SQUINTING AT THE brightness of the sun, I yawn and then rub my eyes to try to wake up. My face feels puffy and I pause, remembering Branch getting inside somehow last night.
The softness of his touch, the tenderness in his arms as he held me against his sturdy chest, is so fresh in my mind. He didn’t have to do that . . . but he did.
After a quick scan of my room, the only thing I see is that I’m alone and the only thing I hear is the outright pounding of my heart.
It almost feels like I dreamed it, like I needed comfort so much I made it up in my mind, but I smell his cologne on my hands and I know he was here.
Maybe he still is.
Yanking back the blankets, I climb out and head to the window. His car is parked next to mine, lined up in a row like it’s supposed to be there.
“Fuck,” I mutter, not sure how I feel about that or what it means or where he is or what that means. “Why does this have to be so complicated?”
Switching from my long nightshirt into a cute and easy denim romper, I race to the bathroom and wash up and get my hair into some semblance of tidiness.
I peek into the room he stayed in before and it’s undisturbed. Door to door, I glance into each bedroom, bathroom, and even closet to find them all empty of life.
The energy coursing through my veins has my head buzzing. I sweep the living room as I go by but it’s empty. So is the kitchen. There are no traces of Branch in the entire house.
The front door is unlocked when I try the handle and I tug it open. Stepping onto the patio, I freeze in my tracks.
My heart pulls in my chest, a smile breaking across my cheeks as I spy him.
Branch is sitting on a chaise lounge up against the house, an Illinois Legends hat sitting over his face. His big, bulky arms are folded across his chest and one sneaker-clad foot is crossed over the other.
I want to pretend he stayed for me and that he didn’t just sit down and pass out from the stress of the last couple of days plus the trip up here. But dashed hopes are a hateful thing that I try to avoid if I can and how do I have any grounds to hope he cares at all about me? It will be easier if he doesn’t anyway.
Even so, I can’t deny the relief that he didn’t just walk away last night like he could’ve so easily done and that he did even more by coming into my room and just being present. That means a lot. If I’m going to roast him for all of his mistakes, I need to give him a little teeny-tiny bit of credit for the good moves too.
Scooting his legs over to make room for my bottom, I take him in one last time before I lift his hat off his face. He makes a sour grimace, groaning as the morning sun shines in his eyes. Once he gets them open enough to see me, he’s awake.
“Good morning,” I say, each word calculated.
“Good morning.” His voice is gravelly, rougher than I’ve ever heard it. He clears his throat. “You mad?”
“At you?”
“Of course at me.”
His face tells the tale of a long, hard night. I know the look. I wear it often these days too. The judgmental glare, the lines of anger that have been around his mouth are gone, and in their place is an aura of concern.
“What happened to your face? For real?” I ask, reaching out and touching the corner of his eye.
He flinches. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You have blood caked in your lashes. It must’ve bled while you slept.” He looks up at me through those very same lashes like he’s not sure what to make of me.
I sigh, frustrated at what I’m about to say. “Come on.”
I stand and wait on him to follow. He doesn’t. He just sits in the chair with a bewildered look on his face.
“What?” I ask. “You need a hot shower and I need coffee. Decaf. God, I hate decaf.”
“Why are you drinking decaf if you hate it?”
“Because caffeine in the amounts I need to feel decent aren’t good for my baby.”
As soon as I say it, I realize it’s his baby too. I also realize he picks up on my word choice, but chooses not to say anything about it. Instead, he cocks his head to the side.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks.
“Will you stop acting like a child?” I ask.
He stands, pulling his hat over his head to cover the messy blond locks sticking up every which way. “Fine. Lead the way.”
I head to the house and hear his footsteps behind me. He shuts the door, the sound echoing through the house, as I enter the kitchen and rummage around in the refrigerator.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Never ask a pregnant woman that.”
“Okayyyy. So . . . what are you hungry for?”
“A hot ham and cheese, if it matters, and I don’t have either thing.”
The doorbell rings and Branch and I look at each other. Without saying a word, I walk by him and see Henry on the other side carrying a large cardboard box.
“Well, good morning,” I say, taking the proffered carton. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Mrs. Brasher called from down the road. Said you came up alone and could probably use some groceries.”
“Oh, Henry,” I say, leaning on my tiptoes and kissing his cheeks. “You’re so sweet. Rachel is a lucky woman.”
“I’ll tell her you said so,” he chuckles. “If you need anything else, you call me. My number is pinned on the corkboard in the laundry room.”
“I will. Thanks again, Henry.”
“Is everything all right, Layla girl? I saw another car out front and Mrs. Brasher said you were alone . . .”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “If I need anything, you’ll get a call.”
