His chocolate-gold gaze narrows as he sits forward.
“When I was eighteen, I fell in love with an older man.” Weakness spreads through the lower half of my body, but I stay upright. I want to stand for this. A chair seems too informal for what I’m about to say. “He was a successful businessman. Much like you. Handsome. Charming. Charismatic. He pursued me relentlessly—again, like you. And he gave me money to be with him.”
Speaking those words out loud for the first time sends a painful squeeze to my chest. Not even my closest friends know about this.
“He told me he loved me,” I continue. “And I believed him.”
Trey folds his hands on the desk, listening with intention.
“But everything changed when I got pregnant,” I say, pausing to collect myself. “I found out in the middle of my senior year of high school. I was eight weeks along. And I was terrified. But he said he loved me, and I believed him. I trusted that we’d figure things out. Only he was adamant that we give the baby up for adoption. He said it’d be best for each of us. And when I resisted, he made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
He frowns, as if he knows where this is going. Though I can’t tell if he’s sympathetic or disapproving.
“He said if I gave our child away, he’d get me into Princeton so I could focus on my future. He said he’d pay for everything. He also said he’d buy my mother a house. And he offered to cover all of my sister’s medical expenses …” I say. “All I had to do was sign.”
My eyes brim with hot tears, but I blink them away.
“So I did,” I say. “I sold my baby in exchange for a better life.”
His lips purse. Still he says nothing.
I’m going to be sick …
“So I think you should know, before this goes any further, that I’m a selfish woman who has done selfish things,” I say. “And if you don’t want me to be the mother of your child, I completely understand.”
An endless pause lingers between us before he pushes himself from his chair and makes his way to my side of the desk.
“Is that why you were so against this arrangement?” he breaks his silence.
Gazing up at him through half-damp lashes, I nod. If I tried to speak, I’d surely choke on the words.
He gives me a moment. Or maybe he’s taking one for himself. All I know is the silence between us bears an excruciatingly painful weight.
“What made you change your mind?” he finally asks.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I need more time. And yet, bottling the details grows more painful by the second. There’s an ache deep within my marrow that both fills and hollows me.
“Because I kept thinking about all the good things I could do with that money,” I say. “I can’t change what I did, and I’ll never get that part of me back, but if I spend the rest of my life making a difference for other people, maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive myself.”
Trey drags in a long, jagged breath as he studies me.
“Anything else you want to come clean about?” he asks.
I can’t read him.
“Yes.” I slip my fingers around the waistband of my pajama bottoms and slide them halfway down my hips. Next I push my panties down an inch until the translucent, silver-white C-section scar is on full display. “This is why I’ve always insisted on the dark when we’ve messed around, why I’ve always turned away from you when we have sex … I didn’t want you to see this, to ask questions I didn’t want to explain. This scar is a reminder of a time in my life that holds nothing but shame and grief.”
He forces a hard breath through his nostrils. Without warning, he lowers himself until my scar is at eye-level. I squeeze my eyes tight, sucking in a breath when he runs his finger along it.
“If you want out of this, if you can’t look at me the same now, I understand,” I say.
When I peer down at him, he meets my stare. And in a moment I never could have anticipated, he presses his mouth against the one place I’ve never allowed a man to kiss since that fateful day.
My lungs burn and my body turns stiff. I force myself to take a deep breath.
Trey rises slowly, his tender hold remaining on my hips. “You were eighteen, Sophie. I imagine you were scared out of your mind. You did what you had to do.”
“I could’ve made it work.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I would’ve made it work,” I say.
“But then you wouldn’t be who you are today.” He takes my cheek in his hand, and suddenly I resent the compassion in his voice and his despondent gaze washing over me. “You’ve spent all this time hating yourself for what you did when you were a child.”