Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
BEATRICE
My body is a dumbass.
A tingling, giddy, so-relieved-to-see-Blue-that-she-melted-into-that-hug-without-a-second-thought dumbass.
Blue isn’t my safe place.
Blue is complicated. Fraught. He’s the guy who sent me a check and a brush-off letter, before ghosting me for five months, for fuck’s sake.
But he also smells like evergreen needles and sexy spices, and I really wish I were still pressed against his chest, breathing him in.
I’m considering asking him for another hug, just to banish the last of the post-accident scaries, in fact, when he says, “Good. Time with you is all I want, Bea. It’s all I’ve wanted for months. I’m so glad you’re home.”
The words land like a record scratch.
Pardon me?
Excuse me, sir?
Months, you say?
Months?
I fight to keep my eyes from bulging out of their sockets as he pulls the chair in the corner over to my bedside, refusing to be distracted by the way his giant hands dwarf the armrests.
Or the perfect amount of dark hair on his corded forearms. Or how his eyes meet mine with that captivating new openness I glimpsed on the television screen when there was still an ocean between us.
So, he’s open now, is he?
Open to what?
Open to continuing to ignore me until I’m in a hit-and-run accident, he happens to catch on the news while doing a bit of woodworking? Open to forgetting I exist until I’ve flown thousands of miles to ensure he’s okay, only to suddenly become the one who is not okay? Not even a little bit?
The audacity!
The breathtaking audacity of this man to sit there covered in sawdust and “so grateful for this chance” vibes, looking like some kind of lumberjack fantasy, when he’s been a complete turd burglar.
Five months of silence. Five months of wondering how I could have been so wrong about someone, again.
After Kai, I thought my days of hallucinating goodness into the hearts of shitty men were over. The rose-colored glasses were off, baby. Ripped off, thrown to the ground, and crushed under my ex’s Doc Martins as the man who’d promised to love me forever did his best to ruin my life and my career.
Once the smoke from that interpersonal fire cleared, I was so sure, so certain that I’d never be fooled again.
But Blue completely pulled the wool over my eyes.
I really thought he was what he pretended to be. I thought he was a Zen Master Artist-Athlete who would always choose the kindest road, even if it wasn’t the one most traveled.
I’m not angry that he opted out of surprise fatherhood.
I’m angry at the spineless, cowardly, dude-bro-who-can’t-deal-with-the-consequences-of-his-actions-in-person way that he did it.
I’m angry that I went from one of his closest friends to a pesky pregnant wench he couldn’t pay off fast enough, so quickly that it made my head spin.
I’m angry that not once in five months did he text to say he was sorry, or that he missed me, or even ask why I hadn’t cashed that fucking check.
I’m angrier than I realized until this very moment, in fact…
How dare he pretend to be so grateful for my time?
He could have had my time. He could have had all my time, every second, every breath, maybe even for the rest of our lives.
I was obviously drunk on tequila and orgasms that night, but by the time Blue came inside me on his kitchen table, I was positive he was the reason I’d wasted over a decade in a shitty relationship.
Fate was just biding its time, ensuring I was single when I met this incredible, hard-loving, hard-fucking man who was about to make all my romantic dreams come true.
That obviously didn’t happen, but even in the post-one-night-stand awkwardness, I held out hope.
A connection like what Blue and I have—in bed and out of it—doesn’t happen every day.
I thought all he needed was time to work through his ethical concerns about dating a teammate’s sister, and we’d be besties with benefits by the time the season was over.
Instead, I found out I was pregnant and that Blue isn’t who he pretends to be.
Maybe he isn’t even the man he thought he was before I dropped the baby bomb. Maybe realizing he couldn’t meditate his way out of an accidental pregnancy is what shoved him into the asshole zone.
In the end, it doesn’t matter.
He was an asshole, an asshole who charged into the asshole zone for five whole months without any sign of remorse.
And I’m suddenly so pissed about it, I feel like I stuck my finger in the light socket by the bed.
Pressure builds behind my sternum. My pulse picks up, the monitor betraying me with a beeping accelerando while my cheeks heat with fury.
Blue’s eyes flick to the machine, then back to me, concern creasing his forehead.
“Is everything all right? Should I get a nurse?” he asks in the sweetest, most concerned rumble I’ve ever heard.
