Reparation(62)

“Fuck,” she whispered under her breath. Jameson went to hold her hand, and without thinking, she yanked away from his touch. He cut his eyes to hers, but before he could saying anything, her father was upon them.

“Kane. Surprised to see you here,” Mathias O'Shea barked out. Her father did not look happy to see them – the last time they had parted ways, Jameson had said some very choice words. But money talked, and Jameson had more of it than her father. Mr. O'Shea knew when to eat shit.

“Yes. Tatum got the phone call, we came straight here,” Jameson stood up, shaking hands with the other man. Her father didn't even look at her. Tate glanced at her mother, who appeared to be swaying. Classy.

“Ah, yes. Tatum. You two are still ...,” her father grumbled. Tate was tempted to shout 'fucking', but Jameson beat her to it.

“Yes. We just got back from an extended vacation in Spain, last month,” Jameson filled in.

Not dating. Not together. Just got back. So perfect.

“Been a long time now. I never thought you'd put up with -,” her father started.

“Yes, it has been a long time. And time well spent.”

The innuendo was not lost on anyone. Tatum dropped her head into her hands.

She wondered how her life had gotten to that point. Jameson Kane on one side of her. Her father on the other. Neither of them speaking to her. Her feeling small. Insignificant. A mistake. That's what she felt like; like one big mistake. It was horrible.

“Tate,” Jameson suddenly said. She glanced over to find him staring at her. “I want you to know, I meant -,”

“Is there a Tatum here?” an important looking nurse shouted out. Tate leapt to her feet.

“That's me! Thank god,” she groaned, trailing after the woman.

“The baby is fine. Ten fingers, ten toes, a beautiful little boy. Your sister said you could see her now, but only you,” the nurse informed her.

“Oh. Okay.”

Ellie looked tired. A kind of bone weary tired that Tate couldn't even begin to imagine. But she also kinda looked relaxed, and happy. She smiled at Tatum and gestured for her to sit down on the side of the bed.

“I'm glad you're here,” Ellie said through a yawn. Tate smiled.

“Of course I'm here. Everyone's here. Sanders is passing out water like we're at a cocktail party,” she joked.

“Good, I'm glad. Ang? Is he okay? He looked kinda green,” Ellie told her.

“Yeah, he was a little upset. Tell me, did your water break when you were on top of him?” Tate teased.

“God, you two are disgusting. No,” Ellie grumbled. But then she smiled. “But a minute or two later, and it would have.”

“Good for you.”

“Do you want to see him?” Ellie asked softly. Tate nodded, and Ellie gestured to a sterile looking crib that sat against the wall.

“Is he okay? Isn't he early?” Tate asked, walking towards it.

“Only a little bit, the doctors said I was farther along than they nthought,” Ellie replied.

He was beautiful. So beautiful. Tate picked him up and cuddled him to her chest. She normally wasn't a baby kind of person, not much into kids. But when he stared up at her with his dusky blue eyes, she felt her soul melt a little. A tear splashed onto his baby blanket, followed by another.

“Did you name him?” she managed to ask through her sniffles.

“I was thinking Shamus, after Daddy's brother. I always liked him. Shamus O'Shea Carmichael,” Ellie said, yawning again.

“Christ, he's never gonna be able to pronounce it,” Tate snorted, stroking her finger down one of Shamus' fingers.

“Don't use that kind of language in front of my son,” Ellie corrected her.

“God, he's perfect, El. Good job, good for you,” Tate breathed.

“At least I did something right,” Ellie laughed.

The baby had big eyes. Beautiful eyes. Both Tate and Ellie had brown eyes, so he must have gotten his eyes from his daddy. A misty blue, almost like Sanders', but huge. He was very quiet, too, and he stared right into Tate's eyes. She felt like he was staring straight through her, straight into her soul.

I want this.

The thought came out of nowhere, and some more tears fell. She had never thought about having kids before, it was always more of a “someday” kind of thing. But she was twenty-six. “Someday” really wasn't that far away. And here she was, caught on repeat with Jameson. He would never want to have kids. He wouldn't even call her his girlfriend, how could he have kids with her? He would never marry her, he had said so himself. It would never be anything more than what it was, right then.

What if I want more?

She'd had the thought before, and now she knew it would keep coming back. Keep coming, until it ripped them apart. Just as bad as Petrushka, if not worse. Yes, Jameson liked her. Yes, he cared about her, to a certain extent. But not as much as she wanted. As much as she needed. She laid the baby back down in the crib. Wiped at her eyes.