“I’d better. Have a good day, darlin’.”
Heading back to the kitchen, I plop the box on the counter. Pulling the items out one-by-one, I look up at Branch. “Guess we have things for breakfast.”
He smiles at the implied offer and I kick myself for saying it so easily. “You have food delivery out here?”
“No. That was Henry.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“He takes care of the cabin when we aren’t here. Mows the grass, maintains our dock, does little fix-it projects here and there. Basic stuff.”
“I see.” He leans against the chair, watching me unpack the box. “Can I help you with something? I can’t cook worth shit, but I can pour juice like a champ.”
“Why don’t you get a shower?” I offer. “I’ll put something together while you’re gone.”
“I can help you. You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I know. It’s really just a way to get you out of here faster.”
He doesn’t seem to believe me and heads up the stairs with a smug grin on his face. I flip him off as soon as he’s out of sight, the little bout of immature rebellion cathartic.
Scrambling a pan of eggs and cooking sausage patties keeps me busy for the next twenty minutes. The rafters above me squeal as Branch gets in and out of the shower, a little reminder that a conversation is still going to be had and just thinking about it makes me almost drop the patties onto the floor.
“That smells good,” he says, coming around the corner.
I look up from the table and almost drop the glass of juice in my hand. He’s shirtless, a pair of Finn’s black joggers on his legs, and a white towel running over his hair.
“Have a seat,” I say, turning away to keep myself focused. I busy myself grabbing my vitamins from my purse before heading back to the table and taking a seat at the opposite end.
He smells crisp and clean, and despite the black eye, he looks divine.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, picking up his fork.
“Yes. Did you?”
“I slept like shit. That chair isn’t made for a night’s sleep.”
“Could’ve gone home,” I shrug.
His fork clamors against the table, the sound making me jump. He holds my gaze hostage, a plethora of emotions warring in his eyes. As he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, he seems to have made a decision and that scares me.
I hold my breath, anticipating his words.
“Look, Layla, I want to apologize.”
“You already have.”
He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, clearly perturbed. “No, I haven’t.”
“This will be easier for both of us if we find a middle ground to be friendly,” I say. “It’ll be good to have a rapport, but our chilling out has made this a little awkward.”
“No, me being an asshole did. I’ve given you a bunch of half-assed apologies that haven’t meant jack shit. You know it and I know it.”
This is not what I was expecting. I drop my utensil too and place my hands in my lap. Something tells me this one is different, but I want him to have to say it.
“What are you sorry for, Branch? Why is this half-assed apology any different than the others you’ve half-assed?”
Although my questions are legitimate and I don’t feel sorry for asking, I do have a kink in my throat at the look of sorrow etched on his face.
I hate it. I’d give anything in the world to have him sitting across from me laughing, telling me some cocky story or some filthy thing he wants to do to me. Hell, I’d even take teasing about the sex therapy card.
“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” he says, his tone clear. “I’m sorry for not being more careful. I’m sorry for betraying your brother. I’m sorry for being such a fuck-up in the first place that Finn would rather kill me than see you end up tied to me.”
My mouth opens, words primed on my lips, but he stops me with a single look.
“This black eye came from Finn,” he says. “And I’m lucky he didn’t pop the other one too.”
“Finn did that?”
“Yeah. He did. And I can’t blame him. If you were my sister, I’d hate to think you were fucking around with me.”
“He shouldn’t have done that. It’s not going to help anything,” I gulp. “I’m sorry, Branch.”
His laugh catches me off-guard. “Would it be weird to say that it felt good?”
“Um, yeah. That would be very weird.”
“Well, it did. It kind of snapped me back to reality a little. Or a lot,” he says, looking around the room. “I did pull a complete dick move on him.”
“No, you pulled the dick on me and then turned into one.”
He half-grins. “That’s what caused this situation.”
“That you turned into a dick? Or that you dicked me? Either way, and regardless how complicit I was in the second dicking, I’m still blaming it on you.”
“I wasn’t referring to either, actually,” he chuckles. “I was referring to your sense of humor.”
Searching for a comeback, I find nothing.
“That’s a lie. I think it was your ass first, then the sense of humor,” he cracks.
“Branch, shut up,” I say, not able to hide a laugh of my own.
“You know what I’m really sorry for?” he asks, undeterred. “I’m sorry for acting like a bitch.”
There’s no chance I have a response for that, and I’m not sure he expects one. Over our plates of sausage and eggs that are growing colder by the minute, the chill that settled between us since I told him I was pregnant begins to warm.
