Page 72 of Fight from the Heart

He didn’t want children.

As the story of how she tried to trap him settles in, I feel sick once again. I’d never want him to think I trapped him. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to me or beholdened to our baby. I didn’t need him, but I wanted him.

I’d been to Jacob’s home several times during his absence. I let in the house cleaning service and checked on things in general around the place, just as I’d done for two-plus years.

But I shook as I let myself in the next day. I needed to tell him the truth, and the shock value seemed best as that’s how he approached me last night.

When Ella told me he was returning, I was in shock, and it still stung that he didn’t contact me directly. I couldn’t think about those things. I needed to rip off the bandage and give him my truth because he does need to know. What he did after that would be up to him.

I climb the garage stairs with heavy feet and help myself through the door with my key. Not finding him in his great room at first glance or his office, I cross the large space and enter his kitchen. He isn’t there either, although his car is in the garage.

Maybe he took a walk? It wasn’t likely. Jacob would rather punch the bag when he was frustrated with a writing scene or needed a moment to think. Deciding to check the workout room, I press through the kitchen swing door to find Jacob leaning against the back of a couch. His ankles cross while his hands brace on the frame. He holds a water bottle in one hand and is dressed in a tee shirt and jeans. His feet are bare, and I almost smile until I see his face, lowered toward his feet. The hard edge returns, but something softer mixes in his expression.

“What are you doing here?” he questions as I can only stare at him. He’s so incredibly good-looking. He doesn’t seem so much broken as pieced back together but still fragile.

“My boss returned. I came to inspect the place. See if the house was clean, batteries in flashlights in case of emergency, even firewood in the garage, just in case of a snowstorm.”

“A snowstorm in late April?” His head slowly lifts, and he brings the water bottle to his lips, taking a sip while watching me over the plastic container.

“Stranger things have happened.”

He nods, no longer interested in playing along.

“My assistant quit,” he reminds me. “So you don’t really need to check on things.”

I nod. “Are you really okay?”

“What do you think?” The edge returns to his voice, and he turns toward the window, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming through the glass wall.

“I’m sorry all that happened to you, and I should have said that last night.” So much was racing through my head as he stood before me, confessing to me his story.

I need to tell him my story as well, but something still holds me back.

“And you aren’t upset about the baby?”

“Can’t be upset about something that didn’t exist,” he mocks, and my skin bristles. His underlying tone tells me he was upset about the non-entity child.

“Would a baby ever make you happy? Maybe with someone else.”

“There’s no one else.” His eyes latch onto me.

His shoulders fall. His face lowering again. His feet shift as he crosses and recrosses his ankles.

“What if there is. What if you fall in love and a child . . ..” The truth so close, lying on the tip of my tongue.

“I shouldn’t have kids, anyway,” he says, glancing back up at me. “I’d be a shit parent.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say, stepping closer to him. “You’d just might need a little assistance.”

Jacob huffs. “Always finding the best in me.” His voice lacks any acknowledgment of my weak hints.

“Someday, maybe,” I suggest, finding it harder and harder to tell him about me.

“I don’t believe in love.” He lifts the water bottle again and drinks. He’s falling into safe mood, protecting himself with his words. He shakes his head, dismissing me. He doesn’t really not believe in love. He wants to believe in it, but he just doesn’t recognize it. He wouldn’t know it even if it's standing before him.

“What if it was right under your nose?” I step closer, straddling his crossed ankles. My voice drops, and my gaze drops to his lips a second.

“Lilac,” he whispers, my nickname so familiar and so missed from his lips. The breathy air of my name brushes over my lips.