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“Does she even know you’re there?” he asks softly. “Or at least that you’re coming?”
“She does now. I went straight to her place,” I admit to him.
“So she wasn’t expecting you?” he asks as he sits back in his chair. “What did she say?”
“After she told me that it would be a cold day in hell.” I can hear her voice again clear as day. “I think it went well,” I admit to him, and I turn to look out the window.
“How did you know where to find her?” he quizzes me, and I shake my head.
“The truth?” I ask, and he glares at me.
“No, the made-up bullshit you are going to tell everyone else,” he hisses. He’s been around long enough to know there are certain things you only trust your closest people with. It’s sad that I had to find out the hard way about this, but at least now I know.
“I saw a picture that someone tagged her in,” I admit to him. Ever since the last phone call, I was sure she would block me on all social media accounts. But because she’s the classiest woman I know, she actually didn’t. I mean, that didn’t tell me where she went. It just meant I could easily go on her Instagram and regret every single thing I’d ever done. I knew she had left LA, but I had no idea where she went. There was talk she went back to New York and a couple of people said Europe. I never really flat-out asked because by asking, I would have to admit that we were secretly together and then I would have to admit how bad I hurt her. So her social media was my only answer. I had no idea until I saw the picture of her twin sister announcing her pregnancy, and I knew she was in Dallas with her. “Then I asked someone who was working with her, pretending as if it was just shooting the shit. In reality, I was ready to jump off the ledge, and it dropped where she was.” I might have maybe, perhaps, called in a few favors to get her home address. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
“So she didn’t tell you?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Jesus, tenacious.” I can’t help but laugh at him. “So now she told you to go to hell.”
“And to basically eat shit and die,” I put in, closing my eyes as my father laughs at me.
“I mean, you showed up.” He tries to help me, but I close my eyes before I tell him the next part because he might kick my ass at this point.
“After eight months,” I confess, and he hisses and shakes his head.
“What is wrong with you?” he shouts and slams his hand on the table in front of him. “You bring this girl around, shocking all of us.” His voice goes loud. “Then apparently, you fuck up so much she moves to Dallas, which is very far from LA. Where you follow her and show up at her house.” He puts his face closer to the phone. “Eight months later.” I nod. “You’re an idiot.”
“I had to be sure,” I say softly. “I mean, I knew I was sure, but I had to be someone she can be proud of. I had to be that man for her and not just Tyler Beckett’s son.” He just shakes his head.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” he asks, folding his hands on the table.
I smirk at him, not even thinking twice. I’ve been working on this for the past eight months. Making sure I was ready for, well, forever. “I’m going to get my woman back.”
THREE
GABRIELLA
I open my eyes and stare down at the hallway, my legs still weak from before. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting on the floor with my back to the front door. The minute I heard his bike roar down the street, all I could do was turn around and slide down until my ass hit the floor. It was as if my legs have been knocked off at the knees. Closing my eyes and putting my head back was the only thing I could do.
I wait for my heart to stop beating so erratically before I put my hands on the floor and push myself up, walking back to the kitchen. I slowly slip onto the stool, and the shock of seeing him now forms into anger. “What the actual fuck?” I hiss, and then I hang my head.
When I left LA, I had no idea what he was going to do. To be honest, I didn’t think he would beg me to come back. Did I want him to? I’d be lying if I didn’t say yes. But I knew that the chances were slim. I didn’t delete him on my social media, but I made sure that I never, and I mean never, mentioned the location I was at. I shake my head and then it all clicks into place. I slap the island with my hand, picking up my phone and calling Abigail.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I repeat over and over again. It rings four times before it goes straight to voice mail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Abigail. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.” I listen for the beep, my leg bouncing up and down with nerves as I wait.
The second I hear it finish, I demand, “You need to call me back ASAP.” I put the phone down and wait for her to call me back in a matter of six seconds. When I don’t hear the phone ring, I grab the phone and walk to the door, where I grab my bag. Walking out of the house, I rush over to my car, opening it and getting in. I drive over to Abigail’s house, hoping she calls me before I get there.
Pulling up to the house, I see her car is there along with Tristan’s. “Good,” I mumble, turning the car off before I pull open the door. I don’t even bother grabbing my purse. Instead, I just walk up to the black door.
I turn the handle and open the door, walking in. “Hello!” I shout from the entrance, looking up the stairs to see if anyone is there. The bedroom doors are all open, but the main noise is coming from the back of the house. I storm toward the kitchen and see the three of them in there.
Abigail is standing by the stove, with her pregnant belly front and center, in yoga pants and a tank top. She’s almost seven months pregnant, and although she looks like she’s carrying twins, she is not. Her eyes fly to mine, shocked that I’m here. “You,” I say, pointing over at Tristan, who is sitting down at the island. He is wearing a T-shirt and a baseball cap backward. His hands hold a sandwich that is halfway to his mouth. “You,” I say again, and his eyebrows now pinch together.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” Penelope says from her chair. Penelope is Tristan’s daughter from a one-night stand he had nine years ago. He only found out about her when she was two years old and the mother died, leaving a letter behind. “And that somebody is you.” She points at Tristan as she takes a chip from her plate and plops it into her mouth.
“What did I do?” he asks before he takes a bite of his sandwich.
“You put my name down on your baby announcement,” I accuse, shaking my head. “Instead of just saying thank you to my amazing sister-in-law for taking the picture, you actually tagged me.”
