Stark International: Under My Skin Part 28

"Sooner or later you'll have to quit indulging her," I tease.

"I'm well aware. Ten or eleven more years and I'll be completely over it."

I laugh. Frankly, I think he's underestimating. I lean against the counter and watch as she holds her hands up, demanding he lift her. He does, and lets her hang on his hip like a little monkey. He looks happy and engaged. Not to mention competent and completely smitten, and I think it's about the s.e.xiest I've ever seen him.

"Okay, you two. I need to go to the store to get everything for our celebration. I'll be back soon."

"Me, too! Me, too!"

I glance at Jackson. "What do you think? Can you come?"

He shakes his head. "I have a call. About your resort," he adds, his eyes crinkling with amus.e.m.e.nt. "But you two go on ahead." He grins. "Your first mommy/daughter outing."

The thought makes b.u.t.terflies dance in my stomach, and I'm about to protest. But I look at the little girl, so clearly excited to go out into the world. "All right," I say after a moment. "Why not." After all, how hard could it be?

I'm pretty certain that every person in Los Angeles is at the Ralphs on West 9th today. At least that's how it feels as I try to maneuver through the crowd with one hand on the cart and one hand tight in Ronnie's little one.

"Come on, kiddo," I say. "Don't you want to ride?" I'd tried putting her in the cart when we'd first arrived, but she is absolutely determined to help me, and apparently helping me means walking beside me while I try to navigate the crowd and figure out what we need to buy.

She stubbornly shakes her head. "Wanna walk, Sylvie. Wanna push the cart."

"You can't reach the cart," I counter. "But okay. Walking it is."

I've already grabbed the ground beef, eggs, tomato sauce, and ice cream. So now I need to get some potatoes, onions, and the green beans that we negotiated during our ice cream and vegetable summit.

I know my way around this grocery store pretty well as it's a short walk from Stark Tower and I come here on occasion to grab something for lunch. So it's easy enough to get back to the produce section and load up on the vegetables we need for dinner. "That's all we need," I tell her. "I'm going to weigh these and put on those little price labels, and then we can go check out, okay?"

She's staring up at the produce scale, watching a woman in front of us type in a code and get rewarded with a white label.

"Me! Me!" she says as the woman in front of us leaves.

"Do you know your numbers?" I ask, and she dutifully counts to ten, albeit out of order after she pa.s.ses six. I decide that's close enough. "Okay," I say, then put the bag of onions on the scale. I haul her up and balance her on my hip, then slowly tell her, "Three, four, one, two."

She almost messes up on the four, but I redirect her finger and we end up with a label for the onions, which she enthusiastically slaps on.

The process has taken only about eight times longer than it should.

"You did great," I say. "I'm going to do the other two myself, really really fast. Wanna watch?"

She bobs her head, her black curls bouncing, and I go back to the scale, saying the numbers out loud as I punch them in, like some real life skit on Sesame Street.

When I'm done, I hold on to my vegetables and turn around to lead her back to the cart.

She's gone.

A bolt of panic cuts through me, and I tamp it down. She can't be gone. She's just in the next aisle. She's just behind one of these people.

But she's not, and reality is smacking me in the face. I've lost her. I've lost Jackson's little girl.

My stomach lurches, and I swallow both bile and fear. I don't have time for that. All I have time for is finding her.

"Did you see her? The little girl who was beside me?" I practically shout the question at two women who are chatting in the aisle by the tomatoes. But both just look at me blankly. One as if I am nothing more than a nuisance, the other with an apologetic smile and an explanation of, "Sorry, I haven't seen a thing."

Oh dear G.o.d.

"Ronnie!" I am completely uninterested in the looks that people are shooting me as I scream her name at the top of my lungs even while I race along the back of the section so that I can look down each aisle that runs perpendicular to this wall. "Veronica!"

Nothing. And I have no idea what to do. I don't want to leave this part of the store, but I need a manager. I need help, and I'm just about to scream that someone needs to help me when a short woman with a friendly face taps my elbow and says, "Is that your little girl?"

