And get new furniture. And anything else that reminds me he once existed. My bed alone will smell like him and that will send me into a tailspin.
Well, that went to shit.
“Lorien?”
I’m now broken-hearted, sitting in my childhood bedroom, wishing I could climb under the covers and hide from the world.
“Baby?”
Baby. Kill me now.
I suck in a breath. “I’m here.”
“Why are you breathing heavy?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, forcing it down, and put fake brightness in my voice. “No reason. Just… distracted.”
“Hmm. I don’t believe that.”
That’s not my problem. Okay, maybe it’s exactly my problem.
“Can I call you later? Later-later?”
“Later-later?” There’s humor painting his voice again. “Yeah, Wifey. Call me later-later.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” He waits a moment before hanging up. It’s as if neither of us wanted to do it first but he did the hard thing so I don’t have to.
I leave the phone to charge and find my family in the living room all staring at each other like someone died.
47
car talk
Liam
Ayla’s right, though I’ll never tell her that. Following up on the idea of how and when Briggs Barnett came into my life and business is a good idea. It requires equipment I have at home, though, and my sister is being a beast about my staying here.
I won’t argue for a couple of reasons. The first is Corinne can cook and make it look easy putting multiple courses on a table, hot and ready. But also, the woman can bake, and not things I want to scrape off my tongue with a metal scrub brush.
When I finally got the brownies out of my saddlebags, they were rocks. Not moldy. Not soft, but petrified. How is that even possible?
Corinne, though, has this delicate tart with fresh fruit and some buttery, flaky crust that makes my knees weak. I hope it’s not considered cheating to pop over here for pastries anytime Lorien gets the hankering to bake.
But, primary, and the real reason I’m still here, is my sister. I know I sound like a mush, but Ayla is worried, and since the last time it was Cian, I’ll oblige.
“Ayla-girl, real talk?”
My sister swallows and wipes her fingers on the napkin in her lap. “About what?” She lifts her chin, but fusses over the cuticle on her right thumb.
Her answer is bravado. Her body language is concern.
Christian pushes his chair back from the table, removing Sophia from her carrier and folding her into his arms.
“Have you decided when you want to go to the cops about Dad?”
Her eyes flit from me to Christian to the baby in his arms, before they fall to her hands in her lap. She takes a deep breath. “It will devastate Mom.”
