Just like she knew what the word wanted meant. Not want. Wanted.
Used to, but don’t anymore.
She threw on her shirt, and once it cleared her face, he was there, standing only inches away.
“Where is it you’re rushing off to? For something private?”
“Riverhead.”
“What the fuck’s in Riverhead that’s so important?” he accused. “Or should I ask, who?”
His tone held such suspicion she paused.
“You wouldn’t know, would you, Jameson?” Looking away, she slipped on her heels, mumbling under her breath. “You have no idea who’s so important.”
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
She sucked in a breath and turned to stare at him.
“It’s that fucking guy, right?” He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. His common response to stress. “That Wyatt dude.”
“Oh, please.”
“Don’t, oh please, me. You just jumped out of my bed. Now you’re ready for his?”
Scoffing, Chloe headed for the study where she left her purse and keys, Jameson right on her heels.
“You think he’s okay with my sloppy seconds?”
“Jesus, Jameson, relax before you say something truly vulgar,” she said over her shoulder. “There’s no need for jealousy.”
“I’m not jealous,” he sneered, as if the possibility appalled him. “But riddle me this, cupcake.”
Only he didn’t say it nicely. Cupcake.
He said it like a four-letter word. Again.
“Riddle you what?” Her purse and keys in hand, she stopped at the front door and looked at him. This man she loved so much, even after so much.
“If you really wanted that one special baby, why’d you have an abortion?”
Silence.
And then Chloe laughed. She actually laughed.
That was how preposterous the accusation was.
“You think it’s funny?” His cheeks ruddy, he stood there with utter contempt in his eyes. “To kill my kid?”
It took a full five seconds of shocked assessment for her to realize . . . he wasn’t making a sick joke.
He was serious.
“Get out.” Her voice was remarkably calm when everything inside her raged like a suddenly spun up tornado. “Let me make myself clear. Get out of my house, right now.”
Each word was succinct, and over-enunciated so as not to cause him confusion.
Not surprisingly, he disobeyed her order.
Didn’t move an inch, in fact.
“If you are not gone, and I mean ‘vacate the premises, off my fucking property never to return’ kind of gone, I will call the sheriff. Charge you with trespassing and every other violation I can think of.”
She opened the front door, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the action, the sun catching the dust floating in the air when she paused.
“And don’t ever come back here, Jameson.” Her back to him, she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t look at him. Not after that. “You should’ve stayed gone.”
“No problem, cupcake. I was leaving anyway.” And then he did.
She felt him walk away from her. Again.
His easy departure was as devastating today as it was ten years ago. The only difference?
Today, he left one.
Then, he left two.
The local police were asleep at the wheel.
If they were on the job, they would’ve busted a distracted driver doing twenty over the speed limit, tears streaming down her face and rage ranting from her mouth, probably running every red light and stop sign the entire way to Riverhead.
Because Chloe pulled into the parking lot thirty minutes later, in a daze.
No damn idea how she got there.
The lot had several other cars, mostly minivans and SUVs, families visiting the neighborhood park on a sunny weekday afternoon.
Quickly fixing her face in the visor mirror, she ran a tissue over her smeared mascara and tear-stained cheeks. Powdered up a bit. Not to impress, mind you. Just so she didn’t scare the tweens playing a heated game of tetherball or the toddler scooting down a plastic slide, her babysitter at the bottom, arms out.
Grabbing her phone but leaving her purse behind, she locked her car and walked toward the little league-sized baseball diamond adjacent to the metal swings and monkey bars.
Several people sat on the aluminum bleachers watching the team during their afternoon practice, mostly parents, she assumed, and a few other students from the nearby elementary school.
But not her.
Instead, she stood to the left of home plate, far enough back to be partially hidden by those bleachers—and any spectators sitting in them—and well away from the protective screen wrapping the baseline from third to first.
Nobody on the field really noticed her.
She could be a passerby out on an afternoon walk, stopping to watch the coach teach the pitcher how to throw a slider. A random cross-fitter, taking a break from her park bench push-ups to hydrate.
A lurker in professional business attire, who drove from one town over each week to get a rare, precious glimpse of him in his natural environment. Without threat of exposure or fear of persecution.
But Wyatt noticed her. He always did.
And gave her a long look of concern from his spot at third base, several yards from where she stood. Her wrinkled clothes and splotchy face were not typical.
When he tilted his head in question, flashing her an alternating thumbs up and thumbs down, she smiled.
And gave him a false thumbs up.
Taking that as the truth—because Chloe had never lied to him before—he returned to his task, showing the dark-haired boy next to him how to catch a quick throw from the pitcher, then swoop his glove down to tag out the base stealer’s cleat.
It only took a few attempts before the boy perfected his moves, repeating the process over and over. Practice he’d put to use in their next game, scheduled for this Saturday.
A game she would not attend. Because she was not allowed.
“Isn’t this a tender moment?”
Chloe jumped at the snarling comment, but Jameson wasn’t looking at her. He was looking out over the field, his chiseled profile accented with mirrored aviators.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, her gaze darting around to see who else had noticed him.
He was a noticeable man.
“Curiosity.”
“You followed me?” Panic laced her tone.
“Just for shits and grins,” he replied, but he wasn’t grinning.
In fact, he was glaring. First at Wyatt, who’d yet to notice him, then at her. Taking his sunglasses off, his eyes pinned her.
“I hate to be graphic, but since I’m not in the presence of a lady, I’ll forgo the polite way to say this. You haven’t even taken a shower yet, and you’re already moving on to your next man. You still have my cum all over you. Inside you. And now you’re gonna be with him?” He tilted his chin toward the field then smirked. “Ballsy.”
Her head pounded in time with her heart. “You are vile.”
Slut-shaming was fine and dandy, if it were true.
But she wasn’t a slut.
“You see that person standing out there?” She pointed to third base.
“Yeah. Wyatt something or other,” he sneered. “The lucky guy who’s nabbed you. Poor bastard.”