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But here I was.
Twenty-five, sleeping with and seeing a man who was both twice my age and my father’s closest friend, a failed art student with a stupid fucking career that my father had funded, andpregnant.
Porcelain chipped my nails as I threw up again.
I was screwed. Horribly, utterly screwed. I’d known since I was little that although I had no problem with others exercising their right to choose, I wouldn’t be able to pull the plug if the time came that I needed it. That’s why I was so careful, down to the fucking minute. And even now, even faced with the reality of it instead of it being a hypothetical, I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have it in me.
I hadn’t realized I was crying until the salt hit my tongue.
I had to tell him.
But I couldn’t tell him.
How thefuckwas I supposed to tell him when he’d literally just told me yesterday that he needed to slow this down? Howthefuckwas I going to tell him when he already had one kid to worry about?
How were we going to handle this when we couldn’t even tell my father?
And to think that Adrian was already dealing with stress upon stress from work, from Lucas, fromme— to add another thing to the mix would be insanity. Pregnancies were among the most stressful things to go through. I could have sworn I’d read that somewhere once.
One more stressor and he could drop dead from a heart attack for all I knew.
But how was I going to keep this from him? How could I lie to him, how could I hide it and push it down until the time was right? I was falling for him, completely, totally, unabashedly, and dangerously— was too far in this to not be damaged forever, and now he was a permanent part of my life without my choosing. I wanted to love him, felt like Icouldlove him, and probably already did. And I wanted to crawl in a fucking hole and die.
I was spiraling there on the bathroom floor, the cold tile biting through the jacket I still had around my shoulders. I shucked it off. I tookeverythingoff.
I reached up and turned on the shower, setting it as hot as possible. Waiting for it to warm up felt like personalized torture from the old pipes, but as soon as steam started billowing up, I dragged myself through the glass shower door.
I sat there, naked and scalding on the floor.
And all I could fucking do was sob.
Chapter 28
Adrian
Two weeks passed, and I’d only seen Ava three times.
Our schedules started colliding. My meetings would overlap with hers, or Lucas would beg me for an evening of just the two of us, or she would be at her Dad’s when I finally had time. Each time we’d managed to line up, she’d come over after Lucas had already gone to bed, and we only had a handful of hours to ourselves before we’d inevitably pass out from exhaustion.
I’d mastered the art of sneaking her out in the morning without Lucas noticing, though.
But I fucking missed her, even if I shouldn’t. My guard was up, and for good reason—but it felt uncomfortable.
So when she’d turned up unexpectedly at my door at ten in the evening with her hair a mess, her clothes soaked, and her eyes puffy, all I wanted to do was erase the struggle the last two weeks had been. I wanted to hold her, wanted to keep her here for longer than she’d let me, wanted to unashamedly have her here in the morning when Lucas woke up. I wanted to have her properly.
I cupped her cheeks, held her to me as I stood in the doorway with her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m just so fucking stressed,” she said. Her bloodshot eyes went glassy, her lower lip wobbling. “And I missed you.”
Slowly, gently, I removed her dripping jacket from her shivering form. “I missed you too,” I breathed. “But you’re going to get sick again going out in this weather. We need to warm you up.”
Quietly, I took her upstairs to my bathroom, starting the shower for her. She sniffled in silence as I undressed her, taking each bit of damp clothing and peeling it from her flesh. She practically hyperventilated more and more with each layer I took off of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but her voice warbled. “I know you wanted tonight with him.”
“He’s in bed,” I insisted. “It’s okay.”
