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Fine by me; the ones I make up in my head usually avoid him running off into the sunset with a hot blonde. Which is a terrible, petty thing to imagine, considering the blonde in question sent flowers and a congratulatory card signed by both Penelope Jacobs and her partner. “Right now?”
Almost as quick as his gaze drops to my chest, it flits upwards again. “Later. Tomorrow.”
Odd, but whatever. “Fine.”
Finishing feeding October, I hoist her up to burp her only for her to be stolen away, swept into her father’s arms and towards the living room, leaving me alone with the plate of food I didn’t even notice being set in front of me.
Cass pauses in the archway. Those big, broad shoulders rise and fall. He peeks over one of them, the same one October rests on, and, as smoothly as he said good morning, he says, “I’m trying to be a gentleman, Sunday. That’s the only reason I’m not looking.”
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, he’s gone.
Not, like,got out of bed earlygone.Gonegone. No car in the driveway, no whipping up breakfast in the kitchen, no doing something unnecessary to the nursery. He’s just gone.
I suppose it’s better I didn’t see it coming. After all, the anticipation was killing me. Ripping off the bandaid is the best way to do it—so glad we agree. I have to be grateful, I guess, because if it hurts this much being blindsided, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to know it’s coming.
Carefully, I curl myself around the remaining occupant of my bed. The tiny bundle I already love so much, it hurts. When a third body, the first owner of my heart, the first person I ever truly loved, the first thing to ever really be mine, joins us, I find myself thinking it’ll be okay.
If it’s like this, just the three of us, we’ll be okay.
52
CASS
I drive to San Francisco.
I need the eight-ish hours to think, to strategize, and my Jeep was conveniently still in the garage—I left it for Sunday in case that pile of used parts she loves so much decided to die, but I have a feeling she’d rather walk across the country than use my car.
When I stop for gas about half way, I turn on my phone for the first time in a week. Unsurprisingly, I’m inundated with calls and texts, ranging from erratic threats from the agent I hastily fired to notifications from my imploding social media with theories and insults and rage to a simple one-liner from Sal, of all people.
Felicitats, it says. I wonder if it means something that he couldn’t bring himself to wish me congratulations in English. I wonder if it means something that he said it at all. I wonder if it has anything to do with me arriving at the Devils’ home stadium and finding my cubby neatly packed. Without questioning it too much, I sling the mysteriously pre-prepared duffel bag over my shoulder and move onto my next location.
Malone is in his office. He doesn’t look all that surprised to see me. Disappointed, definitely, but resigned too. Leaning back in his chair, he laces his hands together on his lap, head cocked. “I suppose your lawyer will be in touch?”
I nod. I had him draw up the buy-out offer last week. On the second day of October—my daughter’s birthday.
Our goodbye is not dramatic. I say about as many words as I have in my brief stint as a Devil—a simple thank you, some well-wishing, and then I leave. That’s it.
As I close his office door behind me, I close a metaphorical one too.
* * *
It’s late by the time I get home.
I’m greeted by a quiet house, and I make an effort to keep it that way, careful as I close the door, toe off my shoes, and head upstairs. When I find August’s door ajar, dim light spilling out of the slim crack, I whisper his name as I push it open.
He jolts upright in bed, his palpable guilt at being caught awake past his loosely-enforced bedtime—reading, I notice—is quickly overshadowed by surprise. “You’re here.”
I mimic his frown. “Yeah?”
“Oh.” The deep furrow between his brows eases into something curious. “Where were you?”
I want to tell him. Where I was, what I did, but I have to tell his mom first, so I give him the next best truth. “Just fixing something.”
August eyes the bag slung over my shoulder and nods slowly—knowingly, even.
“Get to bed soon, okay?”
