Page 38 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“Everything’s fine,” she says, but her voice has gotten careful again. “Healthy so far.”
The conversation peters out, and we drive in silence through Manhattan traffic. I want to ask more—about her symptoms, her cravings, whether she’s scared or excited or both. But I gave up any right to those details when I left her on that street corner.
When we reach her building, I automatically get out to help with her showcase materials. This time she just nods, accepting the help without comment.
We climb the three flights to her apartment without talking, me carrying the heavier items while she unlocks doors. Her building is old, probably prewar, with narrow stairs and thin walls. Not what I’d choose for a pregnant woman, but I’m the last to have any input on her life.
Her apartment surprises me. It’s small but warm, full of natural light from windows that face west. Design materials are organized everywhere—sketches pinned to walls, fabric swatches arranged on a table, a professional sewing station set up in what might have once been a dining area. A dress form draped with half-finished lace stands in one corner like a sculpture.
This is the life she’s built without me. Creative, purposeful, entirely hers.
I spot the subtle signs of baby prep: prenatal vitamins on the kitchen counter, a pregnancy book tucked between design magazines on a shelf, a small stuffed elephant sitting on the windowsill.
Each detail is a reminder of what I’ve missed, what she’s been doing alone. The elephant especially gets to me—such a small, hopeful gesture that I wasn’t here to witness.
“Do you want some tea?” she asks, lingering by the door with keys still in hand.
It’s a simple question, but we both know it’s more than that. Tea means staying. Tea means talking. Tea means crossing from polite small talk into whatever this is.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like that.”
She nods and moves to the kitchen while I find a place on her couch. It’s burgundy velvet, worn but comfortable, withthrow pillows that look handmade. Everything about this place screams Gemma—warm, creative, unpretentious.
She brings two mugs and settles beside me, not too close but close enough that I catch her scent—something warm and floral with an edge of vanilla that I remember from our nights in the safehouse. The familiarity of it hits me unexpectedly hard. We sit in silence for a moment, both of us sipping tea and avoiding eye contact.
Finally, I take a breath. “I owe you an explanation. About why I left.”
She sets down her mug with deliberate care, like she’s afraid her hands might betray her. I watch her expression become carefully neutral, see the way her shoulders draw up slightly—defensive, protective. She’s bracing for impact.
“I was scared I’d fail you,” I continue, the words feeling inadequate even as I say them. “That whole situation with Tim had me on edge, and when you left the safehouse without telling me, when I found you at that clinic and realized how close he’d gotten, I was already spiraling. Then you told me about the baby, and I just...”
I stop, run a hand over my face. “I panicked. The thought of being responsible for keeping you both safe, of having to make the right calls—I couldn’t handle it. I told myself that walking away was protecting you, but really I was just protecting myself from screwing up again.”
Quiet stretches between us. I’m expecting her to soften, maybe nod with understanding. Hell, maybe even reach for my hand and tell me she gets it, that fear makes people do stupid things.
Instead, she just stares at me. Her green eyes are unreadable, almost clinical.
“Okay.” Her voice is flat. “Is that it?”
The bottom falls out of my world. “What do you mean?”
She stands up, movements sharp and final. “Well, thank you for the apology. I do appreciate it.” She moves toward the door, the gesture making her intentions clear without having to say the words.
No.
This isn’t how I pictured this going at all.
But she’s made her choice, and I have to respect that. I follow her toward the door, every step heavier than the last. I reach for the door handle, accepting that this might be it. Then I stop, my hand frozen on the metal. I can’t leave like this again. Not without trying one more time to make her understand.
I turn back. “I’m really sorry, Gemma. I just didn’t think I could be trusted to protect you. That it might even get you killed.”
She stops moving, turns to stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. The silence stretches between us. After a long pause, she crosses her arms. “That doesn’t explain abandoning me when I told you I was pregnant.”
She’s right. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I know what it’s like to fail someone when it matters most,” I say, the words scraping out of my throat. “I’ve made the wrong call before, and someone died because of it.”
“What happened?”
This is it. The moment where I either fight for us or lose her forever. I need to tell her everything, no matter how hard it is to talk about.
