Page 70 of End Game
The energy coursing through my veins has my head buzzing. I sweep the living room as I go by but it’s empty. So is the kitchen. There are no traces of Branch in the entire house.
The front door is unlocked when I try the handle and I tug it open. Stepping onto the patio, I freeze in my tracks.
My heart pulls in my chest, a smile breaking across my cheeks as I spy him.
Branch is sitting on a chaise lounge up against the house, an Illinois Legends hat sitting over his face. His big, bulky arms are folded across his chest and one sneaker-clad foot is crossed over the other.
I want to pretend he stayed for me and that he didn’t just sit down and pass out from the stress of the last couple of days plus the trip up here. But dashed hopes are a hateful thing that I try to avoid if I can and how do I have any grounds to hope he cares at all about me? It will be easier if he doesn’t anyway.
Even so, I can’t deny the relief that he didn’t just walk away last night like he could’ve so easily done and that he did even more by coming into my room and just beingpresent. That means a lot. If I’m going to roast him for all of his mistakes, I need to give him a little teeny-tiny bit of credit for the good moves too.
Scooting his legs over to make room for my bottom, I take him in one last time before I lift his hat off his face. He makes a sour grimace, groaning as the morning sun shines in his eyes. Once he gets them open enough to see me, he’s awake.
“Good morning,” I say, each word calculated.
“Good morning.” His voice is gravelly, rougher than I’ve ever heard it. He clears his throat. “You mad?”
“At you?”
“Of course at me.”
His face tells the tale of a long, hard night. I know the look. I wear it often these days too. The judgmental glare, the lines of anger that have been around his mouth are gone, and in their place is an aura of concern.
“What happened to your face? For real?” I ask, reaching out and touching the corner of his eye.
He flinches. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You have blood caked in your lashes. It must’ve bled while you slept.” He looks up at me through those very same lashes like he’s not sure what to make of me.
I sigh, frustrated at what I’m about to say. “Come on.”
I stand and wait on him to follow. He doesn’t. He just sits in the chair with a bewildered look on his face.
“What?” I ask. “You need a hot shower and I need coffee. Decaf. God, I hate decaf.”
“Why are you drinking decaf if you hate it?”
“Because caffeine in the amounts I need to feel decent aren’t good for my baby.”
As soon as I say it, I realize it’s his baby too. I also realize he picks up on my word choice, but chooses not to say anything about it. Instead, he cocks his head to the side.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks.
“Will you stop acting like a child?” I ask.
He stands, pulling his hat over his head to cover the messy blond locks sticking up every which way. “Fine. Lead the way.”
I head to the house and hear his footsteps behind me. He shuts the door, the sound echoing through the house, as I enter the kitchen and rummage around in the refrigerator.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Never ask a pregnant woman that.”
“Okayyyy. So . . . what are you hungry for?”
“A hot ham and cheese, if it matters, and I don’t have either thing.”
The doorbell rings and Branch and I look at each other. Without saying a word, I walk by him and see Henry on the other side carrying a large cardboard box.
