Page 95 of Seein’ Red

Touché…

I swallow hard, breathing in deep, letting my lungs expand until they hurt, and then holding it until they scream. Letting the air rush out, I sit back up.

“I woke up this morning and I thought that life was pretty damn good. A little weird, with some freaky things on the horizon, but I was happy. So incredibly, fucking happy. And then, in a matter of minutes, that shattered. The illusion I was living in cracked like thin ice on Rocky Pond in the winter, plunging me into the frigid water. Because it was an illusion—we were making it work because, in Nash’s words, ‘it’s the right thing to do.’ And I let myself believe that wasn’t the reason. That there was more. But there isn’t, despite the show he put on. Which was all in front of an audience. Yay, me!” A wry cry escapes, the tears that had finally stopped threatening again. “I don’t know what I feel or what I think. What I do know is that I hurt. A hurt that somehow outranks the intensity of the happy that I was this morning. And that this hurt isn’t going away soon.”

“Fair enough.” Milo nods, letting my words sink in. “Since you’re not pregnant, need a drink?”

I shake my head. I appreciate the offer, but booze isn’t going to solve this.

I only wish I knew what was.

26

NASH

Well, fuck.

I slump down in the old wingback chair that has been in my family for forever. Story goes it belonged to my however many-th great-grandfather, and has been passed down with the house ever since. Sitting in it now, in the front living room of the old farmhouse, it feels like it. The thing is as uncomfortable as it is old.

The only thing even more uncomfortable than this chair is the knowledge that I’m not inheriting it. Not that I really want this chair. I couldn’t give two shits about this chair. But the chair comes with the house. And I no longer have a need for that.

And that’s what hurts.

Fuck…

I close my eyes, resting my head against the back of the chair, trying to ease the ache inside of me. It doesn’t work. I suspect that nothing is going to make this go away. Ever.

And I do mean ever.

Maybe it will fade in time and won’t feel quite as raw. But I don’t think the woman you love—have always loved—telling you to fuck off and that she hates you after you open your heart and spill your guts to her is something that you can ever recover from.

Especially when minutes before, you thought you were starting a family and planning on forever.

No forever here, folks. Nothing to see. Just keep moving.

Fuck. Seriously, how did we get here? I’ve run the events of this morning through my mind at least seven hundred times. And with each rerun, I get more lost. All I know is that it all went to shit when she went to the bathroom.

Had I known a trip to the Pour Decisions bathroom was going to make everything in my life go tits up, I would have gotten Willa that damn bucket I joked about.

Instead, I let her venture off to the great unknowns of the toilet, and ten minutes later my life was falling about its ears.

The front door opens and closes, soft footsteps echoing through the mostly empty house. I follow their sound through the entry, listening as they pause, then turn, heading my way. Sure enough, they stop right in front of me.

There’s only one person who walks that lightly in this family, and I’d bet good money that in three…two…one…

Bronwyn’s arms are around me in a flash, right on time with my countdown. I don’t open my eyes quite yet, but I do sit forward enough for her to fully embrace me and not me plus the chair. Her stance is awkward enough—half bent over, leaning forward—I don’t need to add to it.

“Hi…” she whispers into my ear, not pulling back.

“Hi, Bee.”

She squeezes tighter, then lets go, backing away slowly. I sit up fully, opening my eyes and looking at her. The smile she gives me is sweet, but there is something else weaved in. Pity.

Just what I need.

“Nash…I⁠—”

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” I announce, cutting her off.