I get off the phone with Shapiro and walk around the deck of my yacht. Called Lost at Sea, she’s stark white with teak trim. She’s over a hundred feet long with five staterooms and space for four crew members, the captain, a chef, a maid, and an engineer. She cost thirteen million several years ago. I don’t regret one penny spent. My head clears at sea. I leave the pressure of football. Life.
It’s the one place I can forget everything.
Will this trip do that? Doubtful.
The cold wind whips at my hair as I stride into the 360-degree-vision sky lounge and take in the pilot seat, the L-shaped couch, the forty-two-inch TV, the stereo system, the teak tables, the wet bar with a subzero ice chest. Gorgeous.
My shoulders slump. There’s no anticipation here. No excitement.
Where is she? my heart demands.
Have I fucked up with her?
I am fucked up.
My lashes fall.
I’m flawed.
I’m not fit to be a parent.
I look like my father; I am my father.
I don’t deserve love. Or a family.
I don’t deserve any comfort.
I shouldn’t have been born.
All words my mother said yesterday when I saw her. My eyes fill with water, and I blink it back. Fuck that.
The captain, Bruce, gives me a salute. I nod and tell him that I’ve already checked in with the others. Rooms are clean, the galley is stocked for a couple of weeks, and the engine is primed for sea.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Good.” Fucking terrible. There’s a wall of stones on my chest, and I can’t push them off.
I can’t sleep. Or eat. I’m standing still, and the world goes on without me.
Francesca is my love, the only one I want.
I kick that down. I opened myself up. I trusted, and she let me down.
I cringe as I recall her walking out of the lab. I hadn’t been able to meet her eyes. Mistrust, mixed with shock and anger, rode me. Then, I went to see my mother. Uninvited. I read her a letter I’d written about the hurt and damage of my childhood, about how much I care about her in spite of it.
Bruce speaks, bringing me back. “Sailing is a majestic thing, yeah? Two more days, and we’ll hit the water.”
I lick my lips. “That’s what I wanted to check on. I thought there was another nor’easter coming in?”
He frowns. “We’re headed south. Our first stop is Fort Lauderdale for supplies and fuel. The storm shouldn’t impact us.”
Anxiousness rises. Can I really leave her in New York? “Should we take another look at the radar?”
“I checked it an hour ago, spoke to Channel Three, and called the weather station. We’re good, sir.”
“Check again.”
He starts. “If we wait, it might be several days before—”
“Just do it.”
I step out of the sky lounge and lean over the rail, my head churning with thoughts as I gaze at the sea. It reminds me of Francesca’s eyes. Then I picture her rosebud mouth. The widow’s peak I love to trace. My hands clench around the railing.
She’s gone. And it’s on me. I pushed her away.
A clammy sensation tingles over my skin as I sway on my feet. The truth is I’m facing my biggest fear: harming a child with my own destructive past. Me, with my rough hands, holding another person’s future. It feels terrifying. Mind boggling.
A wave rises like an arm and crashes up the side of the boat, then ebbs away. Another does the same, hitting the hull. My breath catches.
Can I rise? Be a good father? Let fear go and accept love?
My eyes close as my throat tightens with emotion. There’s a secret side of me that I’m scared to look at, the part of me that yearns for someone to accept the shadows inside of me, for real love, for family.
Only I’ve been too scared to allow myself to ever dream of such a possibility.
I stare out at the Atlantic.
Reaching in my pocket, I tug out the letter I wrote to my mother, rip it into pieces, and toss it into the water. It floats for a moment, rides a wave, and then ebbs away.
I watch the pieces sink beneath the sea. My mother is who she is. I can’t change her. I can’t make her forgive me—or love me.
My clarity rises stronger, and my head feels clearer than it has in days. My childhood has trapped me for years, creating a hollow man who didn’t know how to let others in.
Then a princess came along, tore down my defenses, and stole my heart.
A ragged sound comes from my lips.
Who says this has to be my life? Only me.
I think of the compass Francesca gave me. To guide you home safely, she said.
Is my penthouse home without her? The loft? The yacht?
Nowhere will be home without her.
She knows my chaotic past, how it shaped me.
She accepts me and embraces me for who I am.
And when she gazes at me, Jesus, I see her love for me—and it doesn’t come with strings. She doesn’t want my money. She doesn’t want the celebrity footballer.
Her love is steadfast. Solid.
“She only wants me,” I murmur to the sea in a wondering tone.
Yeah, surprising things have happened. I’m going to be a father.
But being part of a family doesn’t have to be about anger, guilt, or blame.
Having a child doesn’t have to be full of fear. With her next to me, we can climb each mountain together; we can battle the chaos that might come.
In my heart there’s still a flicker of faith in her, in us.
It’s not over yet. It can’t be.
My hand slaps against the railing.
I have to make amends, and I’m going to come out swinging.
