Page 146 of The Wrong Groom

He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Come home.”

Home. His house. The kitchen where I sat with Peyton, chatting while we waited for him to finish making waffles. The pool deck where we lounged in the sun and watched Peyton splash around with her uncles. The bedroom, where he taught me new ways to feel, where he showed me the reality of the fantasies I’d indulged in since the first stirrings of my sexuality.

The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “That isn’t my home anymore.”

His face crumples. There’s enough hurt in his eyes that I half expect him to turn away, to abandon the effort. I’m hoping for it, honestly. This has already been a convoluted, messy situation, far from the clean break I would’ve hoped for. Between my pregnancy and Vérité’s impending collapse, it promises to only get more complicated.

It will be better with distance between us. If he’s willing to retreat, to cede ground, to let our interactions become nothing more than business.

But he doesn’t pull back.

“Please,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.” He pauses, then adds, “You and the baby.”

Oh. He’s worried about the baby. His baby.

My heart feels tight. Of course he’s worried about the baby. I’ve seen what an attentive father he is to Peyton. Now that he knows he has another kid on the way, he’s going to want to be involved. Part of me wonders if it’s the baby he’s truly worried about. If all of the attention he’s been showering on me is just because I’m pregnant with his child.

It would make sense. I can’t even fault him for it, even though the thought makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.

Still, the hospital stay has opened my eyes to a fundamental truth: I haven’t been taking good enough care of myself. The constant tension, the exhaustion, the way I’ve been ignoring my own needs, it’s all started to catch up with me.

I can’t afford to ignore myself anymore, not with the baby to think about. But I don’t feel ready to go through the motions myself. If I’m left to my own devices, if I go back to that apartment and try to manage on my own, I know I’ll just end up back here.

“Okay,” I say in a small voice. Relief lights up Gabriel’s face, and I force myself to look away. “Just for a little while.”

“Thank you,” he says. He stands quickly, like my agreement has sent a jolt of electricity through him, and starts to gather my belongings.

I press the call button, and the nurse comes by to collect my discharge papers. She helps me into a wheelchair, and Gabriel fusses over me before we leave the room, ensuring that the blanket is tucked around me fully, making sure I’m comfortable.

He wheels me out of the room, Peyton following along. As we move through the hospital, my stomach starts to churn. It’s probably morning sickness rearing its head again, but I’m sure the anxiety of returning to Gabriel’s house doesn’t help. I rest a hand on my abdomen, my lips pursed as we reach the hospital’s entrance.

There’s a car waiting in the covered drop-off area, an unassuming black sedan with tinted windows. A man in a suit rushes around to open the door for me, but Gabriel waves him back to the driver’s seat. He helps me out of the wheelchair himself, settling me into the back seat alongside Peyton.

The ride back to the house feels like an eternity. I stare out of the window, fixating on the horizon in an attempt to calm my nausea, but it’s no use. Peyton is excited, practically bouncing in her car seat. Gabriel tries to keep her calm, but she’s all energy, going on and on about everything we’re going to do together now that I’m coming home.

Home. I don’t feel like this is truly home anymore, but how can I explain that to a six year old? I tuck my arms around my torso. I can’t stop myself from wondering if this was a mistake.

By the time the car rolls into Gabriel’s driveway, my stomach is so agitated that it’s all I can do not to vomit in the back seat. As soon as the driver brings us to a stop, I lurch out and stumble over to the manicured bushes.

“Are you sick?” Peyton calls out, her voice worried.

“Go on up to the house, Bug,” Gabriel says softly. “Margaret should be waiting for us.”

I can’t see them—can’t see anything but the ground in front of me—but after a few seconds, I hear Peyton’s footsteps on the brick path leading to the front door.

Then Gabriel’s hand is on my back, his touch soothing, despite everything. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod, breathless. “I just⁠—”

I’m interrupted by the sudden, violent turn of my stomach.

Gabriel doesn’t say anything, just stays there beside me, his hand still resting on my back. He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t push me to get up or speak.

Once the wave of nausea passes, I stand up slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s morning sickness, I think. It’s been like this for a while.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he responds. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

I nod, my throat tight, and allow him to help me toward the door.