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“You had no right,” she says, glaring at me. “Things were going well with my father! I opened up to him about my life, my plans for the trust. I told him I quit your company and he was supportive!” Her tears are already flowing in rivulets down her cheeks, her face red with anger. “You had no right!” she screams again as she pounds against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her against me as sobs rack her body.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting and scared but I’m not sorry I told him. You’re mine.”
She pushes away from me, wiping furiously at her eyes.
“I’m not yours. You don’t want the same things as me. A life with you would mean what? That I’m just a hot fuck when you need a release?”
“Don’t!” I shout, pointing my finger. “Don’t you fucking dare reduce us to that. You know it’s more than that; I saw it in your eyes that night we ma—” I swallow down my nerves. “That night we made love. I saw the way you looked at me. You saw me that night; you saw through all the bullshit and the fear.”
“You have a baby on the way with someone else,” she cries. “How am I supposed to sit by, wanting that with you, but you don’t want it with me? You know how hard it is to watch that? To see the dream you had with someone play out, but it’s not with you?”
“She’s not mine,” I say, stepping toward her, realizing I didn’t tell her. How could I have let her continue thinking this? “She’s not mine,” I repeat.
“What?”
“I got a court order for a DNA test and when I went to her to serve her the summons, she fell apart and confessed everything.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She lied; you were right. She cheated on me with a man that I knew about, that I’d confronted her about and she denied anything ever happened between them. When he found out she was pregnant, he bailed, wanted nothing to do with her.”
“Oh my God.” She sinks down on the ottoman behind her and I crouch down at her feet.
“I confronted him, took him to her father because he works at his company actually. It’s done, Brontë.” I reach out and clasp her hands in mine. “I want those things too, with you, only you.” Her eyes rise to meet mine. “I never thought I’d meet someone who made me want marriage and children, but it’s all I think about anymore. You as my wife. You carrying our child.”
She stands up and begins to pace.
“Why couldn’t you have told me this before?”
“I didn’t think you wanted those things. I didn’t think you wanted a relationship with me.”
“So why now? Why go and blow up my life and tell my father after we’ve worked so hard to repair things between us?”
“Because you left me!” I shout. “You told me you loved me. I realized that I couldn’t lose you; I had to fight for you. I fucked up, Brontë. Royally. I realize that but I’m not going to just walk out of your life because you’re too scared to try and make this work. I’ll fight for the both of us if I have to.”
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He’s angry. He shouted, threatened me.”
“Shit,” she mutters, beginning to pace again. “Is he coming over here?”
“I don’t know.”
She grabs her phone and taps around on it, then tosses it on a nearby chair. “My stepmom texted and said she’s keeping him home. She knows, knew about us, before you told him.”
“She knew? You told her?”
She shakes her head. “She picked up on it at my birthday party actually. She showed up at my house and told me it wasn’t a good idea, but then after we talked, she said that if it was real, if there were feelings involved, we owed my father a conversation before we pursued something. Guess she was right.”
I can’t stand it any longer. I walk over to her and grab her, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck and bringing her mouth to mine. I kiss her deeply and I’m a little surprised at first when she reciprocates. Her tongue demands entrance to my mouth, but then she steps back.
“Do you still love me?” I ask, unsure what I’m going to hear, but she doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
“But you’re angry with me?”
