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On the other hand, Four Cups feels a lot like home turf. If Phil starts acting like an ass, it’ll be much easier to kick him out.
“Sure,” I hear myself saying. “Ten o’clock?”
“Can’t wait,” he says, then disconnects.
Candice is behind the counter with the barista, Sven, the two of them wearing their usual pink Heart’s Cove Hotties tees. Fiona is sorting through bags of coffee behind them with a clipboard resting next to her. The three of them look up at me and I wave before taking a seat in an armchair by the window. I let out a tired sigh.
Since the only medication I’m on right now is ibuprofen, I decided to prove to the world that I’m a strong, independent woman by driving myself to the café—and promptly realized this strong, independent lunatic should have waited a few more days post-surgery to have a conversation with her ex. It took a lot more effort than I expected to get myself the couple of blocks from my apartment to Four Cups. It hurt to use my arm on the steering wheel, and I was grateful I drive an automatic. I parked right outside and shuffled indoors, and I already feel like I need a nap.
“Here,” Candice says, setting herbal tea down in front of me. “You want me to get you anything? Food?”
I shake my head. “I’m meeting Phil.”
Her face hardens. I told my sisters about how Phil reacted when I told him about the baby, and let’s just say my family is not a fan of him. Can’t say I blame them. Apparently, Nurse Wendy told them all about the little stand-off in my room too. Because my family needed more ammunition.
But my baby should have a right to know his or her father, so I’m here. Being the bigger woman. Being strong because that’s what I need to do.
The past few days since my operation have been filled with nothing but clarity. I still feel this bright, warm connection to the baby growing inside me, like a haze has lifted from my mind. I can think. And the baby’s father is here, so I owe him at least a conversation.
A few minutes later, when I’ve mostly caught my breath and my tea is cool enough to drink, Phil blows through the door looking as dapper and distinguished as the day I met him.
We met in a coffee shop just like this one, in Milan. I was sitting on a cobbled patio sipping espresso and going over one of my clients’ accounts on my laptop when he walked by. Our eyes met, and I swear I could hear a string quartet playing in the background. The Italian sunshine warmed my back and lit his face in a golden glow, and that was it. We slept together that evening and he promised me the world.
Over the months that followed, Phil wove a story about his life that felt as surreal as our first meeting. He told me about growing up in the States, then moving to Paris to work for world-class couturiers when he was in his twenties before starting his own business a decade later. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps, he told me. He worked himself to the bone. Then he made it—and I was the lucky woman who got to enjoy the fruits of his labors with him.
He didn’t mention the family he already had back in Paris.
I still don’t know how much of what he told me was true and how much was pure fabrication. I probably never will.
“Lily,” he says, his broad hand on the back of the armchair across from mine. “It’s good to see you. The past week has been hell.”
I give him a tight smile. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Did he forget that I’m the one who had surgery, and who still has a mountain of pain ahead of me?
He ducks to the counter to order a drink, then comes back to sit down. We watch each other for a moment. When Candice brings his mug over, he doesn’t thank her. Doesn’t even look at her, just flicks his wrist to wave her away.
I bristle. You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat people they think are beneath them. I wonder if he would’ve been polite if he knew she was my sister?
He steeples his fingers. “You should have told me about the cancer. I would have come.”
I sip my tea, wrapping dignity around myself like a blanket. “I didn’t need you to come.”
“You need support.”
“I have support.”
“Who? That ass with the blond hair? Come on, Lily. You can do better. How old is he? Twenty-five?”
I don’t answer. Rudy’s age has nothing to do with his. In fact, Rudy has nothing to do with this at all. I set my teacup down and take a breath. “Why are you here, Phil?”
When Phil walked away from me, I felt heartbroken. I was overwhelmed, devastated, and scared. Then I got my diagnosis, and I fell down a deep, dark hole and I realized the heartbreak was nothing. From then on, I mostly felt a numb kind of terror. Rudy woke me up again, and now, for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself again.
I went through surgery with a child in my womb. If my kid can survive what I’m going through—if I can survive—then I don’t need a man like Phil to inject me with false promises.
Phil takes a deep breath to gather himself. “Lily, I came here for you. For our child.”
I nod. “I’d like my child to have a father,” I answer neutrally. I narrow my eyes. “What’s your plan?”
Phil leans back and slurps his coffee. That always bothered me. The slurping. Who needs to slurp every single drink? Water, coffee, alcohol—always with that disgusting noise. His eyes lift to mine. “My plan is to come here and make you see sense. Now tell me what’s going on. Why did you go under the knife when you’re pregnant? That can’t be safe.”
