The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

19. Chapter Nineteen

19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

February

Six Months Earlier

New York

Cool water ran through Samantha’s fingers as she washed the dishes in the studio sink. She was eight weeks pregnant, confirmed yesterday through an internal ultrasound. Renee had made the appointment with her own obstetrician, then held Sam’s hand as she cried all over again, seeing the baby’s heartbeat flutter on the sonogram screen for the first time.

Emotions ran so deep that her head felt fuzzy, but somehow, she dried her tears and went back to her apartment. She then made at least twenty different phone calls, planning for her future. Their future. But not even one had been to Tristan.

She would rectify that today.

It had been twenty-four hours since then, and she felt stronger now. In just a few months, they would have a baby to provide for—a whole human being who would depend on them for everything.

Mr. Covington had been the one to calm her nerves, reassuring her with news of The Gallery's success. She’d sold nearly half her pieces, and buzz was still circulating about the rest.

Samantha turned off the faucet now, which seemed to drain what little energy she had left and dried her hands on a nearby towel. She yanked her shirt over her belly, and walked to the kitchen, where she pulled two slices of bread out of the bag and placed them on the counter. Nausea plagued her on a daily basis, but she had to eat.

BOOM!

She jumped.

BOOM. BOOM!

“What the…”

“You can’t go up there. STOP! You can’t! SAMANTHA!”

Samantha spun toward the stairwell, just as Tristan’s large form appeared at the top step. Margaret followed quickly behind him with a wooden dowel high above her head as she barreled into his back.

Time stopped. Samantha blinked, and the room grew silent.

His expression was crazed, almost feral—and it looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Margaret raised the stick overhead, as though she might hit him.

“NO!” Samantha yelled. “Stop!” She stepped into the light, feeling the warmth of the sun hit her face through the window. “Don’t hurt him,” she whispered.

He stood still, dominating the stairwell with his size, which seemed to cage him in like a wild animal.

Margaret lowered the stick. “I tried to stop him,” she said. “I tried?—”

But Samantha only shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Tristan stepped closer, moving into the sunlight that illuminated his features. It was the first time she’d seen him since The Gallery opening, and the first thing she noticed was the dark hollows under his eyes. She inhaled sharply. Her own reflection probably bore the same exhaustion, yet her chest tightened, her body aching at the sight of him like this.

The father of her unborn child. The beautiful, broken, frustrating man who she loved more than anything.

It had been four weeks since The Gallery opened, four weeks since he’d disappeared, and now he stood in her living room. This fact should have surprised her—but it didn't. He’d called three times yesterday and once this morning. When she didn’t answer, he’d gotten on a plane and showed up on her doorstep.

Stupid, stubborn man.

She glanced down at her hands, noticing the slices of bread now balled together as if they were dough. “It’s okay, Margaret,” she said again, trying to keep her voice even. “You can go.”

“Are you sure?” Margaret asked. “I can call the cops.”

Samantha shook her head, realizing how protective Margaret had become of her since she’d become pregnant.

She could feel Tristan’s gaze on her. Feel the intensity in the room rise with each passing second.

Margaret eventually walked back downstairs, and Sam waited until she was gone before moving to the fridge. “I was about to make a sandwich,” she said, filling her arms with a jar of peanut butter and jelly. “Can I make you one?”

Tristan didn’t answer. He came into the kitchen with footsteps that were hard and slightly uneven. “I tried to call,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

She placed the jars on the counter, then took two new pieces of bread from the bag and set them on her plate.

“You didn’t answer.”

He moved closer, but the limp in his step made her pause—had Margaret actually hit him with that stick?

She opened the jar of peanut butter, smearing a thick glob across the bread.

He was beside her now, his presence so close it made every hair on her arms stand on end. “Why?” he asked, his voice calm, yet laced with a heat she could feel on her skin.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she resisted the urge to lean into him. “Do you really need me to answer that?” She turned around.

He was less than six inches away, a total invasion of her personal space, but that was who he was. What he did.

“Samantha—” His jaw flexed, but there was a quiver in his chin that was almost her undoing.

“You disappeared!” she said through clenched teeth. “You ran away without giving me a chance to explain!”

She focused on her sandwich, on spreading the peanut butter over the breaking bread, then tried to open the jelly. “You didn’t call me for weeks.” Her tone softened. “The only reason I knew you were okay was because of Renee.” She slammed the jar back on the counter when it wouldn’t open. “I thought we were stronger than that! I thought we could get through anything.”

