Page 23 of Promise

He had not been wrong.

I made a decision that I thought we both needed. We needed time to heal, time to work on ourselves.

I really was an idiot, because I thought we’d find our way back to each other. We were still bound together.

With both sandwiches made and cut into triangular halves, I plate them and pour each of us a glass of fresh-made lemonade I find in the fridge.

The scent of that summery drink makes me think of Trinity’s mom, and a sharp pang strikes my chest. Memories of being in the Haven home, seeing what a family should look like, act like, feel like. I wanted that for myself, and I thought Trin and I had it, or we were actively working toward it.

How did it all go so wrong? So sideways? Get so backward and turned around?

How did stepping away to give us time turn into three years gone?

How did we end up here, with her having everything she longed for, and me being on the periphery of that joy?

The kitchen doesn’t have an eat-in area, so I carry the plates to the dining room where Trinity took a seat after setting the baby in a bassinet by the front window.

The house looks different. Fresh flowers in vases on the kitchen counter and dining room table. That print of a giant pussy hanging in the entry wall. A pink couch in the living room. Pictures in gold frames on the mantel over the fireplace. The built-in bookshelves are original to the house, and yet, even they look different.

This place had been a labor of love and one of my greatest treasures. It was a total dump when we bought it, but it had so much potential. We signed a hefty mortgage and started pouring all our money into the house, draining every paycheck in a rush to finish the rooms for children that never arrived.

I shake my head, unable to go down that path yet, knowing there are other roads to travel first.

I set a plate in front of Trinity, then take a seat on the opposite side of the dining table, recalling when we used to sit near one another. Her at the head, and me to her left so I could hold her hand sometimes while I ate. Toying with that diamond that I’d placed on her finger. Being left-handed, the position worked in my favor.

One thing that had not changed in this room was the antique walnut table. The same one I’d laid her on the day we brought it home, kissing down her chest and unbuttoning her dress. One that had always been my favorite because the buttons went to her waist. I’d hitched up the skirt, slid off her panties, and slipped into her, christening this thing. Our first official purchase after the bed in our room.

I clear my throat to dispel the memory.

“So . . . Mirabelle. Pretty name.” Not one we ever picked together.

Trinity hums, turning her head in the direction of the front room, a wistful smile on her face. The love in her eyes for that baby girl is heavy and thick.

Jealousy spikes again, and I race toward the subject still on my ass in the rearview mirror.

“How did you meet Mirabelle’s daddy?” Whomever he might be.

Let’s just take a tire iron to the bruises across my ribs and get this over with.

“Nope.” She shakes her head, bringing her attention back to me. “We aren’t talking about me.”

“Just curious about your random baby daddy,” I continue, pushing a button I shouldn’t press.

Her lips pucker, like she tastes the sharp tang of lemonade without sugar to cut the bite. “I don’t have a random baby daddy.”

And I kind of hate how stinkin’ cute she is, even when she’s sassy toward me.

Her hair is a lot shorter than it’d been in the past, hanging just above her shoulders. The slight wave means she washed it and let it air-dry. The color is different, too. A little blonder than her original strawberry color. Her eyes are still deep coffee brown, warm and bright.

Until now.

Right now, they say I better start talking.

I swallow hard and rub my hands on my thighs beneath the table. “I’m on a break from the circuit. Probably a permanent one.”

“Probably?” Her voice pitches high, question and sass dipping together. She clears her throat. “What does a break even mean?”

“I had an accident.” It isn’t really that simple, but I don’t want to discuss my argument with my manager. How he didn’t think I would surpass where I was. Great times, but not excellent. A strong contender, but not one that would ever consistently be driving the winner’s lap.