The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(32)

There’s a knock on my door and then it opens before I can pull myself together enough to tell him to go away.

The bed sinks under his weight as he takes a seat beside me.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“It’s okay.” My voice comes through a thick fog of tears.

I can feel him shift then turn toward me. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Keeley—” His hand lands on my hip, so large it feels like it covers half of me. How the hell did this man and I ever have sex in the first place? He’s twice my size. “I didn’t mean it. I misspoke.” He sounds…distraught, which surprises me. It’s not something I’d have expected from him, unless he’d just lost money.

“You didn’t misspeak,” I reply, wiping my face on my pillow before I roll toward him. “You meant every word of it, and I’m offering you an out. Why won’t you just take it?”

He stares at the bed between us, and as the moment stretches out, I realize that I want him to agree, but I’m also terrified he’ll agree. Because I don’t want to have to answer to someone…but I also don’t want to do this alone. Just a few days of him helping out here—carrying in groceries, dealing with meals, changing the lightbulbs—has made me realize how hard it all seemed before, how daunting. And much of that is only going to get worse.

“I can’t just walk away,” he chokes out. “I have my own reasons for not wanting kids, but it doesn’t have to do with not liking them. I grew up without a father, and I can’t do that to my own child intentionally. Please tell me how to fix this.”

Tears slide down my face once more, because I have no idea what to tell him. This past week has felt a lot like the months after my mom died, when I’d spend the entire school day barely holding it together, and then come home to Shannon and her lectures. It felt as if there was no safe place for me to be. As if nothing I did would ever be enough.

It’s still as if it’s not enough. I haven’t had a drink in months. I haven’t had sex once. I haven’t even gone dancing. As terrible as my eating is, it’s a thousand times better than it was. Every single thing I enjoyed about my life is pretty much gone, and some of it might be over for good, but all I do is mess up, in his eyes.

“This is harder than it looks,” I tell him. “You think I’m not trying at all when I’m trying more than I ever have.” Tears well in my eyes, but I swallow and blink to hold them in. “I’m returning the bras. And I’m a picky eater…it’s just how I was born. I’ve never been able to eat breakfast. A lot of foods make me gag, literally, and fish is one of them. I’m not trying to be an asshole.”

I roll away from him and his hand returns to my hip, giving it a squeeze.

“God, Keeley. I’m so sorry. Please stop crying. You’re killing me here. Tell me how to fix this in any way that doesn’t involve leaving.”

He sounds genuinely desperate to make this right. I’m sure the impulse won’t last, but for now, he means it.

“I get treated like I’m barely cutting it at work every single day,” I explain. “I can’t deal with coming home to the same thing. I really can’t. I need to be able to watch some dumb television and eat some crap without anyone making me feel like I’m less than because of it.”

I brace for him to pull a Shannon on me: to tell me I’m spoiled, to tell me he refuses to coddle me like a child.

Instead, he squeezes my hip once more. “You’re exhausted right now, so I’m gonna go to my room and let you pretend I’m not here. And tomorrow night when you come home, I’ll make us a relatively healthy dinner and then we’ll eat Twinkies and watch some dumb TV.”

I roll toward him. “No way you are eating a Twinkie.”

“No,” he says, his eyes lighter as he reaches out to brush a tear off my cheek with his thumb. “But I’ll pretend I am and then give it to Mark, which is apparently okay around here.”

“Yeah,” I reply, smiling through my tears. “That’s totally okay around here.”





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The next morning, I can barely meet the doorman’s eye as I leave to get coffee.

If he knew I made Keeley cry last night, he’d attempt to kick my ass and I’d probably let him do it, because Jesus Fucking Christ, I just made a woman who barely reaches my collarbone and is currently carrying my child cry.

I didn’t think telling her this situation was a nightmare for me would even matter to her, but it did because she cares about the baby in ways she doesn’t seem to care about herself, and me and my bad attitude aren’t what she wants for her child.

When I heard the tears in her voice, when I saw her wiping her face before she rolled toward me, I felt sick. She’s more stressed by this situation than she’s let on, and I’ve got to stop adding my stress on top of it.

I’m going to turn this around if it kills me. For my kid’s sake, yes. But for her sake too.

And I’ll begin by saying, “hi” to her friend.