“You ever think that she wants it too? Women are fucking insane, man—resilient, driven, they barely need us,” he laughs. “Don’t think for one second that she can’t run a business, have a baby, and kick ass harder than you or I ever could.”
I feel more guilt creep in that I did doubt that.
“You can’t take away her choices and make decisions on her behalf just to alleviate some made-up guilt you have.” He looks at me sincerely and I kind of want to punch him right now.
“Jesus, how the hell did you get so damn insightful?” I down the last of the scotch and place the glass on the bar.
“Been through some shit, man.”
“So what you’re saying is, I should just lay it all out there to her? Tell her I want a baby with her—the fucking sun, moon, and stars and all that?” I can’t believe I’m a 38-year-old man who can’t seem to get my shit together.
“Pump the brakes. You need to take some time to think through everything, apart from what you wanted in that moment when it was all fresh . . . and make no mistake, it’s still fresh. Just focus on being a friend to her right now. Show her that it’s not hopeless between you two. Basically demonstrate that you’re not just an impulsive asshole who just wants to keep her because you’re scared to lose her.”
I stare at him for a few seconds. “And don’t ask me how to do that,” he adds on.
“So you going to tell me?” I ask.
“Tell you what?”
“Who fucked you over. The one who got away?” I smile at how he’s trying to play it off, but my smile quickly fades when I see his expression go from questioning to pained. “Shit, sorry man, we don’t have to—”
“She was my wife. She was pregnant, actually. Died in a car crash.”
“Ah, fuck, man.” I shake my head and he assures me it’s fine.
“It’s in the past. Anyway, I hope I was able to help, even if it was just to listen. Women are a complicated, amazing, and sometimes so goddamn infuriating species.”
I reach into my pocket, my thumb running over the screen of my phone, and I question if I should send a text to Leigh. I have no idea what I’d tell her. I know I should take my time to think through things—to give her the space she needs—but the thought of losing her without telling her how I feel tears at my chest.
“You mind giving me a ride home? I think I overindulged,” I say, tapping my glass.
I thank Ryder for the ride home and make my way into my house. I grab the bottle of Macallan off the wet bar along with a tumbler and open the sliding glass door to sit on the deck beneath the stars.
I think through what it is I really want in life. It isn’t fair for me to jump into another serious relationship without actually thinking about what that kind of commitment means.
I long for the kind of marriage my parents had—the honesty and respect, the passion they tried to hide from me behind closed doors—but it was evident all over their faces when they looked at each other.
I lean back in the Adirondack chair, the crisp mountain air filling my lungs. I close my eyes, imagining my hand wrapped around Leigh’s. I imagine holding her, looking in her eyes, and seeing my entire future. I see myself growing old with her. I see myself running my hands down her arms and around her front, cradling her swollen belly that’s growing our baby.
The images are visceral and my body responds to thoughts of her naked—pregnant with my seed. The caveman in me wants to rip off my shirt and pound on my chest to let the world know that she’s mine.
Against my better judgment, I reach into my pocket again, pulling my phone out and typing a message to Leigh.
Me: Leigh, I know that I don’t deserve for you to respond or even read this, but I’m not giving up on us. I know I hurt you, but I never meant to. I never meant that I didn’t want you. I just need time to sort my feelings and get my head right before I can be the man you want . . . the man you need. Please don’t give up on us, or me. Xo, Grant.
I hit SEND and shove the phone back in my pocket.
17
Leigh
I stare at the message from Grant, my heart about to thud out of my chest. I’ve read and reread it about 10 times since it came through last night, but I haven’t responded. I plan to. I’m not going to leave him on read forever, but I can’t wrap my head around it right now.
“Leigh, where do you want this?”
I spin around to see Sawyer and Ryder holding the custom bench I ordered, complete with small cubbies on the bottom. I point to the front of the room.
“Just beneath that window.”
Since I came back from Vegas, things have been moving at a relatively quick pace. I ended up going with Sawyer for half of the custom furniture and cabinets for the studio, and my guy back in Boulder is doing the other half so we can hit our deadlines.
The place is bustling. Sawyer and Ryder are bringing in a few of the major pieces, and the rest of the furniture and cabinets will be done by the end of next week.
“Leigh, you’ve got a delivery!” I hear August shout from outside.
Remi is also here, putting in a few recessed dimmable lights in the two studios as well as some vanity lights in the bathrooms.
I step outside. “Leigh Brooks?” the delivery driver asks.
“That’s me,” I smile as he hands me an electronic pad to sign. He jumps into the back of the truck and grabs several large boxes.
“What is all this stuff?” August asks as he drags the boxes inside.
“The equipment. Mostly the mats, weights, balls, etcetera, but I think it’s also the Pilates carriages. I’ve got a few of the larger Cadillac versions coming in another week or two. They were backordered, so I’m praying they’re here in time.” I hold up my crossed fingers.
“Still on track to open next month?”
I nod, anxiety tightening my throat as I think about all the things I still have to get done.
“Better be, because I already sent out the soft-launch invitations.” The plan is to have a small mixer to show the place off and get the word out about our actual grand opening a week later. We’ll have some raffles and pre-launch special pricing.
A few hours later, the guys and August have left and I begin to unpack the supplies that came in today. I think about the text from Grant. I know I owe him a response, but right now, I have mixed emotions.
I’ll admit, my heart did a little backflip when I first read the message. To know that he didn’t just want to walk away from us was reassuring and exciting, but I’d be lying if I said my ego didn’t take a hit with his rejection. I don’t want to throw away a chance at true happiness just because he couldn’t see what was in front of him right away, but what if at the end of this soul-searching, he decides I’m not what he wants after all?
My heart sinks. I pull out my phone and open the message again—typing out a few different responses then deleting them. I finally settle on a vague response that doesn’t say a whole lot of anything.
Me: Thanks for the message. Sorry I didn’t respond right away. I wanted to think through my feelings before sending anything. That being said, I don’t know how I feel right now. I want you to be happy, Grant, even if that means you move on without me. I wish you all the best in following your heart. —Leigh