Page 10 of Promise

Fear doesn’t race through me as much as confusion.

Like, why would well-worn cowboy boots on manly feet be dangling over the armrest of the couch in my living room?

But with a shaky final step backward, keeping my back to the front door, I pause outside the archway into the living room and stare at the distinct shape of masculine boot-covered feet.

Boots I recognize because of a definitive mark on the bottom of the right sole. Like Andy was written on Woody in Toy Story, claiming the raggedy cowboy toy belonged to the young boy who owned him, my name is etched into the bottom of a boot.

Trinity.

I squint as bright moonlight beams through the front window, highlighting those size thirteens over the arm of my couch, noticing how much brighter my name looks on the bottom of that boot. Like a permanent marker recently traced over the original engraving, etched with the sharp tip of a roofing nail one drunken night near a fire pit in the backyard of this house.

We’d just bought the place and worked long days to make it semi-livable. Dart built a fire in the yard for us to cook our dinner. Hot dogs and beans heated in a can.

To many more nights in our yard, he’d toasted to us, tapping his warmed tin against mine.

Later, he used the nail from our construction site to mark those old boots, telling me he belonged to me.

Heart and soul, house and footwear.

Always ridiculous.

And apparently, sleeping on my couch.

“What the fuck?” I shout, causing Mirabelle to flinch in my arms. Her tiny body curls against me like a little snail tucked into its shell home. The space against my shoulder and my chest is her comfort spot.

Dart jolts upright, forcing his feet to fall off the armrest and thud against the rug. He turns his head left to right like he searches for danger, then struggles to register his surroundings. With a hand on the back of the couch, he slowly turns toward me.

The gold in his eyes stands out, giving him a hawk-sharp gaze that narrows in on me.

“Jesus, Trin. You scared the piss out of me.”

I ignore his easy tone mingling with the casual way he’s sitting on that couch.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

With a shuddering mewl from Mirabelle, who shivers and shifts against me, Dart ignores my question to ask one of his own.

“Whose baby is that?”

“Mine,” I snap, running a protective hand up her back while straightening my spine. I hold my head high, claiming this child like he has my name written on his boots.

“When the fuck did you have a baby?” His gaze drops to my belly. His voice is a mix of shock, disbelief, and . . . hurt? Impossible.

He’d only be surprised to learn that I might have moved on, slept with someone else, and had a baby.

It could have happened, I’d argue. But it hadn’t. Not like he must think, as expressed in the lines across his forehead and the tightness around his mouth.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I counter, not giving in to his. He doesn’t need the truth. Not yet.

Slowly, he rises to his full height, taking one cautious step toward me before stopping. He slips his hands into his jeans’ pockets. The denim is worn and faded. He also wears a dark T-shirt with the emblem of a car manufacturer on it.

Dart is tall and lean but solid. His dark brown hair is a little longer and messier than he’d previously worn it. His biceps are muscular. His chest is wider than I remember. The tight shirt accentuates both areas on him.

Dammit. Why does he still look so good?

A thin layer of scruff on his jaw is unfamiliar. He used to keep his face clean. Racing standard, he’d told me in a message I hadn’t responded to but couldn’t help but listen to.

The first six months of separation were filled with disbelief.