8. Mila

EIGHT

It is easier to build strong children

than to repair broken men.

~ Frederick Douglass

"Okay … so … not a rumor." Chloe propels the bench swing, flexing her foot on the porch, swaying us lightly. "Brad's actually here."

Her voice sounds as stunned as I still feel. Even hours after Brad left my property, I'm essentially numb with shock. You know those dreams you wake from, convinced they actually happened? That's my encounter with Brad, only I know I didn't conjure him up in a sleep-induced mirage. He's here, mere miles away, at the resort, right now.

Noah's finally asleep, the dinner dishes are washed, my guests are out on the other side of town or retired to their rooms. Chloe and I are on the porch and I'm reviewing Brad's unexpected appearance with her—minus the detail that Kai said he was my boyfriend. For some reason, I don't want to share the momentary farce we pulled off with my best friend—not yet. Chloe might not understand Kai's motive. And she would, for sure, get all excited and try to push me into making our charade into a reality. She's always been "Team Kai," as she designated her stance a few years ago. There's no "team anyone" I always tell her. I'm team Mila and Noah. That's it.

Not that Kai has any real feelings for me other than friendship. And, while I admire his strong body and beautiful face, and even moreso, his kind heart, subtle sense of humor, and the way he's always here pitching in without even being asked, I can't have romantic feelings for any man, so I don't have any for Kai.

All of those factors haven't changed simply because my ex showed up unannounced this afternoon.

"Have you called him?"

"No! Of course not." I look over at Chloe, who is stifling a laugh at my outburst. "I have to think."

Her face morphs into an expression of soft concern. "Of course you do, but if you don't hear all the details of what Brad wants to say—what he has in mind—you'll still be in the dark. I think you have no choice but to talk to him. Do you want me to go with you? We could go tomorrow after breakfast is served—while Noah is at school."

"I … don't know."

"Davis is still away through the weekend," Chloe says.

Davis is Chloe's husband. He's a commercial pilot. Their untraditional rhythm of life means she's home alone for days on end, and then Davis reappears as if he's on vacation, filling their home and overtaking her routine day-in and day-out before he takes off again to fly around the world. He's hilarious, larger than life, and ambitious. When Davis is around, you know it. When he isn't, Chloe has this whole other Davis-free life which includes her being fully available to any of her friends at the drop of a hat.

"I know you're right." I curl my legs up onto the bench swing, letting Chloe lull me with the sway of her gentle push-pull on the floorboards of the porch.

"Duh. I'm always right." Chloe winks at me, but her eyes are warm and filled with compassion.

"I really want a Door Number Three. You know?"

"Ah, the elusive third option. Like, if confronting your ex and avoiding your ex weren't the only two paths forward."

"Exactly. I've driven myself half-mad trying to think of another choice all day."

"And?"

"I've got nothing. I have to talk to him. And, while I'd rather phone him, I think we have to meet while he's here. I'll hear him out. I don't have to do anything. Not yet."

"You don't have to do anything ever. I'd like to remind you that you have full custody of Noah. That man, who I was convinced loved you with this earth-shattering love—whom I know you loved deeply—signed off his rights to Noah while you were still pregnant. I still can't get over it. I think you've moved on more completely than I have, and I wasn't even the one he abandoned."

Chloe stares at the other end of the porch as if an outdoor movie screen just unfurled to replay the demise of my marriage frame by frame.

"He left," Chloe says in a monotone voice. "I didn't even recognize who Brad was after you told him you were pregnant. It was this whole other side to him I never would have expected." Then she turns to me and her whole demeanor transforms to something far more determined. She's all mama bear when she says, "That's a done deal. He doesn't have a say in anything where you and Noah are concerned. The ball is one hundred percent in your court."

I shut my eyes, allowing the evening breeze coming in off the beach to caress my cheeks and blow strands of my hair around my face. I don't even lift a finger to swipe the errant wisps away. My breath is steady and purposeful. I need to stay in the moment. It's too easy to run ahead down one hundred rabbit trails of thought … What if Brad starts to dominate our lives? What will Noah think? How will I adapt? What will change? What if Brad wants me too, not just a connection with Noah? … Instead of indulging my anxious inner ramblings, I allow the island to calm me: the sweet night air, the occasional sound of a gull, the distant roll of the waves a few blocks down at the beach.

I am here. I am safe. I can do this—whatever it is—one step at a time.

Chloe sits quietly, giving me space to process my thoughts.

"Okay." I dig my phone out of my pocket and sit upright. "I'm going to text him."

"Do you want me to text for you?"

"No. I've got this. I just want you on standby afterward, in case I'm … I don't even know."

"You've always got me—before, during, or after you see him. I'm here, Mila."

