Page 248 of The Baby Bargain
"Really?" Relief spreads over her face. "That's great, Chase."
"It is."
She nods, pours two cups of coffee, sets them on the counter.
Fuck, it's weird being here. I need to do something. Anything. "Let me help." I go to the fridge. Grab the milk.
She brings sugar to the table. Sits.
I take the seat across from her. Cross one leg over the other. It's not comfortable. Not right. But then neither is this.
"You look good." She stirs milk and sugar into her coffee. Brings her spoon to her lips. "Like you've spent the last two years at the gym."
"Was I lacking before?"
"I don't remember complaining." She raises a browdid I?
I shake my head. I was always fit. Three hour practices do that. But working out only became an obsession after she left. I needed routine more.
Grace takes a long sip. Stares at me, waiting for me to go on. When I don't, she clears her throat. "If this is one of thoseI miss youthings, you should probably go now."
"It's not."
Her eyes turn down. "What is it?"
Fuck, that's a hard question.
I fix my coffee. Take a long sip. It's mediocre, at best, but it's still warm and familiar.
"I want to know you're okay," I say.
Surprise streaks her expression. "I am. I'm good."
"You're selling art?"
"Here and there." She sets her spoon on the table. Wraps her fingers around her mug. "It's competitive." Her gaze travels down my body. Slowly. Like she's assessing me as a human being, not a potential fuck. "You have a lot of new work. It suits you."
"And you." I motion to the tattoo on her left wrist.
Her brow furrows. "Chase I… I cut you a lot of slack, because I know how hard that was for you, but I'm not having that conversation again."
"Which one?" I rack my brain, but I can't put my finger on anything. We've had so many fucking conversations that one of us swore off forever.
She releases her cup. Warps her arms around her chest. "I know it hurt. I know it was scary. I hate that I did that to you. I do. But, Chase, get over yourself."
What?
"You don't get that." She presses her hands into her chair. "It's mine. It's messy and ugly, but it's mine."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." Her eyes narrow. "I'm sure you have a lot of feelings about it—"
"I found you."
"I'm sorry that I scared you. Really. I hated myself for a long time. For hurting you. For scaring my mom. For making that choice. But it wasn't about you or her or school or work." She rubs her wrist with her right thumb. Traces the outline of her tattoo. "I didn't attempt suicide because you weren't a good enough boyfriend."
"Why…" I swallow hard. This isn't why I'm here. Not exactly.
