“You could have replied. Were you busy?” Shawna pops in my head.
His lips tighten. “I wasn’t with anyone, Francesca. I needed some space.”
Hurt ripples over me, and I look away from him. “Did you eat?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “I kept meaning to but never did. I didn’t feel like it.”
“If you want Chinese, it’s in the trash.”
He puts Cherry down and tosses his keys on the island in the kitchen. The sound clangs in my ears. There’s a thick tension in the room, and it isn’t because he didn’t text me. He brought it in with him. I see the tense line of his shoulders, the slight tremor of his hands.
I soften. He’s been through hell for the past few months, wondering when his last game would be, and now it’s over. He lost his team and feels rudderless. Today must have been awful.
On the other hand, he’s been at ease these past two weeks. He’s smiled more. We’ve giggled at movies. We danced on his rooftop when it snowed. We toured the Met and watched people gaze at art, seeing them experience it. We’ve bought books together at Lottie’s. We’ve gone to Café Lazzo to pick up our food. We went to the bakery, and I gagged on the way home as he chowed down on chickpea cookies. We had game night at Darden’s.
He’s fit in seamlessly with my life.
But ...
Tonight something is different.
When he walks to the Pollock and stands in front of it, I follow.
“Are you okay?”
He cocks his head. “Pollock was talented, but his personal life was insane. He was an alcoholic, depressed, couldn’t keep relationships. I never asked for it as a gift, didn’t even see it until after the funeral. It’s chaotic. Like me.”
“You’re the good kind of chaos.” I fidget. “I have a client in the morning. Do you want me to stay or go?” I hear the neediness in my tone and cringe.
More tension fills the space between us, heavy with words he isn’t saying.
We rushed headlong into this, not staying one night apart, and now he isn’t replying.
A breath comes from me. I’m such a fool. Maybe this is it. Someone told him.
A cold sweat breaks out, and I clench my fists as I steel myself for rejection.
Of me. Of our child.
He whips off his jacket and lets it fall as he stalks to the kitchen, opens a drawer, and pulls out a brown manila envelope. Coming back into the den, he plops it down on the coffee table.
“What’s that?”
“Look at it. Your name is on the front. It’s meant for you.”
He puts his back to me and looks out his windows at Manhattan.
Fear coils tighter, snaking around my chest. “More investigations?”
He turns to the bar and makes himself a whiskey. His profile gives nothing away. “I didn’t ask for it. I thought the initial report was all. Ben’s guy is a super PI. Used to be a cop. He delivered this the day of the meeting.”
“And you’ve read it?”
He takes a drink. “I promised I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Yet here it is,” I say sharply, jabbing my finger at it.
He turns. “Why don’t you tell me what might be in it.”