallowing back the lump in my throat while blinking at the unshed tears.
“Yes, you are.” A heavy pause falls between us as I accept there isn’t a way to defend myself. He has it all wrong. It’s not pity; it’s—
“I’ll take you home.” His voice is as hard as his eyes.
“You can’t leave her, Zebb,” I remind him. “And I already called an Uber.”
Zebb hangs his head. For all his earlier condemnation that he wasn’t sending me home in an Uber, I’m exactly where he said I won’t be.
And I’m also out of place in Zebb’s home.
“He’s one minute out,” I explain from the driver tracker.
“Fine.” Zebb walks to his front door, and I follow. He holds it open for me and I step out thinking he’s ready to slam the door in my face. Instead, he follows me down the steps to the sidewalk.
The hired sedan pulls up and I step toward it, hating the turn this once-magical night has taken. Zebb doesn’t approach me for a good night kiss or even an awkward handshake. He doesn’t say a word and he’s already backing up to the steps of his place.
“Wait.” I hold firm to my spot on the sidewalk. “Just wait.”
He stops. His expression is one of disappointment and maybe fear. I know I’m afraid. This can’t be the end when we’re only beginning, and I accept I must share a piece of me to explain my reaction to everything.
“It’s not pity for you or her. I’m . . . it’s all on me. I never had what I witnessed in there.” I point at his place. “How sweet you were with her. How it’s evident you’d give her anything if she asked. I’m selfishly crying more for me than you or her.” Angrily, I swipe at an escaped tear, ashamed of myself.
“You have all I’d ever wished for. To love someone enough to marry her.” I choke, my heart breaking. “A beautiful child is testimony to that.”
I hate that I’m admitting all my hopes and the failure of not obtaining either of them. Quickly, I brush at my face and dismiss any more confessions.
“I meant what I said. I’d love to take her to tea.”
Then again, maybe tea is more about me as well. I want the excitement of her little face, the warmth of her spirit, near me. She’s the angel, not me.
Zebb stares at me and everything inside me hopes he’ll step toward me. He’ll break this cold wall between us and pull me into his arms. He’ll kiss me like he did in the pub before all his friends and co-workers.
Instead, the driver beeps his horn, startling me. Zebb nods without another word, and I turn for the car.
Once again, I hate this holiday, and myself.
6
On the second Wednesday of every month, I have drinks with a new friend of mine, Amelia McCaryn. Why second Wednesday is hard to remember but we make it a firm date in order to seek human contact outside work obligations.
Amelia and I met when Ashford’s had a meeting with Impact, a marketing firm where she works as an account executive. The meeting was tense as Jude Ashford sat opposite his father, Tucker, who owns Impact and rejected every marketing proposal given by the team. I was so embarrassed by my boss’s behavior I reached out to Amelia to apologize, recognizing in her a woman roughly my age and working hard to make a name for herself.
I’ve hardly let Amelia order her first peppermint martini before I’m spewing about Zebb and how it’s been five days since I’ve heard from him.
“He ghosted you?” She stares at me over the table in a small bar roughly halfway between her downtown office and Ashford’s. “A little ironic, right?”