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So I do it again.
And again.
I can’t feel my hand by the time I’m done. The locker is wrecked, all torn and twisted and hanging halfway off the wall. All I can see behind my eyelids is the disappointment and the hurt on Olivia, Marcus, and Dante’s faces. Three of the people that mean the most to me, my ride-or-dies—all of them see me as a selfish coward.
Maybe that’s what I am.
I was so afraid of people learning about Violet that I hid her from the world. And then, when I was afraid for Olivia, I hid her away, too. Well, now, none of this is hidden, and everything I’ve damn near killed myself to build is crumbling to nothingness around me.
And it’s my fucking fault.
I should have been clean about all this from the moment it started. I should have never let this shit with Holly get this far. I can’t fix things with Marcus and Dante right now. They need time to cool off and, as a man, I gotta give them that space.
I need to talk to Olivia first.
49
REESE
“Olivia.”
In my hands are bags of Olive Garden. Seafood alfredo and lasagna for me, a lasagna and shrimp mezzaluna for her. A metric fuck-ton of bread. One each of every single dessert they sell and a few I had to talk them into making special.
“What do you want?”
Her voice comes from the couch. Some British period piece is playing on the TV. What I thought was a pile of quilts turns out to actually be the future mother of my son, swaddled up in every throw and blanket we own.
As cute as that sight is, her face is pure death. Eyes cold. Mouth drawn into a thin, tight slash.
I’ve always said that Reese Dalton does everything well. Including piss off my baby mama, it seems.
“I brought dinner,” I explain, at the risk of pointing out the obvious.
“I can figure out my own dinner.”
“It’s Olive Garden.”
Her eyes flash, though the rest of her face doesn’t move. If there’s one way to a pregnant woman’s heart, it’s pasta.
“Mm. I guess that’s fine.”
She disentangles herself from the blankets, grabbing a bag to start rifling through it at the coffee table. I set the other one next to it and step back. She divides out the food for herself from the meals for me and takes all the desserts.
I let her have them. There’s no point in trying to fight a pregnant woman for sweets.
Rather than take my place on the couch with her, I sit on the floor across from the couch. I know when I’m wanted to close and when I’m wanted very-far-the-fuck-away and right now falls into the latter category.
Olivia eyes me warily as she eats. “What’s your goal here?” she asks with a mouth full of parmesan breadstick.
I hold up my hands. “No goal. I just brought food. That’s all.”
“Then what’re you staring at?” she asks me after a hefty swallow.
“Nothing. Just admiring you.”
Olivia scoffs. “Don’t. I’m still mad at you. No amount of Olive Garden is going to change that.”
“I didn’t expect that it would.”
