3. Nate

THREE

NATE

T abby’s face drained of color at my suggestion that she tell me the truth. Whatever she’d been hiding must have been eating at her, and I wasn’t a monster. I wouldn’t force her to talk about anything she didn’t want to, but she had to give me something.

“How about you tell me about your family? Do they know?” She rarely talked about her family, though I’d learned she’d never really known her mother and that her dad had passed from a stroke when she was in high school. She’d told me after I’d bugged her about why she always volunteered to work holidays. There had never been a Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Father’s Day, or anything in between she didn’t work.

“Um, no,” she said, shutting down any more conversation on that topic with a raised brow.

I tunneled my fingers through my hair, amazed I hadn’t pulled out any clumps this past week for how often I’d been yanking on it. “What about your boyfriend? You told him yet?”

“Boyfriend is a gracious term.”

“So, what? You’re not together?” I asked because I couldn’t pretend I didn’t care anymore. Not when I could recall each and every thing she’d ever said about him, which hadn’t been a whole hell of a lot. It was casual. They’d split up and get back together every few months, about when I’d happen to find some young thing to occupy my attention.

“You know it’s more of a friends-with-benefits situationship.”

That’s right. I did know. “You don’t want to tie him down.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “I very much doubt he wants to be tied down.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged. This girl. Maddening. Offered only enough to make me more curious.

“What do you even like about him?”

She answered that easily enough. “He’s tall.”

I slapped my hand to my chest. “I’m tall.”

“He’s six-five tall .”

“I’m six-one.”

“I know math’s not your strong suit, but that’s a four-inch difference.”

I shot her a look. “So, his height? That’s what you like about him?”

“And he’s got blue eyes.”

I pointed at my eyes, and as if she knew I’d argue the point, she said, “He’s in finance.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He’s got money and a secure future.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” I circled my hand above my head to encompass the bar. “But we’re doing pretty well here. I’ve made good investments, and I’m opening up another location.”

Then I promptly shut the fuck up, realizing I was showing my hand. I had to stop talking, stop trying to prove I was the better choice.

Though, she didn’t seem to notice anyway, too busy arguing with me. “You don’t have security. This could all go up in smoke tomorrow.”

I waved off the concern. “And if it did, I’d be fine.”

When she didn’t respond, I sighed. “So, that’s it? His height, eyes, and his money all made you go, Hm, I think I’d like his sperm .”

She pursed her lips and clucked her tongue. Never a good sign. “Fuck you. Stop acting as if I would ever—” She stopped herself and blinked a few times, and shit.

“I’m sorry.” I bent down to eye level. “I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to make you feel bad about the situation. I’m sure Holden is perfectly nice.”

“Harrison.”

“Whatever.”

I handed her a tissue, which she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, smudging the bit of makeup she wore. Her normally golden tanned skin was sallower, and I wouldn’t bring it up now, but I planned on having groceries delivered to her house. Because this not-eating routine was going to stop now .

“Why haven’t you told him yet?”

She hunched over, her knees pressed tight together, fingers worrying the tissue. “I’m not sure.”

“Yeah, you are,” I said because she was cool under pressure, always level-headed and even-keeled. No, she wasn’t the type to laugh with strangers or make friends easily, but she was smart. And a planner. And so damn driven, there was no way she’d be avoiding this subject if not for a good reason.

Whatever that reason was, it killed me. Because it’d been visibly killing her .

She shook her head with a sniffle, and I lowered to my knees in front of her, placing my hands on either side of her legs. She didn’t push me away, so I chanced a caress of her kneecaps with my fingertips and told her the truth. Or at least, some of it.

“I’m worried about you. If you want to have this baby, I’ll back you one hundred percent. A thousand percent. But I need to know the truth from you.”

Yeah, I grasped the irony.

But I couldn’t tell her my actual truth now .

First, because she’d laugh in my face, and my ego couldn’t handle that. And, secondly, I doubted she’d ever believe me.

I waited her out instead.

“I’m scared,” she whispered eventually, and I took the tissue from her hands to wipe away the twin tears on her cheeks while attempting to rein in my temper. I was usually a pretty chill dude, but fuck with one of my people? My fuse wasn’t just short; it was nonexistent.

I ground my molars. “Of him ? Are you scared of him?”

“No. I’m scared of what could happen.” She pulled the elastic band out of her hair, letting down the shoulder-length locks, combing her hands through it a few times, like she needed something to do now that I’d taken the tissue from her.

I wiped it under her nose, and she huffed a watery laugh with a soft apology.

I didn’t like this. Tabitha didn’t apologize for much, so if she felt the need to, this was bad .

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

She took a few deep breaths, and after I tucked her hair behind her ears, I reached for my almost empty water bottle on the desk. “Drink this.”

She finished it off and then sat back in the chair, more clear-eyed, even as her nose remained pink at the tip. “Do you remember when you hired me?”

“Yes. Kinda. Why?”

“Do you remember what exactly happened?”

I furrowed my brow, not understanding what this had to do with anything, but I relayed what I recalled. “You were standing on the sidewalk when I walked by, and you asked if I worked here. I said I owned the place, and you asked me to hire you.”

A ghost of a smile crept across her lips. “You said you didn’t hire high schoolers.”

“Did I say that?” I pulled a face, and her shadow of a smile became a full-on grin.

“I told you I’d just turned nineteen and that I had a lot of references. I had experience working in restaurants.”

I snapped my fingers, remembering now. “And I said you could come back later so we could talk because you had on a Green Day shirt, and that meant you had good taste.”

