“We were never in a relationship, but we did agree to not have sex with other people. The fact that she lied, risked my health, and possibly got rid of my seed, fucked me up.”
“You wanted the baby?” I didn’t expect that question to come out but it did.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Till this day, I still can’t answer that question. I just know I was ready to assume responsibility for her if I had to.” He answered honestly. “But, Si, that was a year ago. I haven’t fucked her, we don’t communicate, and outside of this summer, I never see her this much.”
“Kier… just forget it.” I looked away. It was too much to unpack all at once.
“Forget it?” He stepped closer to me. “No, I can’t forget this. Hell, I can’t forget us! You’re all I think about. We need to work this out because I’m not leaving Chicago without you.”
Kier looked as emotionally drained as I felt. Somehow that hurt me more. I looked at him and hated how badly I still wanted him. None of that had changed, but neither had my fear.
Wanting Kier was easy that had never been the problem. The problem was how deeply I already felt him living in the parts of me I usually kept guarded. It was knowing that if this went wrong, it wouldn’t just hurt my feelings. It would devastate me. And standing there looking at him now, I realized I wasn’t scared of Maya. I was scared of how much power loving him would give him over me.
He took another step closer. Kier knew me, and I knew he could see the war happening inside my head without me saying any of it out loud.
“Si…”
I looked away quickly, swallowing past the pressure building in my throat because crying in a parking garage over a man was not on my bingo card. But I missed him, and that was the part I still didn’t know what to do with.
Two days passedbefore I heard from him again. Kier gave me space, but somehow, I still felt him there anyway. He was in my thoughts, in the silence of my apartment, and in my presentations at work. There were moments when I reached for my phone but ended up stopping myself. The way I tortured myself was unnecessary, it shouldn’t have been this hard. When I finally mustered up the courage to call him, my phone lit up.
Mr. Producer:
Come downstairs in 10 minutes.
My adrenaline kicked in. I changed clothes three times before choosing something simple, then got annoyed at myself for caring at all. By the time I made it downstairs, my nerves had worked themselves into overdrive. When I came outside, Kier was leaning against the hood of his truck in a black tee and dark jeans, his locs were pulled back loosely like he had run his fingers through them too many times. The closer I got, the more familiar he felt again, and that alone almost made me turn around.
He looked up when he saw me. “You came,” he said quietly.
“You told me to.”
We both smiled as he opened the passenger door for me, and after a second, I got in. The drive downtown was quiet. The city lights slid across the windshield while soft music played low enough to barely register. Kier drove with one hand on thewheel, the other resting near the console, close enough to me without touching me. I remembered when he drove with his hand on my thigh. He was careful now. It was my fault. I’d made things weird.
“You ate?” He asked after a while.
“No.”
“Cool, I got a surprise for you.”
That was the whole conversation for the next fifteen minutes. Oddly enough, I didn’t mind it.
Everything moved swiftly once we arrived at our destination. A valet opened my door before I could reach for the handle. Kier came around the front of the truck, falling into step beside me as we headed inside. Our shoulders brushed every few steps, neither of us making an effort to create more distance. It felt familiar, almost instinctive, and after two weeks apart, I welcomed it more than I cared to admit.
His hotel sat high above downtown Chicago. The lobby looked expensive, making me suddenly aware of my Nikes against the marble floor. Kier reached for my hand as we crossed toward the elevators, threading his fingers through mine. Every so often, his thumb swept lazily across the back of my hand, a quiet gesture that somehow relaxed my nerves more than any words could have.
When we got upstairs, the room looked luxurious but lived in. His jacket rested over the back of a chair, a laptop sat open near the couch beside scattered papers and headphones, and room service menus were spread across the coffee table. I was happy because that meant he was eating real food and not junk.
“You want wine?” He asked.
“Sure.”
He poured both of us a glass before handing me one, then disappeared briefly toward the dining area. I heard plates shifting, and silverware clinking softly.
“You ordered the food already?” I asked.
“I know you,” he replied simply. “I had the concierge pick us up some Harold’s.”
“Harold’s! Oh, you're showing out!” I grinned. “You got my pe?—”