I'm here, Mila.

Kai said those exact words before we faced Brad together. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a soft smile when I remember the way Kai placed his arm around me, the way he stood next to me like a tower of strength—a shelter from the storm.

I shake my head. Then I pull out the business card Brad gave Kai, enter the number into my contacts, and type out a message.

Mila: I can meet tomorrow morning after Noah is at school. I'll come to the resort. We can meet in the restaurant off the lobby—Horizons.

Not even five seconds pass before my phone buzzes with a reply.

Brad: Thank you. I appreciate this more than you know. Does 9:00 work?

Mila: 9:00 works.

The reply dots show on my screen and disappear a few times. Nothing more comes through, so I pocket my phone and look over at Chloe.

"We're meeting at nine in the morning."

"You are so brave, girlfriend. I'm in awe of you, as always."

I yawn, feeling the full impact of this day in one fell swoop. Chloe takes that as her cue to stand.

"I'll be on standby. My phone will be on and in my hand or pocket all morning. Just text me at any point and I'll show up, or call me after you two meet, or whatever. But don't ghost me, or I'll hunt you down." She points at me to emphasize how serious she is about that last declaration.

I smile up at her, and then I stand, extending my arms. When she pulls me to her, I collapse into a much-needed hug from my best friend.

"Thank you."

"You're kidding, right? This is what we do."

"Still …" I mumble over Chloe's shoulder while she continues to hold me tight. "There aren't words for what you mean to me. So, thanks."

Chloe starts humming Bridge Over Troubled Water, and I try not to smile, but I can't help myself. We sang that song for our seventh grade talent show, and, to put it bluntly, we stunk. Badly. Like, if that had been a week Simon Cowell was staying on Marbella, he would have been pushing all four Xs and saying things in his condescending British accent like, "That was abysmal," and "Worst singers in the world," or "I would have rather listened to a shrieking banshee. You two have given me a headache."

I can actually sing. Chloe cannot. But in junior high, singing a heartfelt hippy ballad was not in my wheelhouse—at all.

Chloe pulls back from our hug, her eyes dancing with mirth as she shifts from humming to singing—no—belting out the chorus. She's like a drunken sailor—a tone deaf sailor who privately hit the stowed casks of rum, and is crooning to anyone and everyone about how she'll lay herself down like a bridge across the troubled waters of their lives. When she forgets a word, she just improvises, which only serves to add to the absurdity that is my best friend.

When she inserts my name into the song, "Oh, Mila, I'm a bridge! I'm your bridge …" I can't help myself. I snort. Then we both devolve into a much needed fit of laughter.

I half whisper, "You'll wake Noah, or my guests."

To which Chloe answers, "I'm a bridge, baby!"

Which only makes me snort again—more proof that I am so beyond being dating material for anyone, which is super-A-okay by me. I've got everyone I need in my life. The last thing I need is a man to complicate matters.

Chloe and I laugh with tears coming out of our eyes. Every time I start to regain my composure, she belts out a new line of the song, hamming it up on purpose. And I double over, gasping for breath, eyes squinted and my whole face aching with the best sort of strain from smiling too hard.

My bestie, ladies and gentlemen. I hit the jackpot.

After spending far too long staring into my closet trying to decide what to wear today, I make my way downstairs to prepare breakfast for our guests and Noah.

My outfit hopefully says, I'm a confident woman who has moved on with her life and is rocking her role as an innkeeper and single mother. If outfits can talk, that is. I'm wearing a cream-on-cream blouse that has layers of soft fabric with a sheer overlay, embossed with flowers and butterflies. I paired that with dark jeans and wedge sandals.

After I dressed, I pulled my hair up, but then let it fall back down. Then up. Then down, and then I looked myself in the eyes in my mirror and gave myself the kind of pep talk I give Noah when he's about to do something new or scary.

After breakfast, Phyllis shows up to walk Noah to school. I don't mention my plans for the day. If Phyllis knew I was meeting Brad, I might not make it out the door. I certainly would not make it out alone. "Flora" would call Fauna and Merriweather, and I would have a whole blue-pink-blue-pink fiasco on my hands. Those three bicker over me when situations threaten my wellbeing, and they often do it as if I'm not even in the room. They'd insist on coming along to protect me, or even to talk to Brad. We'd invariably be asked to leave the resort property, possibly thrown out, depending on how far things went. Nope. I'm not talking to my aunts until after I speak with Brad alone.

And now, I'm walking into the Alicante, through the grand double doors, across the marble floor, past palms and the airy decor that says refined beach affluence. I smooth my hands down my thighs as if I'm going on a blind date instead of meeting the man who ripped my heart out seven and a half years ago. My heart beats so rapidly, you'd think I ran here instead of driving the inn's golf cart. I glance toward the restaurant just as my phone buzzes with a text.

