"Oh, God, Kiki, I hate that you can even ask that. It was fucking torture. But I had to do it. I couldn't walk away from my child. You know that. You know why I left."
I press my lips together, willing myself not to cry out to him. To tell him that maybe he could have. Not abandon the child, but provide for it. Monetarily and emotionally. To scream that we should have talked about it--really talked about it. That we'd been a couple, and I'd deserved to be part of his decision, not the unhappy recipient of a horrible pronouncement.
"I don't know," I admit. "I guess it seemed so easy for you. The way you came to me once she told you about the baby. You already had a plan. It was all mapped out like a goddamn math equation."
He winces, but doesn't argue. All he says is, "It was hard. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I've ever done. And even though there were times when I craved just a hint of you--just the tiniest glimpse of your life--I never looked. I thought it would hurt too much.
"So there you go," he says. "That's why I didn't poke into your life until yesterday, when I looked you up to find out about your marriage. And I'm guessing that you didn't try to find out what I was up to for similar reasons."
I swallow--he's so very right--then hit the ball. I miss the cup by a mile.
"What's the story?" he presses, as I line up my putt again.
I want to tell him it's none of his business. I don't want to admit the truth to him. The truth would be a confession of weakness. More than that, I'd have to reveal just how much power he had over me back then.
"I'm sorry," he says, obviously understanding my hesitation. "You don't have to tell me anything."
Part of me wants to stay quiet, but a bigger part wants to clear the air. And without conscious decision, I start talking again. "After you left, I couldn't write. I couldn't sing. I was numb. Everything creative in me died."
I hit the ball, and it goes straight into the cup. I barely notice. "I dropped out of the band," I tell him. "And after a while the girls went their own ways, too."
"Celia?"
It touches my heart that he still remembers my best friend's name. "She understood. It sucked, but all the girls got it. It wasn't fair, and I told them to bring in someone else, but . . ." I trail off, then lift a shoulder. "They didn't, and it fell apart, and I've always hated that I didn't have the strength to work through it for them. For the band."
"Hated me, you mean." There's no accusation in his voice. Just guilt.
I shake my head. "No. Really, no. I understand why you left. She was pregnant, and you couldn't stand the thought of being an asshole like your dad. I hated you at the time, yeah. But I understood. I thought you were wrong, and I was pissed as hell. But I understood."
I pull my ball out of the cup. "And I should probably say that now that you're divorced, I also feel weirdly vindicated. I knew you shouldn't have married her, and I was right. But like we already said, that was a long time ago."
I lift my shoulders in a combination of apology and what can you do, and am struck by the odd, unreadable expression on his face. "Noah?"
He shakes his head. "Just thinking." His voice sounds unusually hoarse. "I'm glad to know you didn't hate me," he adds, and I decide that his odd tone is a reflection of deep emotion. "Go on. You were telling me about the music."
"Right. Well, it took me a long time to get over that. Honestly, I've only been writing again for about a year. After you went to Darla, I moved home and got my MBA in marketing. I love it. I really do. But I love music more."
"Which doesn't explain why you're not touring with Ares, now that you're not blocked anymore."
This time, he sinks the ball in two shots, and as he comes closer to retrieve the ball, I reach up and he high-fives me. Except he doesn't really, because when his hand hits mine, he doesn't then pull it back. Instead, he holds on, squeezing my hand for just a moment, before releasing me.
I frown, not sure what that was for, but knowing that I liked the sensation of my skin against his.
"Kiki?" he asks, as if he has no clue that his touch has scattered my thoughts.
"Oh, right. That's because of Pink Chameleon." I explain how the girls and I have been working on our songs, and how I plan to use the money from the Stark gig to live on while we give the PC reboot a go. "Do you think that's foolish?"
"Hardly, I think it's great. Watching you on stage the other night--it's your element." His mouth quirks into a grin. "Not that I want you to back out on the Stark contract. We need you. On the whole, I guess you're just too damn talented."
I laugh, enjoying his teasing more than I should. And, more than that, I'm relieved and flattered by the fact that he seems to genuinely mean what he says. And that he doesn't think that following this dream so late in the game is foolish.
There's a bench nearby, and he goes and sits down as a couple with three little kids start to play through. "Listen," he says. "You mentioned me being divorced . . ."
My gut twists as I nod. Surely they're not still married? I'm certain he said he wasn't with her.
"You should know we never got divorced. I'm widowed."
"Oh." The news is like ice water. I'd thought he left her. I'd thought that he realized it was a mistake to be with her. "I see."