No insulting theories, no lessons on perspective, and no teasing touches or stolen kisses to speak of.
Basically, we were all kinds of off.
Reed and I didn’t do small talk. When we conversed, it was about more than the fucking temperature and fog index. It was deep and all-encompassing, and the emotion behind it was truthful even when the words were lies.
This was an almost frightening version of the opposite. Fake smiles and guarded emotion, the two of us danced around each other like strangers. The truth was, there’d been more emotional closeness when I’d hated the son of a bitch.
I wasn’t sure if it was him or me causing the weirdness—or maybe it was both.
I couldn’t deny the wheels of my brain had been spinning overtime since my revelation of love had occurred on his bed. There had been several times throughout dinner that I’d had the urge to yell out a cheesy declaration, but thankfully, stopped myself from doing it with a mouthful of garlic bread. Most people didn’t want to be sprayed in the face with soggy breadcrumbs while hearing I love you for the first time.
But he’d been acting a little strange since I had shown up at his apartment too, and I wondered if it had something to do with his old college buddy.
I let my gaze wander toward him and took in his furrowed brow and the firm line of his normally relaxed lips. His eyes stayed fixated toward the TV as he clicked mindlessly through the channels. I honestly wasn’t sure if he really even noticed my presence or the fact that I was staring at him. He was completely in his own world.
Yeah. Something’s gotta give here…
Things were not right.
My gut instinct told me it had nothing to do with me or my feelings and had everything to do with Reed.
“So…” I ventured, unsure of how to bring up the elephant in the room or if I was even welcome to notice it. Still, Reed’s mood was half completely him, half lost in thought. I wasn’t sure how to keep up, and it was throwing me off my normal game.
I was mentioning it whether I was supposed to or not.
“So?” he asked, clicking the toggle on the remote far too quickly for my liking.
“So,” I started again, putting my hand over his to stop his TV terror. “Brandon?”
Reed smirked at my inquisition, but his face quickly faded at the subject.
“He’s getting a divorce.”
“Are you serious?” I questioned for clarification even though I knew this wasn’t the kind of thing Reed would ever lie about. There was a playful time and place for his lies, and the look on his face alone proved there wasn’t anything amusing about this.
“Sadly, I am serious.”
Sorrow settled around my eyes and weighted the area above my heart. “Holy hell. He had a toddler.”
“Yeah.”
Jesus. All at once, the puzzle pieces started to fall into place.
His friend had looked sad, and not just a little sad, but that soul-aching kind of sadness that no matter how hard you tried to put on a good face for the rest of the world, it still arrested every beat of your heart below the surface. It was the kind of sadness you couldn’t completely hide because it was always there, seeping from your eyes, lacing your words, and drowning your smiles.
Poor Brandon. It was one thing to have to deal with the end of a relationship—a marriage—but it was a whole other level of devastation when a small child was involved.
That information had turned me speechless, and silence just kind of settled over us after that. I found myself lost in the gravity of the moment, and it wasn’t until Reed’s amused eyes caught my attention and I followed his gaze to my exposed abdomen that I realized I had unknowingly lifted up my shirt and was now mindlessly patting my stomach.
I blamed the Italian food. It was safe to say I was about three months pregnant with a food baby named Pasta.
Reed grinned and I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t smile at the food baby.”
“It’s cute.”
“It is not cute,” I refuted on a sigh.
He winked. “It’s fucking adorable.”
“Pasta is not adorable. He’s huge.”
“Aw,” he cooed and rubbed my belly. “Hello, little Pasta.”
I slapped his hands away in annoyance, but I couldn’t fight the smile making a bid to consume my face.
“What do you and little Pasta feel like watching?”
I scratched the side of my face with my middle finger, but he just chuckled.
He continued flipping through the channels until he stopped on an episode of the Golden Girls. “How about the Golden Girls? Can’t go wrong with Betty White.”
“Betty’s great, but Sophia is my favorite,” I said and then remembered my second reason for stopping by Reed’s apartment with the same surprise intensity as an asteroid striking the earth. “Shit! I almost forgot!” I hopped off the couch and grabbed my laptop bag from the entry.