Page 138 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
And maybe it did.
Then she’s in motion again, cursing Gray’s name, muttering about stupid, stubborn men.
“I should have listened to Marie,” I say. “Gotten in front of the story breaking.” Then I shake my head, immediately correct before Luna can jump in (she’s already spun my direction, her lips parting, protest written into the lines of her face), “No, I couldn’t have known what would happen, and it was important for me to protect him.”
Like he protected me.
Like he’s trying to protect me—however misguided his methods—now.
“Exactly.” She scowls. “Because you don’t owe the world an explanation for your love life.”
“No,” I agree, “I don’t.” I sigh. “And story or not, Gray should be here fighting beside me. Otherwise, we’re both right back where we started.”
Him taking the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Me alone.
“Yes,” she says earnestly. “Aiden—” She clamps her lips together, cutting off whatever she was going to say.
But I’m an author.
I understand inference.
Aiden wouldn’t have left her.
Not like Gray had left me.
My heart shrivels up in my chest, tears threatening again, and I can’t look at her, can’t look at the pastries, can’t look at the bookshelves that had brought so much joy to me the last time I was over.
Because that’s gone now.
He’s gone.
“Hey,” Luna says, rushing over and taking me into her arms, squeezing me tight, “these men may be stubborn, but they have good hearts. He’ll get his head straight.” She pulls back, her mouth curved into a gentle smile. “Then he’ll come back, groveling.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want?—”
Apologies? Groveling?
To go back to how we were before?
Gray?
“I don’t want…” But I can’t form the words, the name.
“Glorious makeup sex and jewelry?” she finishes for me with a waggle of her brows. “Are you sure?”
I freeze.
Because who wouldn’t want that?
Except…this is a hell of a lot more serious than jewelry and orgasms.
Levity of the previous moment gone, she nudges my foot with her own, her expression going back serious. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
“How do you know?” I whisper.
“Because I know Gray. He’ll get his head on straight,” she says snagging my cinnamon roll and passing it back to me. “I promise. By the end of the day, he’ll be groveling.”
