She’s right. Of course, she’s right. I was so freaked out after watching the video that it didn’t even occur to me that it might not be true. Because I had seen my dad and Ryan argue before, and I knew that wasn’t the only time either, so I assumed the worst and took it as truth.
Have I screwed things up even more now? What if Ryan won’t forgive me? Can I stomach raising his child while knowing he’ll eventually fall in love with someone else, have kids with someone else? Bile moves up my throat at the picture my mind is creating. But he’s never even told me he loves me.
You haven’t told him either.
But I do, so very much.
For now, I just have to pretend he loves me back, so I can make it through this mess. Love dies last and all that.
No more tucking in my tail. I can’t. I have to make things right.
Sometimes we have to take a risk and hand over a piece of ourselves, hoping like hell the other person will treat it gently and won’t rip it to shreds. Isn’t that what love is in a nutshell? Emotional risk management with a healthy dose of faith that everything will turn out well.
My brain replays our whole conversation because there was so much info.
I look at Tara. “I guess that means everyone knows about us now, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Did he tell my dad about the baby?”
Her right shoulder lifts and falls. “Not sure, Harps. He didn’t say. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Robbing my savings account some more so I can buy a ticket?”
“Orrrrrrr,” she leans forward with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “you could use Beckett’s private jet that’s on standby.”
My mouth drops open. “No. Way. You’re joking, right?”
She laughs, maybe a little maniacal, but that’s no news with Tara. “Nope.”
“But why?”
“I’ve learned two things about Beckett this weekend. He’s rich, like filthy rich, and he’s a closet romantic, no matter how much he denies it. Like he didn’t even blink when I asked him for the jet.”
“You asked him for the jet?”
“You bet I did. I had to make sure you were safe and sound, and he was my fastest option.”
That does it. After my almost nonstop crying fest yesterday and well into the night, I thought I didn’t have any tears left, but I was wrong. They’re still there, ready to spill over my lashes at any moment.
Tara crawls to my side of the couch. “Oh, sweetie, come here.”
She engulfs me into the hug I’ve been craving so badly. The contact I needed. The love I was yearning for.
“Hush, I’m sure everything will be okay.” Tara rubs my back until I quiet down. When she pulls back, she wrinkles her nose. “How about I call Beckett to arrange for everything while you take a shower. They might not let you on the plane like this.”
I snort and slap her on the arm.
She falls back onto the couch. “Sorry, love, but you know I’m right.”
I grumble because I’m well aware I look like a total mess, and probably also smell like one. No point in denying that.
Ten hours later, after a deep-cleansing shower and the most relaxing yet equally nerve-racking flight, I step out of the private jet in Berkeley.
I’m ready to make things right with my man, but there’s something else I need to do first.