Page 57 of The Final Faceoff
“You say it like you believe it.” I start crying again.
“I do because I know what you’re capable of, and because I love you,” he states, pulling me closer. “Now, we’re going to go back home. You’ll be eating some dinner—and then we’ll start a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes, you need to be nesting. Then find a therapist, because this baby deserves a mom who’ll love herself,” he continues. “Just as everyone who knows her loves her.”
I stare at my cup, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I mess this up?”
His expression softens.
“Of course you will. No one is perfect, Hailey Bean,” he dares to say. “Look at my parents. They’re amazing, but I know for a fact that they’ve fucked up a lot. The important thing is that they learned, and no matter what, they always loved us.” Leif watches me for a moment, like he’s making sure I believe him. “So . . . any other males you need to interrogate, or are we officially closing the investigation?”
I snort. “Investigation closed.”
His smirk grows. “Good. I was wondering if you were going to need a lawyer, but it seems like we don’t need anything—no restraining orders against the cyber stalker.” He pauses and glares at me. “That’d be you. And no angry girlfriends.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m a lot of things, but impossible isn’t one of them,” he states. “Now let’s go home, lady.”
And maybe I can go to his house now, but I do have to figure out what I’m going to do now that I know it’s just me and the little one. We’ll be okay, right?
ChapterEighteen
Leif
Best ways to Puck Handle Your Feelings
Is it wrong to be happy that Hailey’s given up on finding the father of this child?
That’s selfish, right?
I should feel bad about it. Maybe even guilty. But as I sit beside her, watching her actually eat—chew, swallow, and not immediately make a break for the bathroom because there’s a battle between her body and her digestive system. Honestly, this feels like a miracle I don’t want to question. She picks up another forkful, eyes bright with something dangerously close to enthusiasm, and it does something strange to my chest.
“This is amazing,” she says around a mouthful of food, covering it with her hand like that does anything to make it more polite. “Did you tell George I was sick of grilled chicken?”
I shake my head. “George just knows things. He’s a food psychic.”
Hailey hums, already going for another bite. “Well, tell him to keep doing . . . whatever this is.”
She looks better than she has in days. There’s color in her cheeks again, a little energy in the way she moves, and I should just feel relieved that she’s getting a little back to herself. And I do. Sort of. But it also makes it impossible to ignore the thing I’ve been trying really hard not to think about.
She’s not looking for him. Not going to track him down. Not going to make a grand effort to force some random guy into this picture.
Which means . . .
I exhale, pressing my fingers against the tension building in my jaw. I should not be happy about that. Yet, sitting here, watching her pick at her food in my sweatshirt that’s at least three sizes too big, hair in a half-falling-over knot that defies physics, it doesn’t feel impossible.
It feels like something I can work with.
I’ve been watching her since she got back, memorizing all the little differences. She’s still Hailey, still sarcastic, still prone to dramatics, but there’s something else too—something careful. She used to be bolder, braver, but now it’s like she’s waiting for the next disaster to hit. Like she’s waiting to be told she’s doing everything wrong.
Her eating habits have changed too. I notice the way she starts cautiously, taking small, testing bites like she’s waiting for her stomach to betray her. I notice the moment her shoulders lose some of their tension when it doesn’t. I notice how she fills the quiet with words, filling the space with chatter because silence makes her nervous.
She keeps glancing at me, not like she expects me to say something, but like she’s waiting for me to be normal. Which is funny. Because normal is the last thing I feel.
My eyes drift to her hands, noticing how her fingernails are longer, coated in something glossy. I don’t know why my brain latches onto that, but it does, and then suddenly it’s not just thinking about the baby. It’s thinking about Hailey here, in my space, in my life, in ways she never has been before.