Chloe: No need to answer. I just wanted to send you this.

A GIF of a bridge over a raging stream comes through and I smile a private smile, even chuckling softly to myself. Leave it to Chloe to make me laugh when everything feels heavy and daunting.

I'm too flustered to notice him at first, but then my mind catches up to the fact that Brad is standing just outside Horizons waving nervously at me. He's wearing pressed jeans and a dry-fit shirt that shows off his affinity for exercise. His blond hair is styled. He used to look so carefree and confident. A typical island boy, without a care in the world except when and where the biggest swells were hitting.

Today, Brad's brows are drawn up. He's not smiling, but he's watching me intently as I approach him—this man whom I thought I'd spend forever with. The first guy I kissed. My first everything. My only everything.

I take a cleansing breath just before I reach him.

"Good morning, Mila. You look beautiful."

I shake my head. "Don't. Okay? Let's just keep this focused on Noah."

"Okay." Brad nods lightly, his lips forming a pensive line.

He makes the instinctual move to place his hand on my back to guide me into the restaurant and I almost let him before I realize what I'm doing and sidestep his gesture. He looks down at his own arm quizzically, as if it popped out to lead me of its own volition.

The hostess grabs two menus and walks us to a table near the back of the second room where it's secluded and quiet. I'm immediately grateful. I hadn't considered the potential of bumping into other islanders inside the resort. If Brad and I are seen together, people will talk.

"So," he says, taking the seat adjacent to mine.

"So," I echo.

I pull my napkin onto my lap and study the menu, even though it may as well be written in Sanskrit right now. The words blur and I finally give up, setting it to the side of my place setting.

"So," Brad says, again, mirroring me and laying his menu down. "I know I threw you off showing up unannounced yesterday. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I mean … yes. You did. But I'm here now. You said you had a speech … or words … something more to say?"

My hands begin wringing my napkin under the table and I will them to flatten on my lap, one over the other.

"I …" Brad stares at me. His Adam's apple bobs. "I can't really explain what happened … back then. I was young. Stupid. Selfish. Afraid." Brad purses his lips and scrunches his brow in. "There aren't enough adjectives to describe the foolishness of a man who can't celebrate … or at least man up when his wife announces she's pregnant." Brad looks down into his lap. Then he lifts his chin and our eyes lock. "I wish I could take it all back, Mila. I would, in a heartbeat. If I could go back, I would grab younger me and shake him."

He's so familiar. Different, but the same. And the parts of him I fell for are still here, only so much has changed. Irreparably altered by his choice.

I'm unsure what's keeping me glued to my chair. I could jump up and dash out of the restaurant, straight through the double doors and out into the salty air. My lungs feel tight, this room too small. I've neatly shut the door to the past like a linen cabinet after the towels are warm and folded from the dryer. In less than twenty-four hours, Brad has single-handedly yanked the cupboard open, tearing through haphazardly, leaving everything strewn helter-skelter.

There were months, maybe even a year total, when I would have done anything to hear Brad say the words tumbling out of his mouth right now. But at some point, shortly after Noah was born, I made a decision. Any man who couldn't find it in himself to stay and support his new wife and son didn't deserve me. And he sure didn't deserve Noah.

I'd never classify Brad as a mean person. Even the day he left me, the only unkindness between us were his repeated declarations of suspicion—as if I had tricked him by purposely getting pregnant. As if I would ever do something so underhanded. Before that season of our shared life, Brad was always upbeat, adventurous and generous. He and Davis were close and the two of them were known for being the life of the party, but also for being the kind of men you only hoped to spend your life with. And Chloe and I thought we had won the guy-lottery, both dating such unattainable boys in high school, and then going on to marry them just after we graduated college.

Brad meant it when he said he never wanted kids. I'm not sure what made him so staunch on that point. He had a loving family and a decent childhood. To me, those are the key elements in causing someone to naturally want a family of their own. So, even though we had agreed we wouldn't have kids—we'd run the inn and travel, unencumbered—I guess I always thought we were somewhat open to the option if it happened to come our way. We weren't trying, but we weren't so bitterly opposed to children that we would tear our marriage apart over a pregnancy. Or, so I thought.

I never wanted to rope Brad into something he didn't feel ready for, and I surely wasn't going to beg him to stay.

A question has been buzzing in my brain ever since Brad showed up at my inn yesterday. So, I finally take a breath and ask, "What made you wait? You could have come back anytime." My voice tightens. "You stayed away over seven years. Seven years, Brad." The tone of accusation makes both of us flinch.

