Page 85 of Turning Back

“We are?” I ask, looking at Quin.

“He’s got an ulterior motive,” Quin says. “Needs you to be his date for a party on Thursday night, so he’s going to babysit and we get to have a nice dinner. Or… dancing. Or anything you want.”

“Babysit, huh?” I eye Bric cautiously. “I’m not sure you’re ready to be promoted to babysitter, Mr. Bricman. You just became babysitter assistant four days ago.”

“Five,” Bric counters. “And I got this. I have like seventy-five nieces and nephews.”

“You do not.” Quin laughs.

“Why do you think I hate kids? My family reunion is like three hundred people.”

“I don’t know,” I say, picturing him alone with my daughter.

“It’s fine, Rochelle. I swear to God, I know what I’m doing. And anyway, the hospital is only three blocks from the loft.”

“That’s not a good selling point!” I laugh.

“I tell you what. I promise to call if there’s any problem. But I’m picturing a nice quiet evening in front of the TV and then a nice warm bath before I put her to bed in that fabulous nursery. We’ll be fine.”

I look at Quin for his opinion. He shrugs. “He’s not as stupid as he looks. Med school, remember?”

I actually did forget about that. It’s weird how much my thoughts about Bric have changed in the past week. He is capable. He’s highly educated, he’s calm, he’s caring. He’s considerate. It’s stupid to assume he can’t take care of Adley simply because he’s a man.

“Fine.” I sigh. “You’re right.” I wrap my hands around Quin’s arm and lean into him. “And anyway, it will be really great to go out with a grown-up.” I lean up and kiss him. “Especially when I get you all to myself for one whole evening.”

Chapter Eighteen - Bric

Monday night is like the last year never happened.

Rochelle never walked out. Quin never got hurt. I never gave a baby called Adley the nickname ‘pumpkin.’

One week ago, I thought Jordan Wells was my new partner, Quin was never going to talk to me again, and I was happy—or, at the very least, relieved—that Rochelle had pulled off such an amazing disappearing act.

I don’t even recognize that life when the elevator doors open and I step into the loft. Music is playing. Not loud, but just loud enough. I instinctively know that Adley is asleep just by the atmosphere. The smell of good food lingers in the air, the lights are dim, and I can hear the soft sounds of Rochelle and Quin talking in the kitchen.

I’m late getting home because of work, but I’m so ready to be here with them.

I slip out of my coat, throw it on a chair, and loosen my tie as I turn towards their low voices. They are happy voices. Content. The way they used to be. There was never any tension in our relationship with Rochelle before she got pregnant. Looking back, I can see that I missed the change from easy, to strained, to unbearable after she confided in me and asked for advice. I won’t make that mistake again.

They are drinking wine. Rochelle always did like wine. I see the bottle—something French and expensive—on the counter, and just… enjoy them for these few moments before they see me.

I spy on them. Like a voyeur.

Quin is leaning against the countertop. Rochelle’s legs are pressed up against his, so their hips touch. He has one hand on her waist, she has one hand on his forearm. They both hold wine glasses as they talk, and smile, and look into each other’s eyes, like they are the only thing that matters.

It’s erotic, I think. The position they’re in.

It’s easy again. Like it used to be before.

One week and we are caught in her web. She is a spider wrapping us up in silk. We are the food that feeds her.

I’d lost sight of that last year when Chella appeared in her bed. It all happened so fast. Smith was there to persuade me that things had gone on too long. Remind me of the game and hint that we needed a new player.

And I went along because that’s what I do. I like same and I’m not afraid to admit it. I liked same with Rochelle more than I ever cared to admit.

She was—is—the perfect player in the game of Elias Bricman. She knows all the rules, all the shortcuts, all the perils, all the ways to win and lose, and win again. And I never had to teach her these things. She never asked questions like Chella did. She never questioned anything at all. She just played to the best of her ability and along the way we discovered she’s a fucking gold-medal Olympic athlete in this game. She is breaking record after record. First to stay so long. First to walk out. First to come back. First to have our baby. First to make me want…

It’s the last one that’s starting to bother me a little. Just a little. Just a tiny bit.