More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(58)
She’s lost yet another job? Oh, typical Tina, really. That girl can’t do anything right.
It had been hard to witness, and Harris had always felt a measure of guilt over it. Wondering if some of it was because of what had happened between them all those years ago, while simultaneously admiring her willingness to always try something new. But he’d beaten himself up over it for way too long, and while he wanted a new start with Tina, she had to let go of this long-standing resentment first.
And he wasn’t sure that would ever be possible. Libby had stared at him earlier like he was a monster. And if Tina could still paint him in such a negative light after the day they had spent together yesterday, then he hadn’t made any progress with her at all. She really did still hate him. Despite his apologies and attempted explanations.
He stared at the structure in front of him and dimly registered that he was home. He wasn’t sure how long he had stood staring at the house without even recognizing that he’d reached his destination. He trudged up the porch stairs and glumly made his way into the house.
He cast his eyes around the place. Despite the cleaning he had done yesterday, it still looked dingy and dirty.
Harris walked to his room on leaden feet and dragged out his duffel bag. Somewhere between the restaurant and the house, he’d made the decision to leave. Libby didn’t need him; that much was clear. She had a handle on Greyson and didn’t need Harris to run interference for her. Greyson didn’t need him either; he seemed better every time Harris spoke with him. He thought back to the lighthearted moment he had shared with his brother earlier. He wished he’d have time to explore that camaraderie even further and hoped that by the time Greyson returned home, they could continue where they’d left off.
And Tina . . . his hands stilled in the act of folding a T-shirt. He would never be to Tina what she was to him. It was time he accepted that and moved on with his life.
So this was him . . . moving on.
Tina felt dead inside. Everything was numb, and some part of her dumbly registered that it was probably for the best. She would likely be curled up in a ball right now if she could actually feel anything. She had harnessed every single coping mechanism in her arsenal to tell Libby about her baby without falling apart completely. She had never spoken of him to anyone. And even while talking about him to the woman who was like a sister to her, she had still been unable to actually say his name.
Libby had listened in shock, then horror, and finally with tears streaming down her face as Tina recounted the bare bones of her tale. No overly emotional explanations. Just the cold, hard facts. It was only when Libby asked for the details that Tina had found herself stumbling. Straying from the specifics into the traumatic emotions associated with that period of her life had been hard for her.
Admitting that Harris had been her baby’s father had been even harder. Libby had stared at Tina like she’d never seen her before, the betrayal the woman felt that her best friend could have kept such a momentous secret from her for so long evident in her eyes. The look of wounded shock had only deepened when Tina had refused to delve into the details of her one night with Harris. For some unfathomable reason, she wanted to protect Harris from the disgust she knew Libby would feel if she mentioned the bet.
Predictably, Libby—this time out of concern for Tina—wanted to continue her original arrangement with Greyson. She had only relented after Tina insisted that having Clara around helped her immensely, even if she couldn’t actually bring herself to physically interact with the baby. Yet.
But Libby had insisted Tina take that evening’s service off. And Tina, too emotionally exhausted to argue, had gratefully accepted the suggestion.
She dragged herself up off her office couch and gathered up her belongings, desperate to get home.
“What are you doing?”
The sound of Tina’s voice coming from behind him in his home startled Harris into dropping his bag. He whirled around to face her; the movement was jerky and abrupt and made her jump in fright.
He stared at her in disbelief, quite sure his mouth must have fallen open in absolute shock. He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not standing just outside his bedroom door.
“Harris?” she prompted, and he blinked, not sure what she wanted. “What are you doing?”
“I-I . . .” He tossed a look over his shoulder at the bag he had zipped up just seconds ago, and the visual cue helped. “Packing. I was packing. Why are you here?”
“You’re packing?”
Was that dismay in her voice? Disappointment in her eyes? What the fuck?
“Yes. I’ve decided to leave tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I think I may have overstayed my welcome,” he said, his voice embarrassingly rough with emotion. “Why are you here?”
She held up a hand, and in it she had . . .
“Microwave popcorn?”
“Well, I have the evening off, and I don’t want to spend it alone, so I thought we could get started on that Game of Thrones binge we discussed yesterday.”
“You want to spend time here? With me?” he asked, knowing he sounded dumb as a bag of potatoes but wanting complete clarification on the matter.
She cast a glance around his room and then over her shoulder at the grubby living space. She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips, looking like she’d smelled something putrid.