Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Thank you so much.” I end the call and sit motionless at my desk for a timeless eternity, lost in a sea of thoughts, mind drifting this way and that—as it has been the past couple of days.
Fabian left yesterday morning to go back to California for a few days.
I thought the time apart might help clear my head, but the only noticeable change around here is that the house is a little quieter. A handful of times, I’ve caught my stomach flipping when I pass the guest room door. And I even wandered in there the other day, curious to see if he’d left anything behind.
He had.
A diamond Rolex on the nightstand.
Drawers full of clothes.
A bottle of cologne—which I shamefully sprayed for some insane reason.
I’ve decided it’s okay to miss the illusion of what we had, but it doesn’t mean I have to miss him. Sometimes I wonder if it’d have been better to live out the rest of the month in ignorant bliss for the sake of a few more magical weeks feeling like a suburban single mom fairytale princess.
But like my Nonna used to say, everything happens for a reason.
There’s a reason I saw that text when I did.
Dragging in a long hard breath, I make the short trek to the kitchen for a glass of water. Glancing out the window over the sink, I spot Carina and Lucia in the back, lying on a blanket in the afternoon sun.
I’m not sure how things will be after this month is up. How often he’ll visit or how big of a role he’ll want to play in my daughter’s life. I’m fine with keeping that door open—but the door to my heart is officially deadbolted.
Chapter 26
Fabian
* * *
“Hey, baby!” Tatum all but squeals when I approach her table at LaGrange 71 on Melrose. “I ordered you a Sazerac. For old times’ sake.”
The drink I had on our first official date …
“I won’t be drinking today.” I take a seat across from her. “In fact, I won’t be staying more than a few minutes.”
After several failed attempts on Coach’s part to stop her incessant harassment, I figured it was time to take matters into my own hands. Arranging a meeting at one of the trendiest Beverly Hills restaurants seemed like the safest bet. She’s not going to cause a scene here because she knows people, and they know her.
Animals don’t shit where they eat.
Outside, a man walks by with a black Canon camera around his neck, chin tucked as he paces the sidewalk waiting for a shot. Someone must have tipped him off. Across the street are two more. It’s like fucking ants at a picnic.
“I just came to tell you to your face,” I begin, “that we’re over. We’ve been over. And you need to stop contacting me. I’ve moved on and you should too.”
I expect tears. A crestfallen face. A sorrowful protest.
Only the psychopath smiles wide, ear to ear.
And then she dips her manicured little hand into her limited edition Birkin bag, retrieving a small black and white photo, which she places between us.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“An ultrasound, silly.” She swats the air. “We’re having a baby!”
Studying the image, I can’t breathe.
“Anyway, it’s a good thing you came back when you did because my PR team wants to make the announcement tomorrow. Figured you should get a heads’ up on that.” She pours some San Pellegrino into a stemless wine glass and takes a sip.
“Who’s the father?” I finally manage to formulate a sentence.
Choking on her water, she says, “Oh my gawwwd, Fabian. Do you even have to ask that?”
“Yes,” I say. “I haven’t fucking touched you in months.”
“Yeah, and I’m several months along,” she says without hesitation. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I realized I hadn’t had a period in months.” Pressing her lips together, she tucks her chin. “You know I never paid attention to that stuff.”
And that part is true. Once a year, she got a birth control shot in her arm and never looked back. While I never paid much attention to her cycle unless she was on a hormonal rampage and it directly affected me, I do recall hearing her mention a handful of times that things were irregular.
None of what’s happening is entirely implausible.
Rising, she smooths her hand along the front of her dress until the fabric showcases a very undeniable bump. And with her slight stature, it won’t be long before she’s looking like she swallowed a basketball.
“I’m starting to show already,” she says. “Which is why we thought we should announce sooner than later. Need to get ahead of the rumors.”
Stepping closer, she grabs my hand, placing it over her swollen middle—only before I have a chance to yank it back, a bright flash from outside the window captures this moment forever.