“Are you sick?” she said, taking in my pajamas and greasy hair.
“Just have a touch of something,” I said. “You cut your bangs.”
She reached up to tug on them. “Too short. When will I learn?”
I shrugged, hoping she realized how very little I cared about her hair.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, eyeing my sofa, then opting to sit cross-legged on her favorite spot on my floor.
I told her no.
“Resentful?”
“No,” I lied again.
“Sad?”
“Lucy. Stop.”
But she couldn’t stop; she could never stop. “Did you tell my dad it was over?” she asked more softly, as if this changed the fact that she was pressing, digging.
“It never really began,” I said, joining her on the floor, both of us cross-legged in a way that reminded me of preschool. All that was missing were our little colored mats and thirty years.
“But you talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s okay with everything?”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Yes,” I said, keeping my answer as simple as possible. “We both agree that this is for the best.”
“And I heard you quit your job, too?” she asked, relentless.
I wondered how this news got to her. “Or got fired. Hard to tell which. But yeah … I’m officially unemployed.”
Lucy leaned over to put her arms awkwardly around my shoulders and then burst into tears. I refused to hug her back, feeling a wave of rage, nearly telling her that she had no right to cry like this. She’d gotten her way; she didn’t get to be the injured party, too.
But then she said, “Shea … I started bleeding … two days ago … I’m not pregnant anymore.”
“Oh, honey,” I said, hugging her back. “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
She sniffed loudly, wiping her tears with her hand. “I know … I guess it just wasn’t meant to be this time … I’m sorry … I thought I was done crying.” Her face contorted in a failed attempt to smile.
“Do you think it was because …?” I started, then stopped.
“No,” she said, reading my mind. “It had nothing to do with any of this.”
“It wasn’t the … stress?” I was pretty certain miscarriages didn’t work like that but wanted to gauge Lucy’s feelings on any possible connection.
“No. The doctor said it just wasn’t a viable pregnancy. We’ll get pregnant again.”
“Of course you will,” I said.
“Or maybe we won’t. Maybe Neil and I were just meant to have one child. You know, in a way, I’d be okay with that. Because I hate the idea of my mother never holding my baby.”
I looked into her sad eyes, relieved that I had made the decision I had, telling her again how very sorry I was.
“Were you really in love with my dad?” she asked, using the past tense, as if I had simply gotten over my feelings in a matter of days.
“Yes,” I said.
“But … why?”
I shrugged. “Is there ever a why?”
She shook her head. “God. I wish you weren’t.”
“I know,” I replied. “I wish … a lot of things.”
“Like what? What else do you wish?” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was testing me or making conversation or something in between, but I answered her, choosing my words carefully.
“I wish your mother were still here,” I said, starting with the most important one. “I wish you hadn’t lost the baby. I wish Ryan weren’t so messed up. I wish I could have been a better reporter. I wish … I wish that I were deeply, madly in love with Miller.”
Lucy cracked a smile and said, “Miller? Oh, please don’t wish that. He’s worse than liking my dad.”
I smiled, realizing that I had forgotten an obvious one. The only one that would have been on my mind a few weeks before.
“But if we’re talking realistic wishes?”
She nodded earnestly.
“I’d settle for one more Walker win this season,” I said.
She smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “You’re going to the game, right?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“What?” she said. “Are you kidding? You’ve got to be kidding. You have to come. You’re the one person in the world who absolutely needs to be there. I mean, other than the coaches and players. You can’t miss this game!”
“I’m not going to miss the game. I’ll be watching it on television.”
She stared at me, incredulous. “Where?”