Standing in the middle of Roxy’s hotel suite, I feel like an interloper. Like I broke into her life again. Uninvited, and pretending it’s for her own good.
This is not even our room. I spent one night here before I took off to give her space.
I’m probably making the biggest mistake. I’m trying to force a decision on her.
But am I really?
We’re getting married—for practical reasons—but still. We’re having a baby.
She might be scared shitless of trusting a man, but she needs to be scaredwithme. By my side.
Not alone in a suite she can’t afford, drowning in spreadsheets and stubbornness.
If she still doesn’t see it, then I would rather know now. Rip off the bandage.
I can give her space, but she needs to take the leap.If she is not ready, we need to find another way to move forward.
It will kill me, but this limbo isn’t productive. It’s torture disguised as maturity.
The baby might be eighteen by the time Roxy is ready to share her life. We need to resolve this.
Fuck, what am I thinking? I march to the mini fridge. Unscrewing the cap on the small bottle of gin, I gulp it down. The burn doesn’t calm me.
If she isn’t ready to accept me fully, I will wait for the rest of my life. There is no other way. That inconvenient fact is already etched deep in my soul.
I clench my fingers a few times and finally snap out of my spiral. I’m certainly pussy-whipped.
Pathetic. Devoted. Both.
I order room service and wait. I call my car agent for an update. I answer a few emails. I turn the TV on and off. I wish I could go to my garage, but I want to be here when she returns.
I want her to walk in and find me steady.
Not waiting like a threat. Not hovering like a leash.
Just… here.
By nine in the evening, the quiet turns from patient to accusatory. Knowing her, she would sleep at work without a second thought.
I pick up the phone, my fingers hovering. Surprising her mightbackfire, so fuck that.
I type, erase, retype again.
I’m at the hotel. When will you be back?
I stare at the screen, but she must have her phone on silent. Well, she has to return at some point.
I wander to the bedroom and plop onto the bed. The faint residue of her scent grounds me immediately. Fuck, I miss her.
The message is still unread. Okay, I might as well unpack my overnight bag. I open the wardrobe, surprised that there are hangers left beside all her fashion creations.
Something stops me. I helped her lift her suitcase onto the top shelf. I remember because, of course, she protested.
The shelf is empty. Too empty.
Why would she take her suitcase to work?
Something cold settles in my stomach. Something that doesn’t belong to the present. Something that feels agonizingly familiar.
