Well Suited (Red Lipstick Coalition #4)(72)

“But won’t a baby do the same?” she asked gently.

“Yes, and that will be hard enough on its own.” My voice broke. I swallowed hard. “He is the perfect mate, the perfect man. And someday, he’ll meet someone who will love him like he loves. I’m just not capable. I’m not equipped for love.” My breakdown was complete, the words gone, choking and catching in my throat.

“Come here,” she said gently, pulling me into a hug to rock me. “It’s all going to be okay. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I promise it will.”

I bit down on my bottom lip, bit back my tears, felt the stretch of our baby in my body, felt the raw edges of my heart.

And I hoped against hope that she was right.



?





Theo

It had been the longest eight days of my life.

I’d made it my mission to stay away, stay out of the house. The charity function I was planning had ended up being a boon—it’d afforded me an excuse to avoid home. Eight dinners I’d eaten alone. Eight breakfasts wolfed down in a cab. Seven long, cold nights alone in my bed, unable to sleep, unable to think of anything other than the girl down the hall. The girl I loved.

The girl I couldn’t have.

The frustrating and maddening girl who was carrying my baby. The girl I’d given my heart to, the girl who didn’t want it.

All my dreams had been washed away with the tide, leaving me empty of anything but longing and regret. I should have talked to her before proposing. I should have listened to her when she warned me. I should have known the second I met her mother. But I’d been blinded by what I wanted. I’d justified my actions, made my choice strictly based on my dreams without considering hers.

If I had, I would have known the answer.

I should have known better.

I should have left well enough alone.

I should have given her a warning, more time.

But time wouldn’t have changed anything. She didn’t want to get married, and she didn’t believe in love.

Which didn’t change the fact that I did. It didn’t matter how much I loved her. I couldn’t love her enough for both of us. I couldn’t bend her to what I wanted. It was one of the reasons I loved her. She was unflappable, sure-footed, and confident. And that was exactly why I’d lost her.

I’d finished work hours ago, but I knew she’d be home, waiting for me. So I walked. I walked from Midtown, passing Bryant Park and the library, pausing to admire the light posts she’d told me about months ago, when hope still existed and possibilities lit a fire in me. I walked the long city blocks to Washington Square Park, sat at the fountain, admired the arch as the sun went down and the marble lit up. And hours later, I’d dragged myself home, hoping everyone was asleep.

With a sigh, I unlocked my front door. The house was dark and silent—a good omen. I crept through the house, up the stairs. But when I reached the landing and glanced into the living room, that longing I’d thought I kept tamped down let loose in a rush that brought me to a dead stop.

The lights were off but for a lamp next to the couch, and in the low light, she looked posed in her perfection, too beautiful to be real. Her face was soft and slack in sleep, her dark lashes and rosy lips a contrast to the pale of her skin. Her head rested on her arm, which lay hooked behind her head on the arm of the chair. Her hand cupped the curve of her belly in a protective gesture, almost as if to reassure herself the baby was there and safe. The white muslin of her nightgown stretched and draped around her breasts and belly, her hips and legs, the light brushing the curves of her in gentle strokes.

There were so few things in this world I truly wanted, and she was almost all of them. The sense of loss was blinding, the desire to pick her up and carry her to bed overwhelming, the wish that she were still mine and the knowledge that she wasn’t nearly bringing me to my knees.

The ache in my heart twisted and burned as I walked to her with wooden legs, snagging a blanket from the basket next to the couch, unfurling it as I approached. I slipped it over her with gentle care, not wanting to wake her, not wanting to touch her for fear it would sting.

But a lock of hair was strewn across her face, and before I could stop myself, I brushed it away.

She stirred, inhaling deeply, stretching languidly. Her eyes fluttered open. “Theo?”

“Shh. Go back to sleep.”

The corners of her lips tugged into a frown. She pushed herself up to sit. “I was waiting for you,” she said, swinging her feet around to the ground.

“I’m home. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “Please, will you sit with me for a minute?”

I swallowed, locking my face, shuttering my heart. I took a seat in an armchair without speaking.

She took a breath and met my eyes. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve had a lot of work to do.”

“Work never keeps you out past ten, Theo.”

A week ago, I’d ached to hear her call me by my nickname that she was so averse to. Now it only reminded me of all I’d lost.

“What did you want to say, Katherine?” I asked, unwilling to give her anything she hadn’t explicitly asked for.

Her brows flicked together. “This is unbearable.”