Page 2 of The Man I Love

Margaret stared at her with a crazed, panicked expression. “Are you okay?” she whispered, blinking excessively as if she were sending Morse code.

Sam nodded mechanically and turned to face Tristan again. “Tristan, this is my roommate, Margaret. Margaret, this is...” Her voice broke off. Tristan hadn’t moved from his spot, but the tension in his jaw made her instinctively take a step backward. “Tristan Montgomery,” she finally stammered out. How else did she introduce him? As her ex? The father of her unborn child? Her friend?

Washe a friend?

Margaret and Tristan exchanged awkward “hellos,” then Margaret took a few backward steps, grabbing Mr. Covington by the elbow. “Can I borrow you?” she whispered. “I think they need a moment.”

Samantha had spent twelve months within these walls, building a career, friendships … a makeshift family. She knew this was Margaret’s way of giving them space.

Mr. Covington nodded, and soon, their whispered mumbles trailed down the steps until she and Tristan were alone.

Sam straightened her shoulders, trying to get a grip on her emotions so she could face Tristan without falling apart. She had her unborn child to think about. Their future. The next eighteen years of parenting with a man who couldn’t even bring himself to look at her.

Breathe Samantha. Deep breaths. One step at a time.

Yet the entire space percolated with emotions so thick it was impossible to breathe. Sam shoved herself from the counter, determined to shake it off and get on with the day. She dropped one arm to her side, then set the milk jug on the counter, allowing her third-trimester belly more room to breathe.

Even through his dark glasses, she could see his focus shift downward. It had been months since he’d last seen her, and there was no denying she looked different.

“You look...” He stepped forward, his throat visibly tightening.

Her hand came to rest on her stomach, her gaze landing on the bump that housed their unborn child. “He’s getting big,” she stated, unable to stop her mind from whirling with all the possibilities of what Tristan might be thinking.

At nearly twenty-eight weeks pregnant, she didn’t quite feel like herself these days. Her body was larger in every way possible. Her stomach, breasts, and even her thighs bore stretch marks from rapid growth. Most days, she saw pregnancy as nothing short of a miracle, but standing here now, aware of how much her body had changed from the woman he’d made love to on too many occasions to count, made all her insecurities flare up in her chest. Was he pleased? Disappointed? Indifferent?

“He?” Tristan asked, his voice rough.

She looked up, finding he’d moved closer, so close she could practically feel his heat on her skin.

“Or she.” She crumbled up her fingers and anchored them to her thighs. There was an emotion in his voice that left her shaken, yet he still wore those damned aviator glasses, and it took all her restraint not to pull them from his face so she could look into his eyes. “That was our agreement,” she continued, forcing herself to still. “We’ll find out the gender at the baby shower in L.A.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she tilted her head to search his face—the man she’d known better than the back of her own hand but who now seemed like a stranger. “Do you really think I’d go back on my word?” Her voice shook, almost begging him to disagree.

Three seconds passed. He stood there still, his silence filling her chest with something heavier than concrete. “I don’t knowwhat to think anymore.” His words weren’t cruel nor angry, but his honesty hurt worse than a thousand bee stings on blistered skin.

She nodded once, feeling the knot in her throat grow raw. She'd awoken that morning with thehope that things would be different, hope that time apart would have healed the hurt enough so they could at least talk. Standing there now, she realized it had been a fantasy. The damage was too great, the hurt too big.

They would be co-parentsandpartners. Possibly, with enough time, they could be friends.

The baby kicked—swiftly to her ribs––making her jump.

“You okay?” Tristan asked, his fingers grazing her skin as he grabbed her elbow.

She glanced down at his hand, realizing it was comfort offered on impulse, yet every cell in her body had to resist the urge to lean into him.

For years, he had been her rock, her shoulder to cry on, his arms offering safety and support.

“Yes.” She stepped away, turning toward the hallway and the bathroom that would offer her solitude. “But I really need to pee.”

2

CHAPTER TWO

July

Twelve Months Earlier

Los Angeles

The soundof Tristan’s work truck made Samantha glance at her watch. Six p.m. already! The hot and bright summer day had given her the false sense that she still had time.

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