Other Broken Things (21 page)

“You would've what?” I hold up my hand. “You know what? Forget it. Let's not. We weren't trying to get pregnant. We were stupid and drunk and we fucked up on using protection. I told you I didn't want it. Let's not pretend that this all wasn't a huge fucking blessing for both of us.”

He stands up and starts pacing. “I don't know. I mean, yeah, I don't want to be a dad at eighteen, but Jesus, it doesn't mean I'm not messed up about it. I'm sorry I wasn't there when I should've been, but cut me some slack here.”

He paces back and forth a few more times and I try hard to see things from his perspective. How little control he had over everything and how frustrating that probably was to him too. And it was a dick move for me to drop the pregnancy news on him when the two of us were halfway to shit-faced at a party.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and this is pretty much all I'm going to be able to give him. The baby, the accident, it's all too much and I don't want to have to do my Fifth Step with Brent, too.

He drops to his knees and takes my hands. “I'm sorry too. I fucked up. I should've come to see you in the hospital. I should've been more careful about condoms. But we were wasted and I don't even really remember when it happened.”

“Me neither. That's kind of one of my problems. I don't remember a lot from when I'm drunk. And I do a lot of stupid shit.”

Brent laughs, but it's sad and sort of pathetic. “Yeah, you do. I mean, it was kind of funny sometimes, but sometimes it wasn't. And we were . . .”

“Not good for each other.”

He brushes his thumb over my knuckles, circling around the red parts that don't hurt nearly as much as they did a half hour ago. “But you know, Nat, I like you. And not just the sex part.” Now he blushes and looks down.

He's such a boy. Privileged and protected and a lot like me, or how I was a year ago. I brush my hand through his hair and it almost feels like petting a puppy.

“I can't be with you, B. It isn't the pregnancy and us always doing stupid shit together drunk. It's everything. I can't stand the idea that you've seen me be so terrible. It's too hard.”

And now I understand Kathy's problem. Why she can't figure out what to do with her ex. Because it isn't him, it's her. It's having to live with someone who constantly reminds you of how much you once sucked. It's too much work. And in this case, letting go is the right thing to do.

“You won't even give us a chance? I mean, Jesus, why do you think I've been carting Amy and Amanda everywhere? They're
your
friends, and I'm trying not to be a dick and leave them to their own devices.”

I stand up now and cross to the door. We're talking in circles and I don't want to keep going anymore. “You drink too, Brent. You're not a saint in all of this. And I never asked you to take on the A's full-time. That's not your job.”

“Apart from that night I showed up at your house, I haven't had anything to drink in weeks. Did you know that? I don't need it. I don't care about it one way or another. I just mostly did it because that's what we all do . . . did, whatever.”

“Then why are you hanging out with Amy and Amanda? You can't fix them. You can't fix me. It's not on you.”

He rises and crosses to me. “I don't know. I feel responsible for them, I guess. If you won't let me be responsible for you, I can at least make sure they get home safely.”

“Do yourself a favor. Drop the martyr complex. This is their problem. Driving them, taking care of them, it's all enabling. They have to sink or swim on their own, just like I did.”

He folds his arms over his chest and looks smaller now. He's waiting and wants something, but I'm not sure what he expects from me.

“I would've helped you with the baby. Whatever you wanted . . .”

I snort. “B, you're eighteen. This whole conversation is too much for either of us. Drop it. I didn't and don't need the postmortem from you, and we're both going to be fine. Really.”

I swing his door open, but he snags my hand and squeezes. “I'll wait for you. I mean, we're friends and I'm around, so if you . . .”

“We're not going to be a thing. I told you,” I say, shaking his hand off, and this time I'm pretty sure he gets the message loud and clear.

“I'll still be your friend, though,” he says. “If you want. I'm not giving up on that.”

I'm suddenly exhausted, the fight drained out of me, the need to patch up the pieces of my life too overwhelming in this moment. So I release a long breath and say, “I'll see you.” And before he can say more, I escape the room to head back home.

I'm at the gym
every morning and at AA three times a week. After that first time with Josh, Jerry hasn't let me spar. He says it's a privilege I have to earn back. He checks my court card when I walk in and then has me suit up for drills: jump rope, sprints, the bag. I've become a machine.

I eat lunch with Camille and her friends, but I haven't really opened up yet. She's noticed my bruised knuckles and asked about them so I told her I was boxing again. We're starting fresh as sort-of friends.

After the second week at her table, just as she's leaving, I mumble, “I'm sorry I let you go.”

She stops, studies me for a long minute, then nods. “We let each other go. You pulled away, but I let you. I didn't think you wanted me around anymore. You had your boxing friends. Then your other friends.” She gestures at the A's with both hands.

“You deserved better. Probably still do.”

“We'll see,” she says, then takes off as if we've resolved something. And maybe she has, but I'm still pretty lost when it comes to digging in with friends.

When I get home every day I talk to Kathy. I text Joe. He texts back but it's never much more than a soft dismissal. Cold but friendly. He doesn't go to meetings at SFC anymore. He's sober, Kathy told me, but I think he's wary of Dad showing up.

I haven't talked to my dad in two full weeks. He says something and I ignore him. He's tried getting angry, but it's in one ear, out the other with me, and he's at the point where he claims he's given up.

Poor Mom is the mediator. She talks between us, trying not to take sides, but there's no hope for it. I'm honest with her. I tell her how I feel. I tell her about anger and resentment. And finally, after years of avoiding the hard stuff, one day she cracks.

“Are you going to talk to me about the baby ever?” she says as I'm jumping rope in the basement. I stumble.

“You actually want to know?” I know she knows. There's no way she couldn't. Hospitals are pretty quick with medical bills, and there's no way she'd have missed a DNC. But I'm surprised she really is asking, addressing something head-on.

