Page 27
“That’s normal.”
I sigh and lean back deeper into the couch cushions. “The worst part is realizing how much of myself disappeared while I was with him. I stopped painting and playing guitar. I also avoided talking to people regularly because it was easier than dealing with his judgement afterward.”
A silence fills the air after my admission. “Abusive relationships aren’t always loud,” Claire says.
“I don’t know if I’d call what we had abusive.”
“Peyton.”
The gentleness in her tone makes the truth hit harder. I swallow thickly. “He never yelled at me or anything. And he never physically hurt me.”
“That’s not the only kind of abuse.”
The words settle heavily into the silence between us. Part of me wants to argue. Another part feels exhausted at the thought of defending him further. A memory punches through. I'd been crying after another failed fertility appointment when Nathan finally let out a frustrated sigh. Do you know how exhausting it is to come home every day wondering which version of you I'll get? When I started crying, he rolled his eyes. See? This is exactly why I stopped talking about having kids. And I apologized for grieving a child we'd both wanted.
I look down at Tilly and brush my fingers lightly over her hand. “She deserves better than that kind of relationship someday,” I murmur absentmindedly.
“You do too.”
I close my eyes, holding the moisture back. I remember standing in front of the mirror before a friend's birthday dinner. Nathan looked me up and down before shrugging. If you're happy wearing that, who am I to stop you? I changed three times. By the time we left, I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me anymore. I truly hope Tilly never experiences the hurt I did.
Before I can spiral too deeply into my feelings, Claire thankfully steers the conversation in a different direction. “So, when can we bring Peanut to meet Tilly?”
My niece Rosalie, affectionately nicknamed Peanut since birth, has the entire family wrapped around her little finger. My brother turned into the softest man alive the second his daughter arrived.
“Maybe if we survive the first month,” I joke.
“You sure you’re okay being around a baby so much?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because I’m offended, but because I’m touched. I stare down at Tilly before answering honestly. “Sometimes it hurts a little, being reminded of what I once hoped to have.”
There was supposed to be a nursery. Family photos. A husband who loved me unconditionally. Children we planned for together. Instead I’m twenty-five, nearly divorced and living above an auto body shop in Brooklyn while helping care for someone else’s baby. And weirdly enough? I’m happier than I was six months ago.
“That probably sounds messed up,” I admit quietly.
“No,” Claire says immediately. “It sounds human.”
Emotion presses against my ribs hard enough that I have to blink rapidly again. God, I really missed people who let me feel things without turning them into inconveniences.
We talk about Rosalie’s latest chaos gremlin behavior and how Dex apparently cried over a diaper commercial last week. When we finally hang up, I sit there holding my empty teacup while sunlight warms my bare legs and Tilly sleeps against my chest. And I love the feeling.
Once I wash and put the mug away, I find myself admiring Ollie’s guitars again in the living room. My stomach does a little flip, my fingers yearning to touch them. I haven’t played properly in over three years and hesitate to try again.
“You’re being dramatic,” I mutter to myself.
I set Tilly down and walk toward the guitars, moving before I can overthink myself out of it. The matte black Gibson is beautiful up close, with signs of wear that prove it’s actually played instead of just displayed. I hesitate once more before reaching for it.
Nobody’s here, Peyton, I remind myself. He doesn’t get a say anymore.
Lifting the guitar into my lap, I settle onto the floor near Tilly’s play mat. For a moment, I just stare at the instrument. Then I press my fingers against the strings and strum. The first chord rings through the apartment. Something inside me cracks open instantly; I forgot how much I missed this. Another chord follows. Then another.
Slowly, muscle memory takes over. My fingertips ache from disuse, but the sensation is grounding instead of painful. Tilly watches me with huge blue eyes while I play Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love.”
She kicks her legs excitedly when I sing louder. I laugh and keep playing melodies I haven’t touched in what feels like forever. Pieces of myself I thought I lost somewhere back in California. By the time I finally stop, almost forty minutes have passed and my heart is fuller.
After lunch, I’m pushing Tilly’s stroller through Brooklyn with sunglasses perched on my nose and a tote bag hanging from my shoulder. The summer air wraps warmly around us as we wander without direction. That’s the thing I’m starting to love most about this city; it feels impossible to run out of places to discover. Every block offers something different and new. Murals stretched across brick walls. Small bookstores. Sidewalk fruit and flower stands overflowing with color. Possibility exists everywhere.
I slow outside a small art gallery tucked between a bakery and vintage clothing store, instantly intrigued by the bright abstract paintings displayed in the front window. Deciding to take a closer look, I open the front door and push the stroller inside. A small bell chimes overhead as cool air conditioning washes over us. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching against gold details layered into the artwork hanging across the white walls.
