Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Briar
“What the fuck?” I whisper, mind spinning, stomach churning.
Terror wars with…happiness.
And more terror.
But mostly…happiness.
Such pure, unfettered happiness that I snag my phone from the counter, jabbing at the screen and hitting a number.
“Hey, what’s up?” Atlas asks.
I exhale, try to keep my tone neutral. “Can you cover the Conrad meeting this afternoon?”
A pause. “Yes. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I just…need to get home so I can take care of something with Frankie.”
There’s another pause. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“I—”
“But I know that I’ll probably hear about it soon enough, so don’t bother making up another lie.” He chuckles. “Do what you need to do, Briar. I’ll take care of Conrad.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
There’s another voice in the background, and Atlas’s voice turns irritated.
“Is everything—?”
“I’ve gotta go, Briar.”
“I—”
“Talk to you later.”
He hangs up.
I contemplate that weirdness for a moment. Then my eyes go back to the counter. I’ll worry about my changeable and grumpy-far-too-often boss later.
Right now, I have to get home.
And tell Colt.
I snag the positive pregnancy tests—yup, that’s tests plural, and yes that’s pregnant as in pregnant because apparently Colt has super sperm or I have super eggs or together our bodies just get super freaking pregnant because we made Frankie that weekend and—
I settle my hand on my belly.
We made this baby.
And he’s going to be here every step of the way.
I grin, shove the tests into my purse, and hurry down to my car.
Colt dropped Frankie off at school this morning then had some errands to run afterward.
Ever since he bought a car, he’s been slowly filling out his days without me.
I miss all the one-on-one time but know he needs to get on with rebuilding his life, especially since my days are filled with work and our family.
Which means it’s not unlikely that he’ll be hanging with Dash or Banks, but even if he’s not home when I get there, I know he won’t be far behind me because he promised Frankie he’d pick her up from school.
So, if he’s there, we’ll celebrate without a four-and-three-quarters-year-old.
If he’s not there, I’ll cook something special and we’ll celebrate tonight with good food.
Like peanut butter and pickles.
Oy.
Pregnancy cravings.
Good food will be something that’s not peanut butter and pickles.
Maybe a salad and chicken breasts—
My stomach churns.
Right, enough about food.
If Colt’s not home, I’ve got my next steps.
SoCal traffic isn’t all that kind but since it’s not rush hour, it doesn’t take too long to get back to the house.
And my heart leaps when I see Colt’s SUV in the garage.
He’s home.
Eek!
I park, snag my purse, and bustle into the house. “Colt!” I call as I rush through the kitchen. “I need to talk…”
But my words trail off when I see he’s wearing his camouflage pants and a tight beige long-sleeved shirt—the same uniform I’ve seen him wear dozens of times, if not more. The same clothes he wore when…he shipped off last time.
And holding his beat up duffle bag in one hand.
He sets it on the ground as I skid to a halt. “Baby,” he murmurs.
I know what he’s going to say.
I see it on his face.
I feel it pierce my heart.
And I still ask “What’s happening?” anyway.
He takes a step toward me, and I skitter back a pace. He freezes.
“What’s happening, Colt?”
“Baby,” he says a second time, even more gently. “I have to go.”
I close my eyes. “You promised,” I whisper.
And he’s suddenly there, hands on my shoulders, face close to mine when I peel back my lids. “It’s Igor, he’s in trouble.”
I don’t want Colt’s friend and savior to be in trouble, don’t want him to get hurt. But—
Pain ripples through me.
Because he promised he would stay.
Because this is history repeating itself.
Because I’m going to be alone and—
A sob bubbles up in my chest but I force it down, grasp on to the tendrils of anger.
It feels so much better to be angry.
Instead of hurt.
I lift my chin. “You can’t go.”
His voice is beyond gentle. “I have to, baby. I owe him my life.” He cups my jaw. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
This is…
My worst nightmare.
No, it’s worse than my worst nightmare because this time Frankie is going to be hurt too.
“I need you to find another way to help Igor,” I order. “Because you can’t leave. Not when you promised me, not when you promised Frankie you’d stay.”
Remorse ripples across his face but I know it’s not going to change anything, least of all his mind about this—I can see that in the lines of his expression, feel it in the gentle way he trails his fingers across my cheek, slides them down to cup my jaw.
“They’re hurting him, baby. I need to go help get him out. ”
That gets me.
I’m not a monster.
I don’t want one of Colt’s friends to be in danger.
So, I suck in a breath, hold it tightly, and do my best to be rational about this. “I’ll worry,” I whisper. “I’ll worry but I’ll keep it together, will explain it all to Frankie—”
His body starts to relax.
“If you tell me that no one else can do this—”
He goes stiff.
“If you tell me that no one else can go in and get him out but you, you’ll have my blessing.”
He clenches his jaw.
And I see the truth in his beautiful sapphire eyes.
There are other people who could do this rescue mission.
Other people he could call on to save his friend when he’s still recovering from being tortured, when he’s not at full strength, when he’s still suffering from flashbacks, when…
Going means having to leave Frankie and me and—my fingers clench on the strap of my purse, the pregnancy tests rattling inside like fate’s worst joke—our baby.
He’s going to make a deliberate choice to leave all three of us.
After he promised—promised—to stay.
“If you leave us again,” I rasp, the words torn out of me, “you can’t come back. I won’t give you a third chance to hurt us.”
“Baby,” he says, gently pulling me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. “I’ll be back before you know it. And then I will never leave you again. I promise.”
More promises.
Promises he’ll break.
I pull out of his hold.
“I love you,” he murmurs, cupping my face in both of his hands. “I’m coming back, but I have to do this.”
Words.
Words that don’t matter, not when he’s leaving again.
That don’t matter when he drops his hands away, picks up his duffle, and heads out to the garage, the door clicking softly closed behind him.
The sob escapes, and I lose my battle against my tears, feeling them sliding down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw, soaking into the collar of my shirt.
I sink to the floor, purse hitting it beside me, contents scattering, the tests—oh God, the tests—bringing nothing but pain now. Pain and heartbreak and the reminder that I’m not enough and I won’t ever be.
That thought ricochets through me so violently, that when I glance down, I expect there to be a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
But it’s whole.
I’m whole.
On the outside.
And I need to pull it together so that Frankie never thinks that she’s not enough.
Never looks at herself in the mirror and wonders why her father wouldn’t stick around.
And I’ll make sure this new baby doesn’t think that either.
I wipe my tears, move to the stairs. I’ll splash some water on my face, fix my makeup, and I’ll get myself together so I can get my daughter from school and she doesn’t know that I’ve been broken into a thousand pieces.
That I’ve lost something that won’t ever come back.
Only when I get there, I find my knees buckling again, the tears coming fast and furious.
Because on the edge of the bed…is a bundle of letters.