“Thank you,” I whisper again.
“Little bit of experience.” His voice is gruff but soft. Like he doesn’t want to talk about it any more than I want to open up about every choice I’ve made in the past few months and how those choices have led me to being sick here today.
I don’t ask him more.
He doesn’t offer more.
But he does linger, leaning on his crutches while I take slow sips.
Jessica wags her tail slowly and watches me. Occasionally she snorts in Holt’s direction.
He rips open the cracker sleeve and hands that to me as well, which is when I realize I’ve been cradling my lower belly.
Subtly reminding myself that I want this. That I chose this. That the little pea-sized being wreaking havoc on my body is worth it. That I already love them with all of my heart.
I take another sip.
Holt’s phone audibly vibrates. He glances at the screen, then thumbs over it.
“You don’t have to stay here with me,” I force out. “I’ll be okay.”
“Only thing worse than feeling like shit is feeling like shit alone.”
“Jessica’s here. And I can call my sister. She’ll come over.”
Yes. I should call Miranda.
She’ll be a buffer when I tell my parents about Abby Nora.
“You sure?” Holt asks.
I nod.
Jessica tries to crawl into my lap.
He snorts softly. “Yeah, you’re clearly a terrible person who’s abusing her.”
His crutches clomp as he turns to head out of the bathroom.
And when he’s gone, the house feels emptier than it ever has.
12
Holt
Fletcher Huxley wouldn’t have beenmy first choice of teammate to call for a ride and a place to spend a day when we first met, but the guy’s grown on me over the past two seasons. He’s one of a few guys on the team who played seriously overseas long enough and well enough that he doesn’t need an off-season job. He can also afford a penthouse with a guest room, where I intend to actually get some sleep at some point today.
Plus, his fiancée, Goldie, is one of my favorite people.
She’s keeping me company in their living room while he grabs something he says I need to see.
“So what’s the story on your foot? What happened?” she asks.
I readjust the pillows under my foot, then flop onto my back, facing her on the other wing of the sofa. “Weight room accident.”
“How long are you on crutches?”
“Four weeks. Longer if it’s not healing well enough.”
