I’m all choked up, and I can’t even acknowledge the child before she runs off to join her cousins.
“I’m sorry about that. She’s—” Eva stops talking, her eyes creasing at the corners. “Oh, Presley. Please don’t cry. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” She scans my face with concern, and I realize silent tears are rolling down my face.
I swipe at the dampness on my cheeks, and I can scarcely force words from my throat. “It’s okay, and I’m fine,” I lie because I’m the furthest from fine a person can be.
I need to get out of here.
Right now.
“I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Of course.” Her voice is gentle, her expression understanding. “The closest one is at the back of the entryway. Just walk through that door there.” She points at a door at the very back of the patio area. “Keep straight until you hit the lobby. The bathroom is on the right.”
I follow her directions, easily finding the bathroom, but I bypass it, heading straight for the front door. I slip outside, closing the door carefully behind me so I don’t make any noise.
I give no consideration to how I will get back to Boston. All I know is I need to get out of this house and never look back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Presley
Tears stream down my face as I walk the long driveway, having given up fighting the memories assaulting my mind. I don’t indulge them often, because it’s too painful, but I’m powerless to deny them now. Seeing pregnant women or mothers with young babies is always hard for me, but knowing the guy I’m falling for may be having a baby with someone else is an entirely different level of pain.
A car draws up alongside me. The passenger side window lowers, and Keaton sticks his head out. “Get in. We’ll drive you home.”
I don’t bother protesting, opening the back door and climbing inside the luxury SUV. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Austen shoots me a sympathetic smile through the mirror as Keaton hands me my purse. “Can I sit beside you?” he asks, looking at me through the gap in the two front seats.
“I’m okay,” I sniffle, brushing my tears away.
“I don’t think you are.” His eyes are compassionate.
“No, I’m not.” I offer him a sad smile.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks as Austen puts the car into gear, driving slowly toward the front gate.
“Not really.”
Austen places a hand on Keaton’s knee, subtly shaking his head.
“Okay. We don’t have to talk about that.” Keaton puts the radio on, keeping it low. “Selena says you have plans to be a tattoo artist,” he adds. “Is that true?”
I’m grateful for the subject change, and the distraction, so I tell him about my plans. Austen smiles at me through the mirror as he drives, heading out onto the highway.
“Did Sel tell you Austen is training to be a professional tattoo artist in his spare time?” Keaton inquires.
I shake my head, my eyes popping wide. “She didn’t mention it.” I glance at Keaton’s fiancé. “When do you even find the time?” Austen is a professional football player and the current wide receiver for the Baltimore Ravens. Keaton has his own successful cooking show, which streams online, calledThe Queer Kitchen Revolution.
“I won’t when the season starts back, so I’m trying to fit in as many training hours as I can now,” Austen replies.
“He’s always drawing,” Keaton confirms, beaming proudly.
“Me too,” I admit.
“He designed and inked this.” Keaton rolls up his shirt, showing me the exquisite steering wheel and anchor tattoo on his arm.
I lean in closer to inspect it. “Get out. That is fucking incredible. Something tells me you don’t need much training.”
