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Damn it.
I stand too. I grab my coat, toss some bills on the table, and hustle out of the diner.
Collins is halfway down the block already, meaning she’sreallypissed. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? I knew, even as the words were coming out, that it was the wrong thing to say.
“Monty!” I call out, jogging after her. “Monty, wait!”
She doesn’t stop. Not until I grab her elbow and spin her toward me. “I’m sorry,” I state. “I shouldn’t have said that. Perry’s probably—Perry’s probably prime stepfather material.”
That last sentence burns like swallowing acid. The thought of another guy touching Collins makes me see red. But the idea of that guy also being around the perfect heartbeat I just heard? That’s a direct stab to the heart.
Perry’s a respectable lawyer. He’s always polite to Flynn, despite Flynn mostly treating him like a fly that needs swatting away. I doubt he’s ever been busted for underage drinking or talked his way out of a speeding ticket or had a misunderstanding with the Monaco police. Heisprime stepfather material.
“It’scoffee, Kit,” Collins tells me. “I’m not marrying the guy.”
She still sounds annoyed, but she’s no longer actively glaring at me. More looking at me like I’m absurd. And overreacting.
It’d be different if I was free to pursue her myself. Her dating another guy would still suck, but at least I’d have a metaphorical hat in the ring. I’d have achance.
That’s all I’ve really wanted with Collins. A chance.
I stare at her, not really trusting myself to say anything.
“I’ll see you at work,” she states.
I don’t think she means it as a reminder of our respective roles—that I’m her boss—but it serves as one anyway. We have to return to the office, and I’ll have to pretend she’s simply another employee. No special treatment.
We’re not back at the office yet though.
“At least let me drive you,” I plead.
Collins shakes her head. “I’ll see you at work,” she repeats more firmly, then walks away from me.
And it hurts a hell of a lot more than it has any of the other times.
26
There’s a convex curve to my stomach when I turn to the left. Barely a bump, but nearly noticeable. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant, and I’m starting to show.
I grab my phone and snap a photo, smiling as I zoom in on the small swell. My thumb hovers over the Text icon.
Is it weird to send Kit this?
Things have been off between us since the ultrasound. Stiff. Aside from his weekly fruit texts—we’re up to an avocado—we haven’t had a single conversation related to the baby. Or discussed anythingnon-work-related.
And I miss it.
I miss … him.
My awkward coffee date with Perry wasn’t worth this tension. I’m not even sure you could classify our brief meetup as a date. We mainly talked about our favorite spots in Chicago, reminiscing about living there. It lasted less than an hour, and he hugged me goodbye. The commute from Manhattan to Brooklyn and back likely took longer than he spent with me.
I drop my dress and toss my phone on the mattress with a huff, watching it bounce twice. Why did Kit have to be looking at my phone when Perry texted? Things went so well during the ultrasound, and then after …
I unzip my suitcase and rummage through its contents until I find the hardback I packed. Thankfully, the white envelope didn’t slip out during the train ride. It’s perfectly preserved on the title page without a single crease.
My mom is standing in the kitchen, chopping celery for the stuffing and listening to NPR. Jane is sprawled on the living room rug, painting her nails and watching the parade. And my dad … no sign of him.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, heading into the kitchen and propping a hip against the butcher-block counter.