Page 94 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Not that I can think of?” I say, but it comes out like a question. “I don’t think so. Manniford at the restaurant, Stanley Riggs—that doesn’t seem like something they would have known.”
We sit in silence for a second, and I can tell Heidi is thinking as hard as I am. But then she sighs.
“So much for speculating; my brain is all jumbled and fuzzy.”
I grimace. “I know. Mine too.”
“Should we put a pin in this?” she finally says. “Just for a little bit? Talk about something else to clear our heads?”
I nod, but I don’t say anything. My mind is still turning over this new realization—a realization that might mean something or nothing.
We lapse into silence for several more minutes until Heidi speaks again.
“Sometimes I think of my books as my babies,” she says abruptly. Her voice is quiet, but I hear every word. “And putting them on their shelves is like tucking them into bed, until they grow up and they’re ready to go out in the world.”
“Mmm,” I say, smiling at that. She was right; it feels good to think about something besides murder. “Funnily enough, I feel the same way about my books.”
“The ones you write?” she says, looking at me. I can hear the surprise in her voice.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I conceive them, nourish them, care for them—and then send them out into the world to be at the mercy of everyone else.”
“Huh,” she says faintly. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She’s silent for a moment, and then she speaks again. “Soren.”
Something about her voice has me tensing. “Yeah,” I say.
“Am I correct in assuming you want to date me?”
I blink, startled. My heart stumbles over itself, but I take a deep breath and do my best not to let her hear my sudden nerves. “Yes,” I say truthfully. “I want to date you.”
In the shadows I can see her nodding slowly. “And are you someone who views dating as the first step toward marriage, or toward starting a family or whatever?”
“If you’re asking if I could see a future with you…” I say, pressing my palm over my chest as though it can calm my thundering heart. “Yes. I’m not interested in anything superficial.”
Another slow nod, and she reaches up to tuck some hair behind her ear. “Then you should know—” Her voice cracks, and she cuts off before resuming. “You should know that I likely can’t have children.”
Silence—in the room and in my mind. Just a blank emptiness as my brain scrambles to process and keep up and understand.
And I ask myself some very serious questions then. Questions that I owe it to myself to ask: Do I want to be with Heidi if she’s unable to have children? Could I live a life with her if expanding our family wasn’t possible?
The answer is on the tip of my tongue before I can stop it. “Yes,” I hear myself saying.
The word hovers in the air for a moment.
“Um,” Heidi says. “Sorry?”
Aaaand I’m an idiot. She didn’t ask a question. I asked myself those questions, in my head, and then answered out loud.
Great. Really great,I think, rolling my eyes at myself.
“What I mean,” I say, “is that whether you can or will have children doesn’t change how I feel about you.” I swallow as my vulnerable words queue up behind my lips, dancing on my tongue, pushing my pulse faster through my veins. “I would rather have you and just you than someone else and a brood of children.”
She clears her throat. “And that’s sweet, but—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off. I’m on my feet before I realize it, crossing the distance between our chairs in several long strides. She looks up at me in shock as I tower over her; I kneel in front of her quickly. “No,” I say again. “If you don’t want to be with me for other reasons, that’s okay.” I force myself to smile. “If you decide I’m not the man for you, I’ll respect your decision. But you’re going to have to tell me that to my face to get rid of me, honey.” I reach up hesitantly, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “You can’t use this as an excuse. If you’re scared, that’s fine; I’ll hold your hand. If you’re hesitant, that’s fine too; I’ll give you space and time until you’re sure. But you won’t be able to chase me off with this.”
“I don’t want to chase you off,” she says in a broken whisper; a lone tear trickles down her cheek, visible only because it reflects the light of the street lamps in the square outside. “I just don’t want you to regret being with me later because I can’t give you—that.”
This time my smile is genuine. “Leaving you because you can’t have children is something I would regret probably for the rest of my life,” I tell her, and I mean every word.
