She’s showing the gentle curve of her stomach that I haven’t touched in weeks. My entire body aches with regret for missing her stomach growing inch by inch.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
She makes a face, embarrassed. “I feel like a balloon.”
“You look—god, you’re gorgeous. No movements yet, right?” I panic, feeling as if I’ve been gone for six months.
“No. No movement. I did feel a flutter the other day, but I’m not sure if it was the baby or something I ate.”
The silence that follows is thick between us, and my chest feels as if it’s cracking open because I’m not there to lay my hand over her warm skin.
“I wish I could touch you,” I say.
“I hate this distance.”
“Me too.”
“Hey,” she says.
In her tone, I hear it. I knew this could be coming. I had hoped it wouldn’t, and I probably should’ve dealt with it head on, but I didn’t want to upset her if it wasn’t on her radar.
“I saw something online,” she says.
“You’re not supposed to be online, baby.”
“I know. It just popped up. I wasn’t trying to find it. We went out to dinner. Some woman in Nashville?—”
My blood spikes. “Please don’t believe what you read. Ever. We talked about this.” I sigh.
The edge of my voice is sharp and protective and filled with anger. Not at her, but them. At anyone who would make up shit and upset her.
Her eyes search mine through the screen. “Was it true?”
I rake a hand through my hair. “No. It was Jack’s wife. She tripped, and I was the one who caught her. He was there too. It was a late dinner after editing.”
Beau brought me the picture the next day and said he thought he’d gotten it squashed. Said I should tell Romy just in case. And I didn’t want to bring it up, so it’s my fault she’s questioning me now.
The longer her silence lasts, the harder the knot in my gut twists and tightens.
“Romy, you are the only one. You know that, right?”
She nods, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I just… I don’t like being so far away. It makes it easier to believe things I shouldn’t.”
Her honesty stabs me clean through like the blade of a sword. Panic flares through my bloodstream, afraid that I’m going to lose her because of who I am.
“Please don’t let doubt creep in. Not about me and not about us.” There’s a pleading note to my voice.
Her eyes glisten, and I can tell she’s fighting back the tears.
“Just hurry back,” she says.
“I’m trying.”
We talk for a while. I tell her about Beau riding my ass, trying to act like a parent, on me about my diet. She tells me about how pistachio cookies don’t taste the same without me there.
When the lull in the conversation comes—when I know the conversation’s going to have to end soon so she can get some sleep—I blurt out, “Come with me.”
“What?”
