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I step across the grass, wondering if that’s a good omen or a bad omen.
Chapter Fifty-three
LILAH
Aknock sounds on the door and I jolt. Not sure why I startle since I was expecting him. Neither the laps in the pool nor the AA meeting this morning have kept my anxiety about this conversation in check.
My chest is tight and struggling to inhale a full breath. I clench my hands on the way to the door before spreading my fingers open to will myself to relax.
Jimmy stands on the porch wearing his ball cap and sunglasses, a plain T-shirt stretched across his hard chest, and a pair of cargo shorts. I have no idea how no one has spotted him in our small town. He emanates that "I’m someone special" quality without trying.
I open the door and step aside. “Come on in.”
My eyes close for a second when his fresh, clean, manly scent follows his entrance. The same scent that I attributed to safety and security for the majority of my life. I hope our conversation doesn’t sour Jimmy’s smell to me.
He removes his sunglasses and ball cap, running his fingers through his hair. He’s overdue for a haircut. Or maybe he’s growing it out for a role. A dull ache hits me with the reminder that I know nothing about his life. Well, nothing that no one else who can read does. I’ve gone from his confidant to his hidden stalker.
“Has anyone recognized you yet?”
He shakes his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Except the store the first day, I haven’t really gone anywhere. Been living off food deliveries mostly.”
I nod with the hope it remains that way. His fame is another puzzle piece we have to figure out. My hand falls to my stomach when I think about Monica’s face on those magazines. One day she’ll be old enough to read horrific things about her mother’s past, but I won’t sit idle and let the paps ruin her life with lies.
“I’m not sure you’ll be too thrilled with lunch then. I had the diner make up sandwiches for us.” No way do I have any ability to cook an edible meal today.
“As long as it’s not pizza, I’m happy.”
“I hope you still like roast beef.”
I walk into the family room. I wanted somewhere comfortable and private for what’s about to go down. We sit at opposite ends of the couch, and I’m surprised he didn’t take the arm chair to be farther from me.
“I thought we’d eat here.” I pull his sandwich out of the bag and pass it to him.
“Thanks.” He unwraps it and takes a large bite. “It’s good.”
I give him a small smile and remove my turkey on rye from the bag. I open the wax paper and place the sandwich on the coffee table. Gathering courage I didn’t think I had, I shift on the couch so one leg is under me, one dangling to the floor, and face him.You can do this.
“We might as well get right to it. I want to start off by saying that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was pregnant.” He opens his mouth to say something, but I raise my hand and he allows me to continue. “I know sorry doesn’t cut it. Nothing I say will. I just want you to know I truly am. It’s a decision I’ve second-guessed a lot through the years. If things had been different…”
“When did you know?” He abandons his sandwich on the coffee table.
“After that night when you told me to…” My gaze falls to my hands in my lap, unable to see his expression when I reference the night that sent our lives in opposite directions.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have told me.” He stands from the couch and paces in front of the coffee table. When I don’t answer, he spears me an angry look.
“After… what happened, I went straight to a bar. I didn’t even think, and I barely remember getting there, I was such a mess. All I knew was that I wanted to numb myself from the fact I'd lost you. I could tell you really meant those words and we wouldn’t come back from the mistake I’d made.”
His fists clench at his sides when I say the word mistake.
“I sat on that bar stool for so long before I took a shot.”
“I thought you said you’d been sober since Utah? Just another lie?” he sneers.
“As soon as the alcohol hit the back of my throat, I knew it was a mistake. I ran to the washroom and forced myself to throw up. Then I called Calder.”
His forehead creases, and he looks at me for a second before piecing the information together. “Calder Fox?”
I nod, my hands clenched in my lap. “Remember when we met them at that premiere? He put his number in my phone and told me to call if I ever needed someone to talk to. He picked me up. He found me an Airbnb to stay in, got me to a meeting.”
