Page 133 of The Wright Man

Gavin looked up, brows raised. "You think?"

"I know." I said, chewing slowly. "The way Boyd was looking at her? And the hand placement? HR would've had a stroke."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time Boyd dipped into some pussy he wasn't married to."

I froze mid-sip, almost choking. "Gavin... she's pregnant."

Another shrug. Casual. Indifferent.

"Either way, not our problem," he said, popping a waffle fry into his mouth like this was ESPN. "Speaking of pregnancy..."

He gestured toward my sandwich and fries.

"You think eating like that is smart? Shouldn't you have gotten a salad or something?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You know," he said, chewing. "You're finally acting like you got some damn sense again. I figured we were gonna get serious about trying. Like we talked about on guys' night."

I sat my sandwich down. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You mean Sister Sunday," I said. "That thing you and your dumb ass friends decided to crash?"

He waved me off like I was being dramatic. "You know what I mean."

"No, Gavin. I really don't. Because I never said I was ready to try again."

He sighed like I was exhausting. Like I was the one being difficult. "Why the hell not? It's been two years, Angie. How long are you gonna cry over old pregnancy tests and baby shoes? Shouldn't your lady parts be healed up by now?"

My entire body went cold.

I stared at him. Tried to collect myself. To keep my voice from shaking. "What happened to me isn't something people just 'get over,' Gavin. Some women never do."

He rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

And there he was. The version of Gavin I tried to forget. The one I'd been working so hard to love again. The one that saw me as a problem to fix instead of a person who hurt.

"How much longer do you expect me to wait?" he asked. "How long are you gonna be selfish about this?"

Something snapped.

I stood. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

He looked at me like I was throwing a tantrum over nothing. His tone was flat. Annoyed.

"All I do is put your feelings first," I hissed. "Every damn day, in every area. You can't even thank me for bringing you a chicken sandwich. You can't look me in the eye when we fuck. But I'm selfish?"

He didn't flinch. Just leaned back in his chair like he'd proven a point.

"You put me first in every area but this one."

"You're damn right—every area but this one." My hands were shaking, but my voice didn't crack. "Because I'm the one who went through it. I'm the one who carried the weight. Who held the loss. Who still dreams about what could've been. You don't get to tell me when I'm ready."

He scoffed, picked up his phone, and muttered, "Guess I was wrong about you getting over it." He tapped at his screen like I'd vanished from the room. "Same old Angie."

My ears rang. Not from anything loud—just from the sharp, disorienting snap inside me. The clean crack of something vital breaking.

Same old Angie.