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She shifts off me as a fresh wave of weirdness hits me over the whole baby-in-her-right-next-to-my-dick thing. She lays down, curling her knees up, and I shake the thoughts from my mind.
Grow up, asshole.
I pull the comforter up over her, and we lay there facing each other. The otherwise unnerving level of eye contact, at this moment, feels completely comfortable.
The tears still slip down her nose, landing on the pillow. I push her hair back from her face so that I can see her better. Emotion swirls in her blue eyes. Soon, my own mind is spinning with thoughts of how much she belongs here with me. But she isn’t going to stay with me.
I’m hit with the depressive thought, and it moves through me, pulling all of the joy from this moment. All of the lightness in my limbs from sex dissipates in an instant, and I’m left with the truth. She’s here hiding from a scandal. She stayed because she was in trouble, not because she wanted to be with me. She doesn’t want anyone to know she’s pregnant.
“I’m scared you’re going to leave. I’m scared I’m going to lose you, too,” I say, and she looks shocked. She doesn’t think I heard her when she clung to me and mumbled the words into my chest.
“I’m going to have to go home, Zeke. We both know that.” She finds my hand under the blanket and laces her fingers through mine. “But that doesn’t mean you’re going to lose me.”
I can’t help myself when I slip and stumble down this dark hole that leads to one conclusion. This is all we have—these hidden moments.
She’s famous. Her family is important. Maybe she thinks this now, but what will happen when this all blows up in our faces?
Because it will.
