Page 39 of Fight for Me
I’m not even angry, just upset. I hate disappointing my friends.
“It’s fine. What brings you by, Dec?”
His lips part, but he closes them before starting to move around the room. “I came because I got back from New York City a few minutes ago. I met with a few people and wanted to tell you what I found out.”
“Okay.”
I motion to the seat in front of my desk and then take my own chair. The desk between us allows me to relax a bit. He can’t touch me or make me feel weak. When I’m here, I’m in charge.
“Milo Huxley is a good friend of mine, he is a real estate investor and would like to come see the property. Based on what I’ve told him, he feels he can help, and might even purchase it himself if he sees an opportunity.”
This is what I wanted. I’ve told myself dozens of times over the last week that I was ready to sell my farm and move on. I talked at great length with Jimmy, who seemed almost relieved that I was considering it.
But now, I’m not so sure.
There’s an ache in my chest as I think about someone else living there, sitting in the tree swing out back, or going near the pond that holds memories I will never forget.
“When?” I choke the word out.
“He lives in London, but he’s in New York for the next few days to see his daughter. He’d like to come out as early as the day after tomorrow.”
My stomach flips. “Two days?”
“If you’re not busy.”
I’m not busy other than my normal farm-life thing and finding a way to explain this to my friends.
I have things that are bigger than my sadness to consider. My life isn’t going to be the same, and I can’t pretend that staying here is the right thing.
A support system is what I need, and that’s my mother and sister.
Declan has made it abundantly clear that he won’t be that for me—or anyone—and a child is not something he wants.
So, if this friend of his can help me, then I’m not going to be a fool and pass it up.
“No, I’m not busy. That’s fine.”
He smiles and nods once. “All right. I’ll set it up.”
Declan stands, and I do the same. He looks as though he wants to say something, but doesn’t.
When he gets to the door, I call out. “Dec?”
“Yeah?”
I’m having your baby.
I want this to be better.
I love you still.
I wish I didn’t.
Those aren’t the words that will be said. “Thank you.”
His eyes lock onto mine. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you, Sydney.”
Not much except the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
