Page 32 of The Witch's Shifter
Her words make me blink in surprise. Didn’t expect that.
“Feelwhatway?” I ask, then realize afterward that a sharp edge slipped into my tone. I sit back from the table. “Belinda, you called off our engagement. You packed up your bag and moved away. You married another man and have a child with him. And now you want to reconnect?” I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
The quirk in her lips transforms into a scowl, then a frown. Her shoulders rise as she takes a breath, then sink when she lets it out. “I’m sorry. I suppose I don’t understand it myself either. I just saw you today, and it... brought back a lot of memories. Good and bad.”
Memories. I know all about those.
When Belinda rode away in the wagon, headed for her shiny new life, she leftmewith the memories of her existence—the teacups with the strawberries painted on the sides, the hair ribbon she left in the drawer of the bedside table, the empty chair across the table from mine. She didn’t have to deal with those memories—Idid. And now she’s, what, finally remembering the years we spent together? Remembering that we were supposed to be man and wife?
I’m not mad at her anymore—haven’t been in quite some time—yet I feel frustration rising in my stomach, hot and uncomfortable.
Thankfully, before I can say something foolish, the tavern maid arrives with our cheesy bread. The fresh-baked loaf steams as she sets the platter in the center of our table, and the cheese melted atop it is still bubbling. My mouth waters at the sight of it.
Belinda and I take turns cutting slices and placing them on the smaller plates the tavern maid brought over. I’ve got my mouth full when she says, “So, tell me more about this Aurora. How’d you meet her?”
“I did some work on her cottage.” I take another bite of the cheesy goodness, then wash it down with a hearty swallow of ale. “She moved in this past spring.”
“And that lovely yarn you bought, will she be knitting you something with it? Green has always suited you.”
I’m so enraptured by the warm bread, I don’t even think before saying, “No, she’s been knitting for the baby.”
Belinda’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. She blinks. “Thebaby? You’re having a child with her?”
It wasn’t my intention to bring this up. My relationship with Aurora is complicated and hard to explain to someone on a good day, and I certainly never expected to be asked about it by my ex-fiancée.
I quickly ask myself,Am I ashamed?And the answer is no. I’m proud to love Aurora and to be loved by her in return; no one’s judgement is going to change that.
After swallowing my bread and taking another drink, I sit back from the table and level a look at Belinda. “No, it’s not my child.”
Now it’s Belinda’s turn to be confused. A furrow forms between her dark eyebrows, and it’s still there when the tavern maid returns with two big bowls of steaming potato soup.
“It’s hot,” she says while setting the utensils down. “Don’t burn yourself, hon.” Then she’s gone, leaving the two of us in uncomfortable silence.
I let Belinda work through what I’ve said and focus on my meal instead. It looks rich and hearty, with big chunks of carrot, celery, and potato floating in the creamy soup. Tearing off a chunk of the cheesy bread, I dip it into the soup and put it in my mouth, and though I burn myself a bit, the flavor is worth it.
Potato soup has always been my weakness.
That and little green-haired witches, it seems.
“I don’t get it,” Belinda finally says. She’s not yet tasted her meal, too focused on staring at me. “You’re with this woman, but she’s carrying another man’s child? And you’re okay with that?”
I shrug. “It was surprising at first, but we’re all working through it.”
“All? Who’sall?”
My sigh is heavy. “Me, Aurora, and Rowan, the baby’s father.” Saying it, I remember Faolan standing in the parlor, announcing Aurora is hismate. I think I’ll keep that bit of information to myself though. I’m not even sure how I’d explain it if Belinda asked. “It sounds odd,” I admit. Then I take a bite of potato soup and shrug. “But it works for us.”
Belinda picks up her spoon and stirs her soup with a furrow in her brow—and if it’s the same furrow I remember, it’s one of annoyance, which annoys me in return.
“Why do you care?” I ask. My grip on my spoon tightens.
That draws her sharp gaze back to mine.
“Because I think you deserve better than that.”
“Bettermeaning . . . ?”
Belinda rolls her eyes like it should be obvious. I’d almost forgotten how much that used to irk me. “A woman who doesn’t need to sleep with other men to feel satisfied in her relationship with you.”
