It’s black and tight without being obscene and it looks better on my massive bump than I’d imagined it could. I’m no Giselle but even I have to admit I don’t look atrocious.
I’m ready and hoping and praying and so nervous I’ve been chewing antacids since the clock hit seven with no sign of him.
I wait, putting my swollen feet up and listening for the door. The first hour I am jumpy and anxious and pathetically giddy, thinking that if God’s listening and watching he’ll cut me some slack and give me a little something to work with.
The second hour sees me reheating the food, convinced that he’ll walk in any minute and be apologetic for his tardiness-I had called him and left a voicemail after all.
By twelve the candles are burned down to nubs and my nose is red and raw from constantly wiping it on my sleeve. By twelve fifteen I feel my insides harden to that numbness I’d walked around with for weeks after Logan had left and refused to talk to me.
I feel just as, if not more bereft now than I did then because just as I had then I have to accept this defeat and swallow my protests. This isn’t going to work. I’ve fucked it all up.
The candles eventually sputter and sizzle before going out and plunging the room into darkness and still I sit there, my skin cold and hard despite the heat of the late summer air.
The front door opens and closes and I hear him mutter a curse and for some reason I lose all the lonely, depressing feelings that have taken hold, just happy that he’s here so I can finally say what I need to.
I’ve written it all down in case I get too choked up to finish, sort of like my gift to him silly as that may seem. It’s my heart poured out and open, me at my rawest and I just hope it makes the difference.
I spring to my feet, no easy feat with my burden, and scuttle to the hall, a bright smile plastered on my face.
“Oh hey, there you are I-”
I freeze and stop talking when I hear a feminine giggle and a muttered curse before the light flares on to reveal Devon and a very blonde, lean bombshell hanging all over him, her red lipstick plastered on his face, neck and the stubble at his chin.
They’re…I can’t speak as his eyes come down to rest on me, taking in my dress and upswept hair. The makeup I’d painstakingly applied. My swollen ankles and the perfume he loves so much as it swirls in the air around us.
“Oh Devon baby, who’s the girl. My God, are you carrying triplets? How do you fit through a door honey?” The blonde laughs, draping herself all over him.
Devon I noticed isn’t too affected by the insults thrown my way, or by the fact that he’s being pawed by the ditzy whore as I stand there in silent mortification, battling tears that I swear I won’t shed.
“Rebecca. What are you doing up?” he asks slowly, his eyes drilling into me with a frown that’s even worse than the scowl lining MissHooker's face.
She’s obviously not too impressed by the interruption if the downward curve of her mouth is any indication. But I really don’t give a shit right now. Right now I feel like the worst of fools and…
“Nothing. I, uh got in late.” I lie, my voice a choked rasp in the room. “Don’t let me interrupt; I’m off to bed as soon as I get a drink.”
More like outta here as soon as you leave so that you don’t see me crying like a sap, I think, smiling brightly despite the knife twisting in my gut.
He nods and grabs the blonde by the ass, his hands hoisting her up as he strides to the stairs and takes three steps before turning back to look at me over his shoulder.
God, I really wish he would just go so that I don’t have to compare the ease with which he lifts her skinny ass of the way she’s sucking on his neck or the way he’s looking at me as if the hurt he knows I feel doesn’t matter at all.
“We’ll try to keep it down.”
I ignore him and turn away, doing my best to keep myself from sobbing as I hear him take the stairs before his door slams shut and locks and a squeal echoes down.
This is it then.
“Sorry kid. I think we’re gonna have to call this one.” I whisper, waiting a minute to make sure he’s occupied before grabbing my purse and keys and tiptoeing out of the house and to my car.
I won’t be coming back.
Chapter Thirty Three
“Would you stop pushing the food around on your plate and say something sugarplum. Please? For daddy?”
“Dad, look-”
“No you look. You’ve been running yourself ragged all week getting stuff for the baby and making sure the house is spotless. Now I know you’re just anxious and that you feel a little down Beck, but you gotta snap out of it and start returning that boy’s phone calls.” He snaps, slamming a hand down on the table.