I don't apologize. He's the one who left. I have the right to ask. I forgave him. That doesn't mean he has an open door to return into our lives—or even just into Noah's. Who am I kidding? If Brad is in Noah's life, by default he'll be in mine.

He lets out a long breath before he attempts to explain. "I know this is going to sound ludicrous. It's like the time we skipped school in tenth grade. And then I talked you into skipping just one more day because the weather was beyond perfect and I wanted time alone with you. After that first day, you were determined to go back and act like nothing had happened. But after a second day passed, and then I convinced you to take one more day to lay on the beach and kayak instead of going into school, it felt awkward and nearly impossible to casually return to all our classes. We did go, of course, but the fear mounted exponentially with each hour we stayed away. The excuses as to why we missed a half a week seemed increasingly flimsy the longer we allowed ourselves to be truant."

His eyes search mine. "I didn't realize the magnitude of my decision at first—leaving the two of you like I did. I felt justified. I honestly believed you had tricked me."

My face must reflect what I'm about to say because Brad rushes in to say, "I know you didn't trick me, Mila. I was so lost and foolish … confused and upset. That's how I felt at first. But the more time I stayed away, the more I thought about you and the fact that we had a child—our child. And then I realized how badly I had messed up by abandoning you to raise Noah alone. I knew I couldn't just waltz back into your life. So I threw myself into building my business. And, the more time passed, the harder it became to reach out or come back. But I thought about you—and Noah—every day."

"Brad …" I start, but he keeps talking.

"I know I lost you. I realize that was my own doing. And I never got to know Noah. And that's my fault too."

Brad's face contorts and his eyes glass over with unshed tears. He clears his throat.

"It's crazy what can trigger a person. About six months ago, a man came into one of my stores to pick up an elliptical. He was dressed in a coaching uniform. Guys like him come in all the time. And they sometimes bring their kids. This wasn't a first. But the man had his son with him—his seven-year-old son—and they were laughing and talking about baseball while one of my employees rang them up. A thought slammed me as if someone had actually socked me in the gut: That could be me and Noah. I had to go back into the storeroom before I lost it right there in front of the customer and my employees."

The waitress arrives at our table before I can respond. Not that I know what to say. I don't have the first clue as to how to navigate any of this.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yes." Brad picks up his menu again.

He looks at me.

I hand the waitress my menu. "Just water for me. Thanks."

"Are you sure?" Brad asks me.

"Yeah. I already ate—at the inn."

"Of course. Okay. Well …" He looks at the waitress. "Just coffee, black. And an avocado toast on whole grain bread. Make it an egg white scramble, please."

I smile faintly, remembering how diligent Brad always was about his diet. In everything else he was very in-the-moment and easy-going, but when it came to fitness, he was determined and regimented.

"What is it you want now?" I ask, smoothing one of my hands over the other in my lap to still the trembling. "You can't just introduce yourself as Noah's dad. He has a life—routines. He's used to the people around him. He doesn't know you. You don't know him."

"I get all of that. I don't know, Mila. I just … I want to get to know him. If you'll let me."

I look out toward the lobby. People are milling about, coming into the resort to get away from the heaviness and responsibility of life. Others are checking out, refreshed from a stay in paradise. Here we sit, a study in contrasts, two people who used to be in love, trying to navigate a situation that has no manual or guide book. The weight of our reality presses in on us despite our luxurious surroundings.

"I need to think about this," I tell Brad.

"Of course. I expected you would."

"And, you're opening a business here? Why here?" Again, my tone sounds accusatory and defensive. It's a foreign sound compared to my usual way of approaching people. Even during our breakup, I never yelled or raised my voice at Brad. It's just not in me.

"I love Marbella. It was my childhood home. And the market is good here for watersports. People come here to the island for vacation. Others live here part-time or full-time. People need watersports equipment. There's the shack at the resort, but what if someone wants to buy something—to have a stand up paddleboard to ride every day in the cove? What if they want to learn to surf, and they don't want to pay lesson fees and rental fees every day. I'm filling a need in a place I love. And … if you give me a chance, I'll be closer to Noah. It will be easier for me to spend time with him."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't, I'll hire a manager to run the shop here and I'll spend more time on the mainland."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

I nod. My head is swimming and I don't feel any closer to a decision than I did when I woke up this morning, but I do have more information.

Brad's toast and coffee arrive. I sit with him while he finishes eating. He tries to make small talk, asking about the inn and about my three fairy godmothers. He even refers to my aunts that way, reminding me how deeply entrenched and entangled our lives were so many years ago—how well he knew me, better than anyone. I answer him politely. I don't ask him any personal questions. When he's finished eating, he pays the bill and we walk out into the lobby.