She nodded. “That shirt belonged to my husband.”

I jerked my head back and then shook it. I must have heard her wrong. “What? Your husband ?”

She lost the humor in her features, her mouth smoothing back into its typical line, her dark eyes no longer glittering.

“I got married right out of high school, and no, I’m not gonna talk about that, but…” She crossed her legs and arms, as if she could keep out my concern. Or maybe hold in her emotions.

Probably both.

After a deep breath that made her shoulders rise and fall, she went on. “I was pregnant and so happy. We were both really…” She sniffed, eyes unfocused somewhere behind me. “I had an appointment for the ultrasound to find out if it was a boy or a girl.”

She paused again, and I dropped my chin to my chest. I didn’t need her to go on, but I thought she needed to.

“There was some movement, gentle kicks and pushes, but I didn’t think anything of it when I hadn’t felt them for a few days. Until I went in to the office. There was no heartbeat.”

I closed my eyes, the weight of her grief landing like a physical blow on me.

Her next words were remarkably calm, detached almost. “There was a knot in the umbilical cord. It’s rare, happens in fewer than one percent of pregnancies.”

I lifted my head to find her staring down at her hands, her fingers entwined, knuckles white. I wrapped my hands around hers, rubbing them, hoping to loosen their grip, and when she did, I placed her palms flat against each other, her fingers long and trapped between mine so she wouldn’t bind them together again. I brought her hands up, kissed the very tips of her fingers, uncaring about giving myself away when she needed comfort.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m so sorry you had to experience it.”

She brought her eyes to mine, and I could see straight through to her soul. This one tragedy did not define her, but it did help to form the woman in front of me. This incredibly strong and resilient woman who didn’t take any shit and never asked for any help, yet never failed to show up. Never let anyone or anything keep her down.

I admired her, but I doubted she’d want to hear that. “Thank you for telling me, and you don’t have to go through any of this alone. Whatever you want or need, you can have. I’ll make sure of it.”

She nodded, and I figured that was the best I’d get, so I stood up, towing her with me to hug her to my chest, my arms around her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled against my pec.

“Shh.” I petted the back of her head. “Let it happen.”

She laughed, a short, breathy sound, and eventually wrapped her arms around my torso, skimming her hands along either side of my spine to settle in the middle of my back, her fingers fisting the material of my T-shirt. I held her tighter, hoping she didn’t hear my heart hammering in my chest when she laid her ear against it.

“Give me a minute to lock up, and I’ll walk you out,” I told her once we finally released each other. She didn’t argue or put up a fight about how she didn’t need me to do that, and instead, she scrolled on her phone.

I locked the front door and met her at the back, happening to peek over her shoulder to see a rideshare app open. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a ride.”

“No.”

She whipped her head to me, but I covered her mouth with my hand before she could get one word out.

“You think I’m gonna let you get in a car with a stranger? Especially after you told me about your past and when I know you’re not in the right frame of mind? And why are you taking a car in the first place?”

She couldn’t answer with my palm over her mouth and rolled her eyes.

“You can’t ride your bike anymore, huh?”

She mumbled something, but I only dropped my hand after I stole her cell phone to cancel the ride with a stab of my thumb.

“I’m selling my bike so I can buy a car,” she told me.

“When are you doing that?”

She snatched her phone back and stomped out of the bar. “Tomorrow.”

I followed her, pointing at my car. She didn’t seem like she wanted to get in. Would rather take a frying pan to the head. Tempting.

I opened the passenger side door and all but tossed her inside. Even went so far as to buckle her seat belt myself.

She seethed silently as I took my seat behind the wheel, turning over the ignition.

“Who are you selling it to?” I asked, pumping the heat up and aiming the vents at Tabby.

“A guy I know through the motorcycle garage.”

“Do you know him well? How do you know he’s not a serial killer?”

“Because he’s a retired middle school teacher who looks like Bob Ross.”

“Not-so-happy accidents can happen with happy little trees.”

She rubbed at her forehead. “You are insufferable.”

“Where are you buying your car from? Do you have one picked out already? Have you test-driven?—”

“Nate, I don’t need you up in my business. I’m taking care of it.”

“You know you don’t have to, though, right? I’m all for you doing what you want, but you don’t have to.”

“I do, though,” she murmured, so I leaned over, leading with my ear to make sure I heard her correctly.

“You do, though?”

“I don’t have anyone else to do it for me, so…”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel because I was sitting right here next to her. I volunteered as tribute. But of course, she didn’t see it. She’d been on her own for so long, she’d probably lost the ability to ask for help or even recognize when she needed it.

“I’ve made my decision. I’m keeping the baby, and I can figure everything out on my own. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” I repeated in a grumble, stewing in my own frustration.

We spent the rest of the ride in silence, save for the nearly muted volume of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” Until I stopped in front of the little house I knew she shared with some grad student. I’d never been inside, but I could guess it was a piece of shit, like some of these college rentals were. Most likely full of busted tile and peeling paint.

“You know when this house was built?” I asked, and she shook her head.

“Seventies, I think.”

I hummed. They were still manufacturing lead paint in the 1970s. “You don’t have any weird symptoms? Vomiting, fatigue, joint pain…?”

“You’re basically describing pregnancy.”

I made a mental note to find out more information about this house, and I waited until she was safely ensconced inside before driving the few minutes to my place. Though, it was a few more hours until I finally finished my research on lead poisoning.

And yeah, she had to get the hell out of that house.