“You come all the way to El Paso,” he starts on a low exhale, taking another step toward me. His fingertips skim my cheek, push back a strand of hair, and my face curves toward his hand. There shouldn’t be electricity in his touch, but there still is. It zips through my skin, down to my bones, and I grit my teeth. “You come all the way to El Paso, you demand to see me, and you tell me you're not going to take much of my time?”

Be strong. Be smart. And get this the hell over with. “Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you.”

He bends his head slightly, his nose just inches from the crook of my neck, and a gasp shudders through my body as he begins to inhale. Shaking my head, I force myself to move away from him. I return to his sister’s couch, my hands gripping the cushion on either side of me. “I didn't come to be your distraction.”

He bobs his head up and down as if he’s acknowledging my statement and fully supports it. His footsteps are barely audible as he walks across the small room and sits down next to me. There's not much space left on the couch since his niece left a stack of laundry on the edge, but he’s close enough for the rough fabric of his jeans to brush my bare leg.

“I'm sorry I went away,” he says, but I shake my head.

“You don't have to apologize, I get it. I get that you’re going through awful shit, and I swear my heart hurts for you. Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do was to come here when—” I press my fist to my mouth and let out a breath against it. “I just couldn't sit around and keep waiting.”

“I didn't expect you to keep waiting.” He tilts his head to one side and frowns. “I expected you to move on. I wanted you to.”

“So you could go back to throwing parties,” I blurt out. His mouth hardens, and my lungs constrict. I wish he would deny it. That he would tell me he’s not given them a single thought, but he continues.

“I wanted you to move on so you could get the things you want.” Long bronze fingers touch my face again, turning my head until we’re eye-to-eye. “To be with someone who's not like me and won’t hurt you.”

He wants me to move on so I can get the things I want. I close my eyes, a harsh sound that hardly passes for laughter sliding through my lips. “It's not as easy as I thought it would be.”

“We said we wouldn’t fall in love,” he reminds me, but his voice drips with uncertainty.

“I’m not here because I fell in love with you.” But Christ, it hurts that I did. “I'm pregnant.”

And hell, it’s still not any easier to say those words.

His hand falls from my face, and he jerks back, his eyes wide. I've seen this look on his face before—the fear. It passes over his features fast, and he replaces it with the same stony expression he probably uses to negotiate contracts for his clients. It feels like hours pass between us then his gaze dips to my abdomen. Automatically, I suck in my stomach.

“Say something,” I say.

He says nothing. He just stares at my belly, the emotion in his eyes unreadable.

“Bailon,” I whisper frantically. “Say something.”

I shiver when he reaches out to me. He pauses just an inch or so away from my stomach and his fingers spasm. Slowly, he lowers his hand and skims his knuckles over my belly button. There’s fabric—a yellow ribbed tank top—between his skin and mine, but his touch drops a weight against my chest. “You can't be pregnant.”

“Do you want me to pee on a stick for you? Because I can promise you I am.”

“You can't be pregnant,” he repeats in a monotone voice. I grip his wrist, pushing his fingers away from me.

“Sorry,” I say bitterly. “But like I said, I promise that it’s true.”

A deep frown yanks at the corners of his full lips. “Is it—”

I interrupt him before he can even think to get that question out. “You're the only one. The only one. I don't know where we fucked up—when this happened—but it did. I’ve been to the doctor already. I’m due the middle of February.”

“Fuck,” he shouts, and I pray his sister can’t hear us.

You can’t be pregnant and fuck. He’s a man of few words tonight, and the handful he does manage to get out only makes this worse.

“You deserved—” He’s on his feet again, pacing the room, rubbing his hands over his face. What was he going to say? That I deserve better, that I deserve more? Staring down, I look at my legs until my shorts and skin seem to blur together. “What are you going to do?” he demands, and I whip my head up and bore my eyes into him.

“If you're asking me to abort, the answer is no. That’s not going to happen.”

“I'm not asking you to…” He stops talking again, releasing a guttural noise that snaps through me. “What are you going to do, Jamie?”

He’s an attorney. He supposed to be smart and wise, but right now he's a goddamn fool. “There’s only one option for me. I don't give a fuck what you plan to do, but there is only one option for me.” My legs tremble as I stand and brush my fingers down the front of my white shorts. “That's what I came to tell you. That’s all I came here for. Go back to your parties, Bailon, and fucking everything with a pussy and tits. I’m good now that I’ve told you what I needed to say.”

He stops me on the way to the door, his body hard against the back of mine, his hands on my upper arms. His touch is soft, but it still sends a jolt through me.

“You fucking set me up,” he whispers brokenly, the accusation in his voice dragging the breath from my lungs. I spin around to face him, my brow puckering.

“Do you think I planned this?”