And that—that, for some reason—is what breaks the dam.
He hasn’t earned the right to rumble sweetly in my direction.
Not even close!
“Is everything all right? No, everything is not all right,” I blurt out.
“Why would everything be even close to all right when my best friend and the father of my child couldn’t pick up a phone for five fucking months?
Not so much as a ‘maybe we should revisit this conversation’ or ‘are you still alive?’ text in five months, Archer.
Not so much as an email. Hell, I would have settled for another shitty letter or a message in a bottle.
But I got nothing. Nothing. And believe me, the silence spoke volumes. ”
“Wait, Bea. Please,” he says, in that same calm voice that used to make me want to curl up in his lap and purr.
Now, it makes me want to toss my ice water in his face.
“I will not wait. I mean, seriously, Blue. Seriously.” I thrust both arms out to my sides, smacking the IV pole the nurse left in case they decided I needed fluids, making it clang.
“What is wrong with you? How dare you act like you care about me, like you know what it even means to care about someone, when you clearly don’t.
Not even close. Not even in the realm of starting to know. ”
He winces, the words clearly hitting some hidden nerve, but I refuse to feel bad about it. Not when he could have avoided all of this by being the tiniest bit decent.
He didn’t have to be loving or “there for me.” He just had to be a mannerly one-night stand, following up on the status of our accidental fetus from time to time.
You know, just in case the person dealing with the major, life-changing consequences of his thirty seconds of pleasure needed info on his blood type or a family medical history for her next prenatal appointment.
And yes, to be fair, it was way more than thirty seconds, and every achingly beautiful minute of it lives in my head rent-free, but that isn’t the point.
No amount of dick sorcery can make up for the way he’s behaved since then, and if I’m meaner now than I used to be?
Well, he helped make me that way.
“Don’t you dare tell me you lost your phone in a tragic hockey-practice accident and couldn’t remember my number or something, either,” I barrel on, “My brother is a professional hockey player. I know you aren’t allowed to have your phones on the ice, not even at practice.
Speaking of my brother, you could have asked him for my number anytime.
You didn’t have to tell him that you wanted to talk to me about the night we fucked like bunnies and got knocked up. ”
I flop an arm toward him again, careful not to hit anything this time.
“You could have just said that you’d lost your phone.
Baylor knows we’re friends. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it.
But you didn’t, and I know you didn’t, because Baylor would have told me.
Because my brother isn’t a shithead full of shit! ”
Blue nods slowly, seriously, as if agreeing with me, which only makes me angrier for some reason.
Before I can figure out why—or suffer from another bout of verbal diarrhea—a perky knock sounds from the door.
“Hey there, how’s it going in here?” A nurse pokes her head in.
She’s younger than the last one, with box braids pulled back in a neat ponytail and kind, but sharp brown eyes that glance back and forth between us.
“I’m Wella, just came on shift. Saw your BPMs were getting a little fast in here, and wanted to make sure you were okay. ”
I exhale, fighting to regain control, not wanting to add more angst to this woman’s likely stressful shift ahead.
“I’m fine, yes, sorry.” I force a smile. “We were just…” I glance Blue’s way, but his soulful stare offers no assistance, only further consternation. I turn back to Wella, adding, “Debating.”
She arches a brow as she leans against the doorframe, her tablet held to her chest. “Oh. Okay. Well, maybe save that for another day, one when you haven’t already been through a traumatic experience.
You and the baby need rest now.” Her tone cools as her focus slides to Blue. “I’m sure you agree, sir.”
“Completely,” Blue says, turning to me as he asks in a softer voice, “Do you want me to go, Bea? I’ll leave if that’s what you think is—”
“Don’t you dare,” I cut in hotly before adding in a more controlled voice, “I would rather you stay until we finish our discussion, but I can be calm. I know it’s best for the baby.”
Wella continues to look dubious, but nods.
“All right. I’ll be back to check your vitals in about an hour, okay?
If you’re still holding steady, we’ll get you discharged.
” She starts to go, only to turn back with a raised hand, “Sorry, I almost forgot. I have an update on your friend, Ms. Cummings.”
The anger drains out of me, replaced by hope so sharp it makes my stomach cramp. “Yes. Clover Cummings. Is she okay? I’ve been so worried.”