She forced the two slices of bread together, no longer caring about the jelly, and shoved the sandwich into her mouth. “But I guess I was a fool to think that way, wasn’t I?” she asked with her mouth full. “I guess I was a fool to think you’d stick around to the end.”

He grabbed her wrist, turning her to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His grip was gentle, but his touch burned her skin. “It’s my own fault for being so na?ve,” she whispered. “Like father, like son.” The fire in her belly had been so hot that she hadn’t been thinking correctly.

His entire expression changed in an instant and he dropped her wrist. She almost choked on her sandwich. How could she say that? “Tristan I—” But it was too late. She reached out to touch him, but he shrugged away, so hurt he wouldn’t even make eye contact.

The apartment went completely silent, and a shiver shot up her spine.

He walked toward the steps, and she realized he was about to walk away again. Panic filled her chest. No…no…

STOP! But her mouth was dry…her throat completely closed.

NO!

His boot hit the first step, causing every cell in her body to scream. “I’m pregnant!” she blurted out.

His steps halted, and he turned on his heels.

Everything became silent.

Two, four, then five seconds passed. His face lifted, and his expression was so contorted she hardly recognized him.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, nodding once. “Eight weeks on Monday.”

His eyes narrowed as though he couldn’t see, and he gripped the handrail, as if needing its support.

She braced herself on the counter. “I found out a couple days ago. I was going to call you. I just didn't know…”

He stepped closer, his expression bleak. “What do you want from me, Samantha?” His voice was soft, broken—barely more than a whisper.

She’d imagined this moment at least a thousand times. Every time a pregnancy reveal came across her social media feeds. Never in all her dreams would he react this way. Never would he have asked that question.

“Nothing,” she said softly, though she didn’t cry like she wanted to. She didn’t yell. She held it all in because her heart was too dried up for more than that.

He moved toward the window, raking his hands through his hair. “So what? You live here, I’m in L.A., and I visit on Christmas?” He was pacing now, his hands running through his hair over and over.She could see the pain on his face, and hear it in his voice, which was raspy and thick.

“My assignment is over in July. Mr. Covington is opening another gallery in L.A. that I’ll oversee,” she stated. “That’s two months before the baby is born. I’ll move back to L.A., close to my parents.” She’d thought everything through, every detail, she even secured an apartment in the same building she’d lived in before they’d moved in together two years earlier.

He stopped pacing. “Samantha—” he turned to face her, his voice shredded, “—I’ll Marry you, I’ll?—”

“ STOP! ” She pivoted toward the window, her heart seizing up, chest moving up and down with slow, painful breaths.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” he began again. “Just tell me. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. What do you want from me?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, staring at him for a long time, hoping for some magical sign to fall from the sky and tell her what to do. He was making these promises now, but they’d hit one road bump in the two years they’d been together, and his first instinct had been to run. She’d stayed in a relationship for six years ignoring flags not nearly as red. Maybe she could handle this again, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much in the future, but she wasn’t thinking about herself any longer. She was thinking about their baby, and what would be best for their future. “Nothing,” she whispered. The single word made her want to double over and grip her stomach, but somehow, she remained upright.

She had no doubts that Tristan would be a good parent. He’d provide for his child until the bitter end, but every time she thought about their future together, all she could think about was the way he looked at her the day of The Gallery opening. She didn’t know if she could forgive him for that. If they could build a relationship when she still felt so much resentment.

He was silent for a long time, then he turned toward the stairwell again. “I guess there’s nothing more I can say.”

He was giving up. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she thought he’d fight harder than this. He’d given her all the power to stop him, but she couldn’t force herself to speak. If he stayed it would be because she said so, not because that’s what he actually wanted. It would be out of guilt, obligation, because of his unwavering dedication to his responsibilities.

She didn’t want that.

That wasn’t the ever after she’d always dreamed of.

This felt like the end, and every fiber of her being wanted to crumble to the floor. Unshed tears slipped to her cheeks, and she pivoted toward the window. She heard a floorboard creak, and thought he moved to comfort her, but then the sound of his steel-toed-boots echoed in the opposite direction.

He was leaving. Down the same flight of stairs he’d fled the night of The Gallery opening. This time, she didn’t try to stop him. This time she wouldn’t chase him down the streets of New York looking like a fool. This time, she let him go and fell to the kitchen floor on her knees, praying the whole time it was the right thing to do.