Page 60 of The Trust We Broke
Before I can think too hard about what comes next, there’s a sharp knock at the front door. I sigh and drag my hand over my face before tugging my jeans up. Still half undone, I walk barefoot to the door and swing it open.
Catfish stands there, grinning like a wolf, holding Lucy’s phone between two fingers. “The screen’s got a small crack, but you can still turn it on.”
“Thanks, brother,” I say, but I feel the blood rush from my head to my feet. I didn’t use protection. Her ex cheated on her and could be carrying anything, and I have no idea if she’s on the pill.
But then, my head is filled with a picture of Lucy pregnant while holding the hands of a little toddler with hair like hers and eyes like mine.
My family.
“Fuck,” I say, dragging my hand through my hair.
“You okay?” Catfish asks.
“No. Yeah. I’m good. Thanks for getting this to me.”
Catfish crosses his arms across his chest. “You call Greer to come take a look at her?”
“Not yet.” Because I was too busy fucking her instead of caring for her. “Just wanted to get her settled, first.”
Catfish glances down at my bare feet and partially done up jeans. “Yeah. I can see what kept you busy. I’ll let you get back to your…trauma bonding… or whatever the fuck this is. Stay hydrated.”
And with a grin, he walks back down to the bakery.
I close the door and pull out my phone to call Greer, who advises me on concussion protocol. So far, Lucy has none of the symptoms, but Greer tells me I should pay attention to it changing over the next twenty-four hours.
When I make my way back to the bathroom, I feel…nervous. I open the door and crouch next to the tub.
“Catfish found it,” I say, holding the phone to her face, and as I expected, it unlocks her phone.
She blinks before swallowing. “Thanks. But what are you doing?”
I add my number to her phone under my real name. Zach. It feels like forever since I had need to write it. Then, I send myself a quick message from it, so I have her number.
When I show her, her brows lift.
“You just stole your way back into my life,” she murmurs.
I lean forward and brush a kiss to her forehead. “Only into your phone.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to correct her. To bind the two of us up in limits.
“I don’t deserve you,” she says quietly, her voice filled with regret.
I don’t press. Not now.
I just sit down on the floor, watching the steam rise, letting the silence thicken around us. Because this—whatever it is—is treacherous for us both.
17
LUCY
Asound breaks through my sleep, waking me. A soft clink.
Then, the low, distinct jingle of a belt buckle being threaded through loops. There’s a bang, then a muttered curse.
“Fuck.” The word comes out on a whisper.
I’m in bed, cocooned by soft sheets that don’t smell like my laundry detergent. The mattress is firmer than I’m used to, and it takes me a moment to remember I’m in my new apartment.