“Oh, Natalie, of course I want to know.”

I sit down on the weight bench. “How come it took you this long to say something?”

She sits beside me. She stays here with me when I train, which is weird, but also sort of okay. I think it's her way of showing support. Since Dad is never around, it doesn't seem to have impacted him either way, though I'm not totally sure he even knows I'm back at the gym. She might be reaching out more with me, but she's gotten almost frosty with him.

It's less than six weeks until I'm eighteen and I'm guessing Dad's been counting down the time.

“Well, your dad doesn't really feel like we should discuss it. And I thought I'd let you come to me with it. But you haven't.”

“Why would I? That's not our way.”

She gnaws on her lip. “Maybe it should be our way.”

“Are you mad?”

“That you had sex and weren't careful? Yes. But I'm not mad that I'm not going to be a grandmother.”

A strange noise comes from the back of my throat. “You always wanted a bigger family,” I blurt out.

“Not at the expense of my seventeen-year-old daughter living her life. Don't be ridiculous. Why didn't you tell me when you found out?”

I bark out a laugh. “Because I was at the bottom of a bottle of Everclear.”

She pats my hand. “You're not now. And you still haven't said anything. I thought you were working on being honest. That's been . . . refreshing.”

I shrug. “Well, you typically avoid the really hard things. And even with my new honesty thing, it's not always easy coming forward with more reasons for you to be disappointed in me. The smoking and the meetings and the DUI are enough.”

She takes both my hands in hers. “Listen. You need to stop thinking like that. I know we haven't been the best parents. I know we've set difficult expectations for you. God knows we took away something that actually meant something to you.” She waves her hand toward the punching bag.

“I get that you want the best for me . . . ,” I start.

She shakes her head. “Yes, and there's where we went wrong. We decided we'd set the course for what was best without taking you into account. As if you didn't know what was best for yourself.”

I look at our hands and let out a long breath. “I want to box. I want Joe. These things are what's best for me.”

“Oh, Natalie . . . God, I wish I could make this easier for you. I wish I had a crystal ball so you could really see what this relationship with Joe could mean. It's not just the alcoholic thing. It's everything. How do you have a family with someone who is so much older than you? You don't know how hard it is caring for infants. By the time you're ready, he'll be in his fifties.”

“Maybe I don't want to have a family. Maybe I want to box and live in his trailer and have this be my life.”

Tears trail down her cheeks and I shake her hands off so I can brush them away. “I don't want that life for you, Nattie. I want you to be happy, but I can't see you being happy with that in the long run.”

“You're doing it again, Mom. You're deciding what's best for me. When I'm eighteen, you'll have no say.”

She smiles a little. “I have no say now. We both know this. But, honey, please, think long and hard about this. You have so many choices in front of you. Even if you want to box, you'll want to go to college eventually. Are you going to let go of living in the dorms with your friends to live with Joe? Are you going to skip parties and dances and all the rest of it?”

“Mom.” I take a deep breath. I should be more used to this by now. “I'm an alcoholic. It's not the best idea for me to be going to those things anyway.”

She pats my cheek. “Yes. You're an alcoholic. Already everything is going to be harder for you. Do you really want to take this on?”

I nod. “Yes. I love him.”

She stands up and crosses the room. It's a strange departure and I can't tell if she's angry until she turns back and I see a mountain of sorrow on her shoulders. “Think about it, Natalie. I will love you no matter what. But that life will never be an easy one for you.”

“Maybe easy isn't always what is right.”

She nods. “Maybe.” There's a long pause, then she says, “If you want to talk about the pregnancy ever, I'm here. I'll listen. I won't judge.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, but I know I won't be able to have that conversation with her. It's too loaded.

When I get done with my workout, I go upstairs to text Joe. It's something I've been thinking about for a while and I'm ready to ask him now.

I turn eighteen next month. Will you have dinner with me?

I hold my breath, but he doesn't text back right away. He has his phone. Joe always has his phone. Which means he's deciding. I jump in the shower and take a long time washing my hair. When I finally get pruney, I hop out and check my phone again.

Okay.

My dad is standing
in front of the door, trying to bar me from going to dinner with Joe.

“Absolutely not. Not if you want to ever enter this house again.”

I stomp to the closet and grab my gym bag. “Okay. Your choice. I'll stay at the gym.”

“You're being ridiculous, Natalie. I know what's going on and I've let the boxing thing slide because it's keeping you sober, but you're not to go out with that man.”

I glance at Mom, but her lips are pressed together in a thin line. “I'm eighteen,” I say as calmly as I can.

“You're still a dependent. You're in high school.”

I shrug. “I can get my GED. I can live at the gym. I'm eighteen. All bets are off here, Dad. It's time for you to make the call about how much you want to keep me as your daughter.”

I've practiced this with Kathy. Last Sunday and every day this week over the phone. I've known it was coming. She's said I might be nuts but she's withholding any final judgment since she's moving back in with her ex and is hardly one to talk about potential bad choices. Joe has had a few brief conversations with his brother, according to Kathy, but things are still tense between them.

“You don't get to give me an ultimatum,” Dad says.

“You're right. And I'm not. I'm giving you a choice. I am going to dinner with Joe. That is
my
choice for my birthday. You can respond to that any way you want. I hope you'll let me back in tonight. But I can't control that. I love you, Dad, but whatever mistakes you're trying to keep me from, they're mine to make. They've always been mine to make.”

Mom gives me a little nod, but she doesn't say anything. She hasn't mentioned Joe again since that night in the basement. She's been to the gym a few times, even watched me spar without flinching or doing that Mom shouting thing. She's in a strange place of trying to reconfigure what we are to each other. And it's been sort of okay working it out with her.