I’d remind myself that this isn’t mine.
That she isn’t, if she ever was to begin with. That the life she’s built with her child isn’t something I have any rights to claim no matter how badly I want to.
Yet, I don’t move because right now I find I’m having a hard time caring.
Not about the fallout, or about the lies we’ll have to tell if her father ever suspects anything.
All I care about is her and the little boy down the hall who might be mine.
She turns to me then, her eyes soft and a little serious. “Grant…”
I know what she’s about to say before she does.Don’t read into it. Don’t let it mean more than it should. Don’t make promises neither of us can actually keep.
She’s said the same things before in a dozen different ways, always trying to draw boundaries around something that refuses to stay contained no matter how hard any of us tries.
We always come back to this same line that’s been drawn into the sand, and every time we end up crossing over it.
She sits up, pulling the sheets around her shoulders. I already know what she’s about to say before the words come out of her mouth.
“This can’t happen again,” she says softly.
I nod once, giving her a small smile. “I know.”
But even as I say it, I don’t actually want to agree.
Why would I when the world feels right the second she’s in my arms again?
She looks at me for a long moment like she’s trying to decide if she believes me or not. She lets out a slow exhale, giving up on pushing the issue any further. “I’ll meet you downstairs. I’ve got to get Eli up.”
I nod, even though my chest feels like someone’s reaching inside and twisting my heart.
I force myself to stand.
My shirt is a wrinkled mess somewhere near the foot of the bed and my jeans hang half off the dresser in the corner.
I move slow, collecting each piece to buy time, like maybe if I draw it out long enough, she’ll say anything to make me stop.
Every instinct I have tells me to look at her, to memorize this scene because this may be the last time we ever do something like this.
But I don’t because I know myself too well.
If I let my eyes linger on the way her dark curls spill down her back, or the bare skin of her shoulder peeks out from under the sheets, or her lips slightly parting to draw in deep inhales to steady herself, I won’t be able to walk out of here.
I’ll cave.
I’ll beg her to reconsider to stop pretending this is something she can keep compartmentalized and lock away when we all know that what we want the most is standing right here in front of us.
I’m halfway to the door when her voice finally breaks the silence.
“You don’t have to make this harder than it already is,” she says softly.
She’s watching me when I turn to look at her.
There’s something in her eyes that freezes me mid-step.
Her bottom lip trembles and for a second I think she’s actually going to tell me to stay.
That maybe, just this once, she’s done pretending she doesn’t want the same thing all of us do.
