Frayed (Connections, #4)(65)

She sets her napkin on her lap and immediately starts nervously clicking her fingernails against the tabletop.

I take a seat and grab her hand. “Okay. We’re here now, so tell me, let’s eat, and then I want to take you home and f*ck you.”

She swallows and I notice her hands trembling.

“Maybe that was a bit crass. Let me try again. Okay. We’re here now, so tell me.”

She grabs for the water in front of her and drinks it down, all of it. Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

I can feel confusion wrinkling my brow.

Her gaze falls. “But I know I have to. I have a confession to make. Something from a long time ago. And I’m not sure how you’re going to react.”

My fingers creep up her arm to her chin.

She leans into my touch and her face looks almost pained.

“I already know what you’re going to tell me.” I try not to laugh as I reach for the wrapped brown package I set on the table.

She stares at it.

“Since you lent me some of your books, I thought it was only fair I return the favor. Although I’m not sure reading Fifty Shades of Grey is my thing,” I chuckle.

Her eyes widen like saucers as I hand her the package. She takes it with trembling fingers.

“It’s safe, I promise. You can open it. I’m cool with your half-truth.”

The waitress approaches our table and refills both our sparkling waters. “Are you ready to order?”

“Two peppered beef skewers with rice,” I tell her, and turn my attention back to S’belle. “So, go ahead, open it.”

Tearing open the wrap, she stares at the first book, Everything You Ever Need to Know About the French Riviera. Her eyes dart to mine.

“I know you never went there.”

She sits motionless.

“That first night we were together, when you told me all about what it was like on the French Riviera, I knew you’d never been there as soon as you said you went.”

She scrunches her eyebrows and purses her lips.

“It was written all over your face.”

Tears fill her eyes as she sets the stack on the table. “You’re right, I never went to the Riviera.”

Feeling like a real *, I pull her to me. “Come here. I’m only playing with you. And I got you some other books as well.”

She sits on my lap and buries her head in my neck, not even looking at the other titles. Her lemon scent assaults me and her mess of wild hair brushes across my skin. I breathe her in. “Don’t cry about it. It’s nothing to cry over. I think it’s funny.”

She buries her head farther in my neck. “I’m not crying about that. But I can’t believe you knew the whole time. You should have said something and not let me go on and on.”

“But that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.”

She gives a faint smile and wipes her tears, but then she stands up and goes back to sit in her chair. She takes another gulp of her water and then looks at me.

I soften my voice. “Please tell me.”

She nods. “Do you remember yesterday when you asked me what the shamrock I wear is for?”

My mind recalls vividly the green emerald in her belly button and the thoughts I had about running my tongue around it. With a devilish grin I answer, “Yes.”

She sets her glass down. Her hands are shaking and she’s unable to speak.

I suddenly lose any sense of fun in this conversation. “Hey, look at me,” I say, leaning over the table and taking both her hands.

Her eyes cut to mine, the fire now dulled and consumed by sadness.

“What is it? Just tell me.”

She stays silent and draws in a breath as if gaining courage.

“S’belle? What the f*ck is it?” My impatience is getting the better of me.

Her stare searches the table. “The shamrock represents St. Patrick’s Day.”

I nod, agreeing with her that it does.

Silence falls again for another few short moments and then she looks up at me. “That’s the day I gave birth to our child.” Her voice is shaky and broken. Her words come out in alternating whispers and squeaks.

The floor drops from beneath me. My ears ring and the room doesn’t seem quite so square anymore. I take a deep breath, replaying what she just said in my head, but it doesn’t make sense. I sit there motionless. I couldn’t have heard her correctly. When my senses recover, I flash her a look that seeks answers.

Through gritted teeth I ask, “What did you say?”

She squeezes my hands, but I jerk them away. Unbearable silence passes between us, and nothing except the overhead music of Frank Sinatra crooning a love song can be heard. There’s a look of desperation on her face, but there is no way I can help her.

“What did you just say?” My voice takes on an aggressive tone I’ve never used with her as her words register in my brain—I have a child out in the world.

Tears now slide down her face. She leans forward and through sobs says, “On March seventeenth, almost six years ago, I gave up my child, our child. I gave it up for adoption. That’s why I wear the shamrock. It symbolizes the love I have for the baby I wish every day I never let go.”

My body goes limp. Looking around, I can’t figure out why she’d tell me this in a public place. Oh God, my stomach lurches when I think about how I wanted to run my tongue over the sparkling green emerald in her belly button. I start to get up but sit back down, needing a chance to understand what she’s telling me. The words catch in my throat and nothing comes out. I stare at her in disbelief for the longest time, trying to see anything but the truth, but I can’t find it. I glance around at the empty restaurant and feel as if I’m suffocating.