Sweet Sinful Nights(50)
He took her hands in his, and his touch was comforting, as it always had been. “You just say it. You say there’s something I need to tell you. And then you get the words out.”
Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a big breath. Michael always made things sound so... doable. Surely this was one of those things. She swallowed and parted her lips to speak. Brent, you were going to be a dad.
That was as far as she made it in her head before the tears welled up. Michael wrapped his arms around her and comforted her. “It’s too hard,” she said.
“It is hard. But it’s important.”
She nodded into his chest. She’d have to find a way. She hadn’t expected she’d be at this point so quickly. She hadn’t entertained the idea that she’d be facing this hurdle so soon. A dinner here, a few lunches there, and she’d already reached this crossroad, this terrible truth that she had to serve up. But she needed to spend more time with the words. With the right order to say them in. Maybe tonight she could manage it.
She returned to the bathroom, drying her hair as she practiced.
I was pregnant with your baby.
I wanted to tell you. I tried to find you. I didn’t know what to do.
Then my body failed me again.
The words were awful, like jagged glass in her mouth. They hurt so much. Too much. The reminders of her failures were overwhelming—her body failed her as a dancer, her body failed her as a mother.
She wanted a night that didn’t f*cking hurt.
Tomorrow. She’d deal with it tomorrow. Truths like this were best delivered in the morning, right? She could have this evening with him, spend the night together, and then in the morning she’d discover the right words.
In the morning she’d be ready.
As she applied blush and mascara, she focused on locking up the memories so they wouldn’t ruin her present for the next few hours. Memories had a way of sneaking up on you, and knocking you down. They could grab you by the throat and throttle you. Images of her father’s blood in the driveway, of her mother’s screams that night and then again when the detectives came to arrest her, of her own arms wrapped around a tiny person who wouldn’t live. Memories could be cruel in their ambushes.
Heartless things.
Reaching for her phone, she opened her picture gallery and found the shot from yesterday. Brent kissing her in the photo booth. Blurry, yet so clear. He was the pain, and he was the protection from it.
*
After Michael left, she closed her eyes and practiced one of her yoga techniques. As she raised her arms high above her head in the mountain pose, she imagined clearing her mind of all that hurt, freeing her body from the harshness of all that had gone wrong with it, and returning to the woman she had been before. The woman she used to be with Brent, and still could be. Physical, sexual, connected with him in that way. She felt connected to him in so many ways already, and maybe it was selfish, or maybe it was necessary, but tonight she wanted to be one with her body, not warring with it. Because her heart, mind and body wanted that man again.
As she opened her eyes, she spotted the framed photo of the sunflowers on the kitchen counter. Her way to remember what she’d lost in London. She brushed her fingertips to her lips, then pressed them against the image.
A kiss for the boy who wouldn’t be.
*
Cool white lobby. Etched glass on the double doors. Sleek blond wood floors and stairs that matched. The kind of stairs that were see-through, that almost seemed to be floating because you could look down and see the floor below. He drank it all in. Her building. Her home. She’d buzzed him in, and he still couldn’t believe he was there. It was as if he’d gained entry to a secret castle, to the tower at the top of it. Follow this path, take the fork in the road, and climb all the way up. At the top, there she will be.
The woman he wanted.
The only woman for him.
The soles of his shoes echoed on the steps as he walked up the three flights to her home, staring left then looking right, inhaling everything. For so long, he’d searched for her. He’d tried to picture her, to imagine her life, her home, and her place in the world.
Right here. He was in it now. Mere feet away from where Shannon Paige-Prince had lived for the last few years. Only a handful of miles away from his home. So damn close, and so incredibly far away. He turned the corner on the next landing, and lifted his foot on the step, then he froze.
He didn’t move. He was stuck in a sliver of stalled time.
Michael walked down the stairs. His eyes were razors. His jaw twitched. The sound of the other man’s shoes clanged loudly in Brent’s ears, snapping him back to attention.
He unfroze.
“Hey, Michael,” he said, doing his very best to keep it casual, keep it chill. “Good to see you again.”
Brent hadn’t spoken to the guy since Michael had helped him get the ring. He hadn’t seen Michael since Christmas that same year, when he’d met him, along with Ryan, Colin, and Shannon’s grandparents. Brent and Shannon had flown back to Vegas together for the holiday break. He’d met her family and she’d met his. A few months later, he’d proposed. Her brothers had all liked him.
Didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know the opposite was true now.
Michael’s dark eyes raged as he stared at Brent. He raised his left hand, clapped it on Brent’s arm. But it wasn’t a friendly pat. It didn’t speak of years missed. It didn’t say good to see you too, man. His hand sent another message. Do not f*ck with my family.