I peer down to find Ronnie under a free-standing display of brussels sprouts and cauliflower.

"Oh my G.o.d," I say, my body going limp with relief. "Ronnie. Ronnie, come here, baby."

She scrambles out, then shows me the tiny red bouncy ball that she'd spied under the display.

"Can I keep it?" she asks, but I don't answer. I'm too busy clutching her to my chest as I try to get my breath back and calm the beating of my heart.

I turn around to search for the woman who had found her for me, because who knows what would have happened if she hadn't been there today. But the woman is nowhere in sight.

And with Ronnie held tight in my arms, I abandon our cart and rush toward the door.

I can't think about food or dinner or ice cream or meat loaf.

All I can think is that I screwed up.

All I can do is race toward home.

"Calm down," Jackson says as I pace the bedroom trying to hold back yet another flood of tears. "Baby, calm down. It's okay. She's safe. You didn't lose her. You didn't hurt her."

Ronnie is down for a nap, and I don't even think she's upset at all. She cried in the car, but I'm pretty sure that was because I was fighting back tears, my body tense as I kept two hands on the steering wheel.

"I did lose her," I snap. "Just because she was only a few feet away doesn't mean I didn't. It just means I got lucky. What if I'd raced to get the manager before that woman found her? She might have crawled out from under the display and wandered out of the store. The produce section is right by the automated doors and the parking lot is right there and have you seen how fast cars go through there even though they're not supposed to?"

I'm breathless, my wordsmy fearstumbling out on top of each other. And I know that he's right. She is okay. And I am not the first person to take their eyes off a child in a grocery story. But that isn't the point. That's just a catalyst, and it's sparked all of my fears and doubts into one big explosion.

I know what I have to doand I hate it. Because it will be the hardest thing ever. But I have to. For Jackson. For Ronnie. And even for me.

Jackson halts me on my next pa.s.s across the room, then pulls me into his arms. "Sweetheart, you were scared. I get that. But you need to step back. Take a deep breath."

I rip myself out of his arms. "Scared? I wasn't scared, Jackson. I was f.u.c.king terrified. Just like I was last night. She had a nightmare, and"

"I know," he says gently. "Stella told me. But, Sylvia, you're doing fine. The fact that you're struggling doesn't mean you're doing badly."

I recognize my words to him from our fight at the airport. "You want to throw my words back at me? Fine. I told you then that I loved you. That I'd give you whatever you need. And I mean it, Jackson. But what you need is a relationship with your daughter. A strong one. A solid one. And I'm going to get in the way of that. I never thoughtwhen I came after you, I mean. I didn't"

"You're scared," he says again. "But, sweetheart, that's okay. Do you think you become a parent and all your fears go away?"

"I don't know. That's the point." I drop down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I can't be a test case for that little girl's life. I mean, Christ, Jackson, I'm a mess. I don't even know how to soothe my own nightmares, much less Ronnie's."

"Yes, you do. With all this, your father. My arrest. Everything that came before. You haven't had one in a long time." He grips my shoulders tight. "You're stronger, and you know it."

"I am, yes. But not with this."

"Then let me help you."

But I just shake my head. "Don't you get it? That's the point. If I'm going to be your wife, then I should be a help, not an albatross."

"Syl" I hear the fear in his voice, and I know that he sees where this is going just as clearly as I do.

"I told you once that there was no price I wouldn't pay to be with you. And I know that I came after you. That I fought for you. For her. And oh, Christ, I meant it. But I was wrong, Jackson. Because I won't risk that little girl. I don't know how to do this. I should never have said yes. It was wrong of me. Selfish, even. I was so overwhelmed by your faith in me and by my fears of losing you that I forgot that faith isn't enough, and that fear is a c.r.a.ppy jumping-off point for anything."

I stand up, because I have to move. More than that, I have to leave.

