Chapter 63
Tristan
Rather unsurprisingly, I wake up first the following morning.
I’ve learned that Nick is a heavy sleeper, especially on nights that he doesn’t have Abbie with him. He seems to have a sort of sixth sense where she’s concerned, but when she’s safe at his parents’ house, he can sleep easily.
My skin is still a little tender from the clothespin situation last night, though the ice and Ibuprofen have helped.
After some struggle, I extricate myself from Nick’s slumbering arms, roll out of the bed, and dig out a pair of sweatpants from Nick’s bureau. He’s bigger than me, so I have to tie the sweatpants pretty tight, but I like wearing his clothes.
I love you.
That’s what Nick told me last night.
I love you.
Hearing those words didn’t leave me terrified.
Is there still a part of me that’s worried about this process of moving on from Warren? Sure.
But is the other part of me brave enough to face what moving on will actually mean? Absolutely.
I smile to myself, the trepidation I’ve felt suddenly replaced entirely by joy and anticipation.
It’s a brand new day.
Because it’s a bit chilly in Nick’s room, I grab one of his sweatshirts and practically skip to the kitchen.
I decide that I’m going to make him breakfast. Something nice, maybe waffles, or fancy omelets. It’ll depend on what he has in the fridge and pantry—probably a lot, if I had to guess, because Nick always has ingredients. He loves to cook.
Whatever I cook, there will definitely be coffee.
I hum to myself while I set the coffee brewing and then move around the kitchen, deciding that I’m going to go ahead and do waffles—but make them fancy with sugared strawberries and homemade whipped cream. Nick has a sweet tooth, and this paired with some café au lait? Oh, it’ll be decadent.
I feel like buzzing out of my skin with joy, because this morning, I decide, I’m going to tell Nick. I’m ready.
I love Nick.
And I’m ready for him to know.
Nick’s kitchen is well-stocked, and I soon find everything I need to make waffles. He has strawberries (bless!), sugar, and heavy cream, which I’ll whip with a little vanilla extract.
The coffeemaker burbles, telling me that it’s done. I pour myself a cup, add a generous splash of milk, and a spoonful of sugar. I take a tentative sip—hot, but not too hot, perfectly caffeinated, a hint of hazelnut—and turn back to the waffle recipe I found on my phone.
I combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, eggs, milk, melted butter, and vanilla to make the batter. I heat the waffle maker (it makes Hello Kitty-shaped waffles, purchased when Abbie was going through a phase), and spray it with nonstick cooking spray.
When the waffle maker is ready, I pour the batter, close it, and wait.
I have four waffles made (enough for the two of us), and have started slicing strawberries when I hear the doorbell ring.
I pause, strawberry knife in hand, and listen.
It’s not even eight o’clock yet, and Nick is still asleep. I wait to see if he’s heard the doorbell, but there’s no sound from the bedroom.
Putting my knife down, I wipe my hands, grab my coffee, and head to the door, wondering who or what it could be. Maybe an early package delivery? One of his neighbors?
I open the door and almost drop my coffee.
Standing there is a young woman, maybe thirty, with light brown skin, long, straight black hair, and large dark eyes.
Immediately, I see the similarities between her and Abbie.
“Raquel,” I say automatically, so surprised by her sudden appearance that apparently all manners have left me.
She blinks, looking just as surprised to see me as I am to see her. I doubt she has any idea who I even am.
“Yeah,” she says. “Who are you?”
“Nick’s…” I hesitate, and then realize I have no reason not to say it. “Nick’s boyfriend.”
“Oh.” She shifts her weight. “Is Nick home?”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Yep.”
“Is he awake?”
Another sip. “Nope.”
I realize that, for better or worse, I have some power here. More than she probably does.
“I might be wrong, but you’re not supposed to be contacting Nick or Abigail right now, right?”
She frowns at me. “What do you know?”
I don’t answer the question. I savor some more coffee. Make her wait.
“Why are you here, Raquel? Nick won’t talk to you.”
“Yeah, because he’s asleep.”
“I’m not waking him up.”
“Fine. I wanted to talk to him about the lawsuit.”
“I really don’t think you should talk to him without your lawyers. What were you thinking?”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s none of your business. Besides, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”
My turn to narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs, seems to think about it for a moment, and then says, “Well, I guess I can tell you. I was going to propose joint custody or visitation hours at the start. Something small. You know, I just want to get to know my daughter.”
Something in her seems to soften, or maybe deflate. “I know you don’t know me. I don’t know what Nick’s told you about me. Probably nothing good. Probably mostly true. I wasn’t going to be a good mother. I hope that I’d be a better mother now.”
She looks at me with pleading eyes. “Don’t you think a child deserves her mother?”
“I don’t think that’s for me to answer.”
She falls silent.
Then: “Have you met her?”
“Abigail?”
She nods, like she can’t even say her daughter’s name.
“I have.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s wonderful. Nick has done a marvelous job raising her.”
Raquel’s face falls. I don’t know if I should feel some pity for her, but I don’t.
“I see,” she says.
I can see that my words have hurt a little. I wonder if I should’ve been kinder.
Her face hardens. “You know, my lawyer thinks we have a good case. She says that because of Nick’s career, and because of his… sexual proclivities… a good family judge could easily decide that he’s not fit to continue raising Abigail.”
“What?” I snap.
I know she shouldn’t be telling me this, but I need to hear what she has to say. “What do you mean by sexual proclivities?”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean the fact that he’s gay. I’m not bigoted or anything. I mean, that he’s…” she trails off. “Though, you know, you’re dating him. So maybe you don’t want to know.”
My jaw hardens. I’m pretty damn sure I know what she’s talking about, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it.
“But you probably should know,” she says.
She leans in, like she’s going to deliver a juicy secret. Though this is the first time I’ve met Raquel, I’ve never liked her. She’s not doing a good job of leaving a good impression to change my assumptions about her.
“If you’re going to tell about his private, intimate interests,” I begin, because I have no interest in hearing her disparage him, “then—”
“You mean, his sexually perverse interests?” Raquel interjects.
I flinch. I know that some people have old-fashioned or backward views of kink.
Not everyone who isn’t interested in kink has a negative view of it, but when those negative views rear their ugly heads, it’s still shocking. It stings.
I scoff. “He said that you were….” I shake my head. “Never mind, Raquel. Goodbye.”
“Wait,” she says. Her face twists in something terrible—jealous, angry, desperate.
I don’t want to wait, but some dark, morbid curiosity keeps me from closing the door.
“What?” I say flatly.
“Are you hearing me?” she says. “Because of his interests, whatever they might be, a judge might side with me. You don’t want that, do you?”
“It’s time for you to go.”
I start to close the door.
“Would you stand between Nick and Abigail?” she hisses.
I slam the door.