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Our memories.
The love we had.
Grace spoke about this during our many “off the record” sessions. The bitterness that I carry in my heart for Bishop, and even Nate. How it’s so easy for betrayal to taste like hate.
I breathe in, hold four seconds, before opening my eyes and exhaling and tapping on Tate’s name.
The first photo I see is her profile photo. A selfie of her and me on my bed at my parents’ house. Chocolate wrappers everywhere, an empty bottle of Grey Goose, and me buried in the sheets with Bishop’s hoodie covering half of my face. I remember that night like it was yesterday. I had just told her about a weird dream I had and how real it had felt…
Tate held her hand up to stop my talking, pushing the empty wrappers off my bed and onto the floor. “You’re telling me that you had a dream.”
I nodded.
“And they were all in it… well, with the exception of your brothers.”
I nodded again, pursing my lips together. This was the first night it had just been Tate and I since she had been hanging off Nate’s dick by her bare teeth.
“You know, if anyone got to, it’d be you.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” I scoffed, shuffling deeper into the sheets while sighing every time Bishop’s signature scent hit my nostrils. “Bishop would slaughter everyone.”
“Well, it would be a fun porn to watch.” She scooted up the bed farther, pulling out her phone in selfie mode and snapping some shots.
That was when I thought that was it. Bishop and I had our very own HEA, like the cute movies you watch and books you read—I was wrong. How could I assume that anything Bishop and I had would be anything less than chaos? Our story will never end.
I keep flicking through her photos, finding one of her and Bishop’s cousin Spyder. They look so happy, with his arms wrapped around her front, leaning against the hood of his Porsche. Tate deserves to be happy, and I’m without a doubt satisfied that Spyder is the one who is giving that to her.
I tap on her following and find Tillie’s name, ignoring the other names’ thumbnails of the people who I don’t want to see right now.
Tillie’s opens and her profile photo is of her and Nate. I click on her following and find myself on Bishop’s name. Do I want to do this?
Before I can stop myself, I click on the last photo he shared. It was dated the day before I left.
Huh.
He hasn’t posted since I left? Interesting…
After fulfilling my stalking itch, I toss my phone onto the sofa and make my way into the kitchen, peeking that the fridge and pantry are stocked. I don’t know how long I’ll be here for, and I guess a lot of that answer depends on the DNA of this baby. Nervousness takes root in my gut when I realize I’m about to find out if my world is going to crash or burn. I know that underneath it all, Bishop loves me, but raising a baby who is not his and is a product of a man who hurt me?
I don’t know. I don’t think he loves me that much to be able to tolerate and live with that forever, and I’m not sure I’d expect him to.
There are two roads ahead of me now. The first one, Bishop is the father and I figure out a way to tell him, we move back to the US, and he and I try to figure shit out.
The other road is this baby is not his. If that’s the case, I will live in New Zealand forever, but still figure out a way to tell him. I love Bishop. I love him more than any human can love another, but this baby is mine. The thought of going down that path cripples me so badly that I feel my heart snap in my chest, but I know the probability of that happening is a straight fifty-fifty chance.
Tillie was right. Saint does look painfully similar to Bishop. It’s uncanny and like a swift slap in my face. She has the parts of Bishop that his darkness hides, but he allowed me to see. She’s not beautiful—she’s so far beyond that I can’t stop staring at her. There’s also a gentleness to her energy that you want to protect.
Oh, Brantley. What have you got yourself here…
“How was your flight?” I ask, trying to not stare at her too hard.
She rests her head against the back of the chair. “Long. How are you holding up?” Saint is definitely the other girl we needed in our friendship group.
“Thank you again,” I say, looking down at the pendant on my bracelet. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m happy to do anything to help Bishop.”