"Sweetheart, please. Wait."

"I can't. II'm sorry, Jackson. I need to go. I need" But I leave the words hanging. What I need is him. But as I walk toward the dooras I leave my engagement ring on the top of the dresserI no longer believe that I can have him.

twenty-eight.

I spend the rest of Sunday in my apartment watching reruns of How I Met Your Mother, and I don't even laugh once. Honestly, I'm not sure I'm even watching the show; more likely, my mind is elsewhere.

Monday, Ca.s.s calls to check on me and I a.s.sure her that I'm fine, which we both know is a big, fat lie. After all, I was a wreck yesterday when I called and told her the whole story, from Ronnie's nightmare to losing her at the grocery store to me walking out. No way have I gone from complete mess to fine in less than a day.

"I'm coming over after work," she says. "We'll talk."

"No. Please. I just want to be alone. I wantI guess I want to work through it myself."

I can hear her hesitation over the phone line, and I understand it. Because Ca.s.s has been there for almost all the crises of my life. And if she wasn't there, then Jackson was.

And that, frankly, is why I want to be alone. I need to prove to myself that I can handle thisthis intertwining of fear and anger and confusion that is the big ball of emotion that fills my gut shining bright with labels like father and Jackson and Ronnie and parents and choices.

"You know I've got your back."

"I'm counting on it."

"Are you going to need ink?"

I understand that question, too. She's asking me if I'm going to need her to give me a tattooa reminder to give me strength. To help me hold on and get through. "I don't know," I say honestly.

"Okay." I hear her sigh. "Whatever you need."

"I know. I do. Seriously, I'll be fine." But then, before she hangs up, I blurt, "Ca.s.s!"

"Yeah?"

I start to ask if Jackson has called her, but I bite back the question. I don't want this reality where I'm not with him, even if I'm still certain that I made the right choice. And hearing that he is worried about me or that he misses me or even that he is p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l at me would be too d.a.m.n painful. "Never mind."

There is a long pause, and then, as if she is deliberately honoring my earlier request, she says, "Okay, then. I'll talk to you later."

I am not going in to work today. Not only am I not ready to see Jackson in the office, but my dad's attorney has arranged a visitation. That, however, isn't until four, which leaves me with a day to fill. And since I don't want to fill it with my thoughts, I turn again to television solace. Only, reruns of Friends don't make me laugh, either.

The phone rings and I start to s.n.a.t.c.h it up, then slow my hand when I realize the single word that is in my headJackson.

But it's not him who is calling. It's Ethan.

"Hey," he says. "Have you seen Dad yet?"

"Not yet," I say. "I'm going in about an hour. You're coming up tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to see him at noon. Let him know, okay?"

"Sure."

"Listen, has Mom called you?"

I frown. "No." To say that my mother and I have a strained relationship is like saying that black is a dark color. It's just a flat-out given. I've been a non-ent.i.ty to her for years, and I don't even know if she's aware of what happened to meof what her husband did to her daughter. She pretty much wrote me off, all of her attention going toward my brother, leaving me to basically fend for myself. But considering what I know of my parents, maybe that was best.

"Dammit, I told her she should. I mean, our dad's in jail. Isn't that what moms do?"

Not our mom, I think. But all I say is, "So what did she say?"

"She asked me why she should."

I sigh. I'm not entirely sure why he's telling me this. G.o.d knows nothing has changed.

"I justshe screwed up, Syl. They both have. But that doesn't mean you will."

I lick my lips, but I don't say anything. I don't want to talk about this, and I'm regretting even telling him in my message that I'd left Jackson and Ronnie.

"I know we've grown up saying that we're not going to have kids because it's just a G.o.dd.a.m.n vicious cycle, but it doesn't have to be. You can stop it."

"That's what I'm doing," I say.

"You know what I mean."

I do, but I don't want to talk about it. "Listen, I need to get dressed."

"s.h.i.t, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have"

"It's okay," I say quickly.