Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I’m pregnant. I’ve been pregnant since the wedding, since that first night we slept together.”
His fingers dig into my thigh—and I want him desperately to yank me close to him, to kiss me, to tell me everything will be okay, that he cares about me and won’t let anything bad happen, but that’s the fantasy, that’s the fake shit, that’s not the real, cold, brutal truth, because people aren’t simple. They’re not machines built to do the right thing. They’re complicated and flawed and, god, yes, I know, they’re ruined and sometimes they’re wrong, like I was wrong to keep this from him for so long. But I want it anyway. I want him so badly, it kills me.
He pulls his hand away.
A thousand emotions flip across his face. I can’t follow them and it’s like lightning is striking me over and over again. I grip the edge of the bar and stare at him as he slowly processes what I said, running a hand through his hair, then picking up his drink, sipping it, and putting it back down. His face slowly breaks into an enormous smile—
“You’re pregnant with my child,” he says, and he sounds excited. It’s perverse and wrong, it’s not how this should go—but he sounds excited, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of something good, something real and true and right, and it’s right there, inches from my grasp, so close I can taste it.
“I should’ve told you sooner. I hid it from you all this time because I knew you’d end the movie if you found out, or at least you’d keep me from it, and I’m so sorry. I’m having this baby, and—”
Slowly, his smile fades away. “My baby,” he says. “My child.”
“Yeah, Baptist. Your baby.”
He turns away from me and stares straight ahead. “You should go,” he whispers, and it’s like he reached down into my throat and ripped out my heart.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you sooner, I was just afraid.” I’m crying harder now, and that good thing is getting further away, drifting deeper and deeper into blackness and nothing, crumbling into dust.
“Please, Blair. This isn’t about you. It’s not about the baby. It’s about me, I’m just—please, I need you to go.”
“Baptist, I just—”
He stands suddenly and throws a wad of cash on the bar. His eyes are wide now, almost wild with panic. He shakes his head and steps back.
“I’ll ruin you both,” he says quietly. “It’s just like Cowan said. He was right, that miserable piece of shit.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry, Blair. I’m so sorry, and I love you, but I have to go.”
“Wait,” I say, getting up. Those words echo in my head like a screaming mountain wind, I love you, but he’s already backing away, already walking to the door. I want to stop him, but he shoves it open and disappears into the day. I stumble after him, trying to wipe my tears away, trying to come to grips with those words and his voice and his fear, his pure and utter fear, but I don’t follow to the curb, to the street, to the car. I don’t follow as he drives off.
I only fall to my knees and put my face in my hands and cry as he disappears, leaving me alone.
Chapter 24
Blair
One Month Later
The offices of Drake Entertainment are quiet and deserted on a late Friday afternoon.
Most people take a half-day right before the weekend and work from home. Most people, except for me. I like the silence and the solitude, and plus, sitting at home doesn’t help fix my horrible mood. There aren’t enough distractions at home and my mind wanders onto topics I need to avoid. Max understands, although he’s at school anyway and doesn’t care if I go into the office or not, but if he had the choice, I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to get my mopey ass out of the apartment.
It’s been hard on my little brother lately. I haven’t exactly been easy to live with, but I’ve tried to keep my chin up and soldier on. He’s been there for me, at least as much as a teenage boy going through his own stuff can be, and we’ve had a lot of good nights eating pizza and watching old movies together. But it’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough too. I’m slipping away, cracking. I’m not sure when the breaking will stop. I hope soon. I’m afraid never.
I push back from my desk and wander the halls. My mind’s sliding along the dark paths again and I need someone to keep me away from the bad stuff.
Marie looks up as I slip into the conference room. Her smile brightens and I grin back, letting the glass door shut behind me. She’s got her laptop open and several files and folders spread around her, glasses perched on her nose, her hair pulled up into a cute, messy bun. She’s wearing sweats and doesn’t seem to give a damn that her outfit clashes with the classy conference room. Somehow, Marie does sloppy-chic better than anyone I’ve met before, like she was born to be both comfortable and beautiful.