No, that wasn’t it.
It was career vs. career, and it wasn’t fucking fair.
“How are the boys?” I asked, desperate for any detail of his life. “Hendrix still up to no good?”
“Yeah, we went out last night,” he said, and my stomach dropped. I smoothed my hand over the large bump instinctively.
“You went out with Hendrix?”
“Yep,” Nixon’s lips popped on the word, and I swallowed a mouthful of acid. Going out with Hendrix usually equated to extravagant clubs, and plenty of women willingly draping themselves all over him…and his companions.
“Did you have a good time?” I asked, unable to keep the hollowness from my voice.
“Are you serious?” There was a growl to his tone I couldn’t help but miss. Nixon’s rough edges were one of the first things that had me falling head over heels for him.
I shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
He raked his palms over his face, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t have a good time. Because you’re not here. Because the mother of my child is half a world away and she can’t sleep, and I have no idea if she’s eating well or if there are poisonous insects close to her living quarters. Or if the water is clean enough for her to drink. I have no control over the situation, no way of protecting you or my baby. So, no, going out for a few drinks and listening to some music was not as fun as it should’ve been.”
Tears welled in my eyes, that hole in my chest cracking another degree. “Nixon, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t ever want to put you through this.”
He blew out a breath. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”
“You should,” I said, imploring. “I want you to talk to me. To be honest with me. I don’t want you to push me away.”
He groaned. “And I didn't want you to run away from me. Remember that?” he asked, his eyes heavy. “You said you wouldn’t run.”
“You promised you wouldn’t, either.” I could barely get the words out, my heart aching at the pain in his eyes.
“And look where we are.”
The silence settled between us, neither one of us having a solution. A month hadn’t helped us figure this out, and I wasn’t sure if there would ever be a way out of the mess we’d tangled ourselves in.
But, there was one thing I knew with absolute clarity.
“I love you, Nixon,” I said, having nothing else to give him but that single truth.
A heavy sigh rushed past his lips as he moved and reached for the keyboard. “You have no idea how much I wish it was enough.” He clicked, and the screen went black.
I shut my laptop with shaking fingers, the sobs wracking my body in waves.
This was my dream life?
This pain, this aching hurt, this half-awake living?
I’d told countless friends and prospective clients to chase their own happiness, and the rest of their lives would fall into place around that singular goal.
Was I happy here? Sure, to some degree. But not in the way that likely benefited anyone in the way it would if I was complete, whole, healthy—both mentally and physically.
Nixon had been a mirror image on that screen—empty and aching and raw.
I’d put that ocean between us, shattering us.
And I wasn’t sure how the hell I was going to cross it to put our broken pieces back together again.
19
Nixon
I rubbed the back of my aching neck as I climbed up the stairs toward our—my—bedroom. Was I really so whipped that I still thought of it as ours even though she’d been gone over a month? Yes, yes I was.
After the hit I’d taken in the fourth quarter, I’d been ordered to soak in the tub, but I just couldn’t handle the emotional hit of that room, not until I was too exhausted to see straight, and even then I wasn’t sleeping. There was too much of Liberty in there…and not nearly enough. She’d looked so tired when we’d talked yesterday. She’d looked almost as miserable as I felt.
“Honey, are you sure I can’t make you a sandwich?” Mom called up the stairs. The second she’d heard what had happened, she and Dad had driven down. They hadn’t even warned me they were coming. They’d simply shown up on the doorstep—Mom looking worried as hell and Dad studying me like I was one tackle away from dying. To him, I probably was. As much as I’d held it together when Liberty walked out, I damn-near lost it at the sight of that truck in the driveway. He’d driven the one I’d bought him.
“I’m good, Mom,” I answered. “But thank you.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Dad muttered. “You can’t fix a broken heart with a turkey sandwich.”
“You’re right,” I heard Mom answer thoughtfully. “I’d better make some chicken soup.”
“Not my point, love,” Dad responded, his voice fading as I walked into the nursery.
I shut the door, then leaned against the wall beside it and let my body slide down until my ass hit the ground.
At least she’ll get to spend some of her time out of this paparazzi-filled fishbowl you call a life. Liberty’s words were a shot across the bow because they were true.
I’d decorated my daughter’s nursery with maps of the world so she could plan her adventures, but her mother was trying to raise her in a world that came with adventures included. Take away the disease, the bugs, the war-torn countries, and general danger that accompanied those adventures, and I’d almost have to admit that maybe Liberty had it right.
But right or wrong, she sure as hell had my daughter…and my heart, if the thing still existed. I felt hollow, like someone had come along and scooped out everything inside me that was capable of producing an emotion and left me this hulk of a shell.
I fucking missed her. I missed her laugh and her smile. I missed the mess she left in her wake—the scattered books and forgotten dishes. I missed the scent of her hair and the feel of her in my arms. I longed to hear the way she’d gasp when I put my hands on her, and see the look in her eyes right before she came—that little jolt of surprise and wonder. I even missed the way she’d call me on my bullshit. I missed everything about Liberty.
And the worst? I ached to feel our baby kick at the sound of my voice. Did she think I’d abandoned her? I lifted my knees and put my face in my hands.
The door opened, and I bit my tongue to keep from snapping at Mom. It was pretty fucking amazing that they’d dropped everything and come. I just wasn’t ready to talk about it.
The door shut and someone joined me against the wall.
“Sitting in here isn’t going to bring her back,” Roman said softly, raising his knees to mirror my position.
“Short of turning myself into a third-world country in desperate need of mental healthcare, I’m not sure there’s much that will.” I let my head fall back against the wall.
“Then go after her.” He elbowed me. “Get off your ass and go get your woman.”
I gave him a good glare. “It’s not that easy. We’re in the middle of the fucking season.”
“And that’s your biggest problem?” He shook his head. “You have more money than you’ll ever need. You’ve never given a shit about public opinion, so fuck it. Go get her.”