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In a huff, I dragged myself and my quilt into the living area. I landed on the burnt orange couch we had inherited from Grandma and Grandpa. It was an eyesore but still comfy. I snuggled into the corner and wrapped the quilt around me, waiting for Brock and wondering if life would ever seem normal again. I looked around my old place, open with high steel-beamed ceilings and large windows. It represented much happier times. I loved living here with Ariana and Kinsley. It had given me this sense of empowerment and hope. Like if we could make it, the kids I worked with had a fighting chance. Such hopes and dreams had lived in these walls. Some of them had even come true. Kinsley had opened her restaurant, and Ariana had doubled her orders at the stained glass studio she’d inherited from Grandma. Donations for Children to Love were at an all-time high. And Ariana and I had both married the loves our lives. Thankfully, for her, marriage truly was a dream. For me, not so much. Basically, not at all. It just goes to show that you should be careful what you wish for.
I rested my head on the back of the couch, wishing for sleep and my eight hours of nausea relief. Instead I got a few moments of quiet with my eyes closed before I heard Brock pounding on the door. Reluctantly, I got up and padded over to the door in my thin T-shirt and the pink boxer shorts I’d stolen from Brock a year ago. I thought back to the night he had been doing his laundry while I was over at his old place and a rogue red shirt had gotten mixed in with his whites. He was going to throw away his new pink underwear, but I’d rescued them and had been wearing them ever since as my pajamas. Brock may be bigger than me, but I had some curvy hips that kept those babies in place. I probably should have changed, yet I was too tired. And the boxers were a reminder that once upon a time there was laughter and friendship between us.
I opened the door, and without an invitation, Brock swept in, gently grabbed my arms, and gave me a good once-over. Satisfied I was okay, he let me go and relaxed.
“Hi.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Hi.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
I couldn’t help but stare at him; he truly was beautiful. His five-o’clock shadow accentuated his strong jawline, giving him the Hollywood look. His tight T-shirt showed off his muscular arms and tapered waistline. If only the light would come back in his sea-blue eyes. Eyes that were repeatedly roving over me.
Brock cleared his throat. “You’re wearing my underwear.”
“Would it make you feel better if you had some of mine to wear?” I teased him like it was old times.
His lips twitched. It was the first sign of a smile I’d seen from him in weeks.
“I’ll take that as a no.” I walked back to the couch and curled up into my quilt. The nights were getting cooler, and Brock’s presence as of late gave me the chills.
Brock sat down on the opposite side of the couch, as far away from me as possible. Even when we were only friends he would have sat as close to me as he could. Teasing me with his warm body and little touches.
“Why are you here?” I couldn’t keep the hurt out of my voice.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his legs, and rubbed his face. “We can’t keep going on like this.”
I grabbed at my wildly beating heart. “You want a divorce?” Not like we’d had much of a marriage, and in many ways it would be a relief, but my baby needed the protection of our union and his name.
His head whipped my way. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
I wrapped the quilt tighter around me. “What did you mean?”
He braved inching toward me, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I was thinking about what Brant,” he growled his name, “said yesterday about you deserving a better husband.”
How unexpected. I perked up a bit.
His eyes drifted up and met mine. “Dani, we were once friends.”
“The best of friends,” I whispered.
“Best friends,” he agreed. “I think friends is a good place to start while we sort out this mess we’ve found ourselves in.”
He wanted to be friends? I didn’t know whether I should laugh or cry. Being friends hadn’t worked out so well for us. Or at least for me. Yes, I’d loved being his friend, and he was an excellent one, but I’d always wanted more. I wanted more now. Yet, I could see the pain in his eyes. The pain of my choices.