He carves his hand through his black hair and lets out a growl that ricochets through me. He shrugs. “Who the fuck knows. It’s all you ever wanted. It’s all you talked about, and I fell into your goddamn trap because I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t—”

My palms connect with his face, and I hit him. Once. Twice. His cheek turns red—and my handprint is visible against his bronze skin—but he doesn’t even budge. “Not with you,” I spit out because I hate him right now. Hate that he owns me. I hate that he’s standing in front of me, reminding me of our mistakes, reminding me of how stupid I am. I hate that he’s a part of me now just as much as I hate loving him. “I didn’t want this with you of all people. You don’t want commitment. You don’t want anything but a good fuck and a distraction. Well, guess what? You were a distraction for me, too. A good fuck who can’t put the condom on right—or at all.”

His eyes narrow and he sneers at me. “And now you won’t be able to get rid of me.” 

“I don’t want or need your help.”

“You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want my help.”

“I think you misunderstood. I came here because I’m not that girl.” I stalk away from him, to the front door again. This time, I won’t stop. This time I won’t let myself be drawn in to him. “Because I’m not the one to play games and string you along. Not like you’ve done with me. But I’m done, Mateo.”

The anger fades from his features, giving way to something else that leaves a sour taste in the back of my mouth. He takes a step in my direction, his hand outstretched, his lips working together. “Jamila—”

“It’s Jamie,” I correct. For the last time. Dear God, for the last time because I can’t do this any longer with him. My legs are unsteady as I open the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t leave.” His voice trembles as he repeats himself, but I don’t listen.

I can’t.

* * *

“Where are you?” he growls into my ear when I finally call him back hours later. “Jesus, Jamila, where are you?”

He doesn’t get to make demands of me—doesn’t get to drag this along—and I sit up in bed, pressing the palms of my hands to my eyes. I hadn’t shed a tear as I walked away. Hadn’t cried once during the drive back to my hotel room. But as soon as the door shut behind me, the tears started and I hadn’t been able to stop myself. I had cried until I fell asleep, and I had slept until the phone in my room rang. It was Lucy.

“Bailon just called me,” she’d said hurriedly. “Daisy gave him my number and—” There was a scratching noise on her end and then she’d returned to the line. “Shit, he’s calling again. Can you … talk to him?”

I’d wanted to tell her that I’ve spent weeks trying to speak to the man to no avail, but I didn’t. I’d apologized that he dragged her into this and had promised I would get in touch with him.

Now, he breathes heavily on the other line. “You don’t get to drop a bomb like you did and walk away,” he says.

“So, it would have been better for me to stick around and listen to you accuse me of trying to trick you? Or maybe you would have gone ahead and flat out asked me for the DNA test? The possibilities with you are endless, Bailon.”

“Just tell me where you are,” he repeats. “Please.”

“I don’t want to do this with you right now, so—”

“Please,” he whispers through clenched teeth.

I bring my knees close to my chest, wrapping one arm tightly around them. I knew this would hurt—I knew it from the moment I discovered that my future had taken an irrevocable turn—but I didn’t count on the pain in my chest and behind my eyelids and in every muscle.

“I’m not going to accuse you of anything,” he says when I don’t answer him. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Fuck, that’s the last thing I wanted to do to you, and now I’ve ruined you.”

“It’s a baby, Bailon,” I reply softly. “It doesn’t matter what we are. It’s a baby—mine—and I don’t think it will ruin me.”

Silence follows. I hear the whirling sound of wind, and I realize he’s in a car. “Let me see you,” he implores again. “Give me a chance to try to explain myself.”

“There’s nothing to—” His groan interrupts me, and I lower my knees to the mattress and press my hand against my chest. I want nothing more than for this night to be over, but I find myself saying yes. Giving in. One last time, I promise myself. Then I give him my hotel and room number.

He shows up less than fifteen minutes later, his expression stormy as he steps inside. “I didn’t want to love you,” he says immediately and without warning before I can utter an angry word.

I didn’t want to love you.

Not present tense but past, and my heart picks up speed, banging desperately into my rib cage. “I never asked you to.”

“I didn’t want to love you because I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says. I hug my arms over my stomach, creeping toward him as he eases down on the edge of my bed. He keeps his stare pointed at the carpet between our feet as he moves his head to each side. “I didn’t want someone to care so much about me that they’d be willing to do anything. I didn’t want that to happen again.”

Again.

“Your grandmother?” I whisper. He doesn’t respond, so I kneel down and search his gaze. “Your mother?”

“My mother?” His brows knit together. “What the hell does she have to do with this?”

“It’s—” I pause and run my tongue across my lips. I forget about my own anger—the ache in the back of my throat and the tension between my eyes—and touch his chin. “She left you and your brother and sister. Didn’t … isn’t that the reason why you say love is a curse?”

“God, I wish.” He takes my hands in his, pulling me up to sit next to him. There’s nothing but silence between us—silence that’s only interrupted by the sound of our breathing. After a long time, he parts his lips. “Her name was Delfina.”

“Whose name was Delfina?”

“My wife.”