"Is it the PR thing? Or have I somehow genuinely offended you? Because I don't understand what got us so angry with each other in the first place."
He stares at me with an unreadable expression, though the muscle ticking in his cheek gives me a reasonable idea of how he feels about that particular question.
"Let's just move forward from here," he says.
Okay. That's not an answer. There is clearly something he doesn't want to say, and just as clearly he has no intention of saying it tonight.
I pick up the menu.
"Forward it is," I say.
***
"Do you have any kids?" Bennet asks.
Dinner has been spent mostly in comfortable silence, though tension was still present humming underneath. The incredible food just made it easy.
Bennet ordered a tasting menu, and they've been bringing small plates to the table all evening, each one explained by aserver who clearly loves talking about it. Between the food and the live music drifting over from the stage, it's just been a genuinely good night. We even positioned ourselves strategically near the window and caught a couple of clean shots from outside without making it look intentional.
We're nearly through our second bottle of wine, and Bennet has loosened into a more talkative mood; the careful distance of earlier in the evening wearing down into more comfort.
I shake my head. "No. You?"
"No." He looks conflicted. "Never settled down enough for it. Why don't you?"
My heart twists in my chest, and I feel tears threatening. Which was absolutely ridiculous. It’s been five years.
I took a deep breath and let it out in a big sigh. "I had a miscarriage. Five years ago." I pause. Run a hand through my hair. "I guess I should stop calling it that now that I'm no longer bound to that version of the story."
I finish my wine in one long swallow, and when I lower the glass, Bennet is watching me with an intensity that hasn't been there before tonight.
"What happened?" he asks. "The real version."
I shake my head slowly. "Colt Monroe happened. After his career ended, the drinking got bad, and the violence got worse. One night we had friends over and I made a joke — something stupid, reading TikTok comments about one of the other players being attractive. Colt laughed it off in front of everyone. At first, anyway."
My voice wobbles on the last sentence, and I school it back in because I refuse to cry in this restaurant in front of this man.
"He started taking shots. Told everyone to go home. Then it was just us, and he started with the name calling and yelling.I was tired that night; I was just so fucking tired, and I yelled back." I smooth the napkin across my lap. "Things escalated. He hit me. Then again. Then again." I stop. Make myself say the next part. "He kicked me. Seven times in the stomach. Made me count each one out loud. If I miscounted or went quiet, he'd start the count over. Seven times because that's how many times his friends laughed at my joke."
I pause and take a breath.
"I was four months pregnant." I look up and meet his eyes. "I can't have children anymore."
Bennet is completely motionless across the table. His expression is thunderous, face flushed, jaw clenched tight, eyes hard and flashing with a fury that looks almost personal in its intensity.
"He's still in Houston," Bennet says finally. His voice is eerily quiet.
"Yes."
"This is the first time you've told anyone the actual story?"
"Yes."
His adam's apple bobs as he nods slowly. "Thank you for honoring me with your truth." He tilts his head and studies me for a moment. "You're a very strong woman, Blaire. I imagine coming from an environment like that could make you feel the opposite sometimes." He looks down at his hands folded on the table. "Don't let anyone take that strength away from you."
"That's really sweet of you to say, Bennet. Thank you." I turn my wine glass slowly in my fingers. "You're right, and I do try to remind myself of that. Take stock of who I've become versus who I was. I did some horrific things in his name. Things I'll have to atone for one day. I'm just trying to be better than the person I was for him."
His mouth falls open like he wants to pull that thread, dig into exactly what I mean by that, and I watch him compose himself in real time.