“I can’t blame you if you want me to hit the road and just send child support payments, Layla. I don’t know how to be a dad or even be responsible for myself sometimes. I just keep seeing you hating me down the line and this situation turning ugly.” His eyes darken, his lips forming a thin line. “Listening to you cry last night made me feel like a complete and utter piece of shit.”
My breathing halts, my body unable to process functions necessary for life and Branch’s words at the same time. A bubble swells in my stomach, the one that usually predicates tears or a nervous giggle or some other reaction to whatever stimuli is in front of me.
“Branch, you aren’t a piece of shit,” I gulp, relieved that I actually believe that.
“I am. I was. And for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than what I’ve been.”
“You’re right,” I say, my voice low. “I do deserve better than what you’ve been. I have all of these monumental things to think about and I was scared to even tell you and then you said the things you did and . . . that’s hard to forget.”
He hangs his head.
“I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do, but I do hate that you reacted the way you did and made me feel like this was some big plot to take over your life or something.”
“Layla—”
“But,” I say, cutting him off, “I know this is a shock. It’s nothing you wanted, especially from me, a girl you slept with once. I can’t blame you for not being excited or even neutral about it and maybe I’m wrong and should apologize for putting expectations on you.”
His head shakes back-and-forth as he lifts his chin. “For what it matters, I didn’t want this. But it’s not fair to say I didn’t want this especially with you. I just didn’t have this on my five-year plan. Hell, maybe not my ten-year.”
“I didn’t either.”
I pick up my fork and push the eggs around my plate.
“I play professional ball, Layla. Nothing in my life is predictable or even solid. My contract could get traded and I could be on a plane across the country on a whim. That’s part of the reason why I haven’t wanted to start a family or settle down. Why would I? Why would I just add another thing on my plate that I can’t control?”
“I understand,” I whisper.
He tugs at his hair, clearly stressed and that stresses me.
“It’s more than that,” he groans. “I see this eat people up and spit them out. My instincts scream to keep you far, far away from this madness.”
“I can take care of myself, Branch.”
“This isn’t casual fucking anymore,” he points out. “You can’t just decide you can’t take it and walk. You’re tied to me now. You’ve just bought into this world that you shouldn’t be in and now I’m responsible for it.”
We sit across from each other, the air in the room heavy. My shoulders sag with the weight of his words. He looks at me after a long while, studying my face. The somberness drifts from his eyes and is replaced with the tenderness that makes me weak.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “if this was going to happen, I’m happy it was with you. At least we kind of like each other, right?”
“Yeah, my ass and my sense of humor,” I deadpan. “I’m sorry to say both of those are going to get worse as the days go on.”
“That shouldn’t be something I laugh at . . .” His voice trails off, replaced by a chuckle.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re right. You shouldn’t. Because you know what they say?”
“No, what do they say?”
“The daddy’s gain weight too.”
It’s like a fireman’s hose douses us with bone-chilling cold water. All levity is gone, whatever easiness we’ve managed to sneak into this conversation is out the window.
“I’m going to be a dad,” he says, more to himself than anything. “That sounds so . . . Wow.” Blowing out a breath, he leans back in his chair. “This is kind of terrifying.”
“I don’t expect anything from you. I want you to know that.”
“That makes me feel like a complete loser.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” I say, sitting back in my own chair. “I don’t mean I don’t need anything from you . . .”
He lifts a brow. “What do you want from me?”
Glancing around the room—at anything but him—I try to form a response. It’s such a loaded question, one that I can’t seem to take the bullets out of.
In a perfect world, I’d want so much from Branch. I’d dream of those things. This world is so far from perfect that I can’t even go out on that limb. The entire tree might break.
“What do you want from me, Layla?”
“I don’t need anything from you,” I say, forcing a swallow.
“That’s fine. But what do you want?”
Confused as to why he just won’t let this go, my emotions build higher and higher and I shove my plate away. “I can’t want anything from you.”
He pushes back from the table and licks his lips. Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly. “What can I do to make this easier for you? What’s my job, my role? Give me directions and be clear so I don’t fuck it up.”
“Be nice,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “That’s the main thing.”
“I can be nice, but as far as the rest . . . I’m not gonna lie—it feels like I was forced into a game with no playbook.”
“I think that’s pretty normal,” I laugh. “If not, I’m as screwed as you.”
My hand falls on my belly, a new habit of mine, and Branch’s gaze follows the movement. When he looks back at my face, his expression is totally different.
“Come on,” he says, standing.
“Where to?”
“You told me to be nice and you also told me you wanted a ham and cheese.”
“But I made breakfast.”
“And now it’s cold because some asshole had to spend fifteen minutes rambling apologies.” With his bottom lip between his teeth, he carefully extends a hand. “Let’s go get you a sandwich.”