Plus, as shameful as it sounds, I can't help wanting validation. I know. Pathetic, right?
When Duncan told me about Maverick, all I could think about was Harloe and Owen. About how he told me they slept together, describing the little noise she made whenever it felt just right.
I thought about them sneaking around behind my back, in every possible position known to man, and I flipped out on her. Couldn't help it. She'd always been mine, and then ... she just wasn't.
Even with the knowledge that Harloe's never lied to me before—that she detests liars as much as I do—I allowed my anger to get the best of me and said some hateful things. Stuff I can never take back. And fuck, I don't know. It's messing with me something fierce.
I'm not perfect. No one is.
Which is the realization I came to regarding Harloe, all the while I was waiting for her to figure out I'd fucked with her essay in Professor Erikson's class. I didn't, really. I'd never do something as vile as that. But since she hadn't even tried to tell me, even though I knew she had Maverick in that apartment with her, I had to do something.
My first thought was to storm into the apartment and demand answers like Duncan accused me of wanting to do. I'd rather eat dog food than to prove that asshole right. So, I got crafty. I hit her where it hurts—or so she believes. And it got me what I wanted in the end.
Her showing up on my doorstep blistering mad and spurring for a fight.
Took her long enough, though. But with her taking so long to figure it out, it gave me a chance to stop and think about my actions. It gave me a chance to actually sift through all the bullshit and get to the heart of the problem.
The problem was never her.
The heart of the problem is me.
I'm one hundred percent human, and I'm allowed to make mistakes every now and then. Then again, so can everyone else.
Yes, I do still have that doubt she's telling me the truth because Owen had fucking proof. He has proof of the infidelity. But even with the proof, I found myself wanting to believe her. Actually, needing the validation that it wasn't true. That's when I came up with the paternity, hoping to either scare her into admitting it or to frightening Owen into telling the truth.
Then again, why go to the trouble of faking pictures? Why go through the trouble of breaking Harloe and me up, making me into an asshole and her miserable? Owen may be an asshole, but he doesn't do anything unless it's warranted. That's how I used to be before I turned cynical.
Still, with the texts and pictures Owen showed me, to the fact that Harloe and I were never together unprotected, my mind goes in the same direction no matter how I look at it.
I told her my brother had proof, but I never explained what kind of proof he had. Instead, our conversation was cut short by Erikson, and I didn't get to speak to her more on the topic.
If I were a stronger man, I'd grab this situation by the goddamn balls and wrangle it into submission. I'd get to the bottom of this, once and for all, so nothing more can be said about it.
Bringing up the past, especially one filled with so much sadness and pain as ours does no one any good. Even if I can't stop thinking about the person who caused it all to begin with. What's even worse? I can't stop fucking loving her.
Sighing, I give her a blank stare. "Are you going to open the door, or do I have to go through you?"
I see the moment her resolve crumbles, and she realizes this is happening, whether she likes it or not. Pain practically rolls off her in waves, causing tightness to enter my chest. Putting that look on her face does nothing for me anymore. All it does is cause more pain when we're already shredded and bleeding.
With a nod of her head, she gives me a warning look that silently screams, “watch what you say” before opening the door and disappearing inside.
A sudden case of the butterflies starts to flutter around in my stomach. Placing a hand over it as if to gain control, I stand there like a frightened child. What if he doesn't like me? What if he doesn't want to know me? My mind whirls with those thoughts for so long, I hardly notice when Harloe sticks her head back through the doorway.
"You coming or what?" she asks as if this is an everyday thing.
It's not. I could be meeting my son for the first time, and I don't even know if I can claim the title of dad or not. I really fucking hate this shit.
"I-I—" I stammer, and by the way her eyes soften, it looks like she finally gets it.
Her head leans against the door frame, regarding me curiously. "You weren't trying to be an asshole earlier, were you?"
I shake my head.
She licks her lips. "Is that, like, your default setting now? Should I, I don’t know, get used to you being like that?"
Unable to help myself, I smirk. "Something like that. Definitely not the same guy I was in high school."
A flash of pain washes over her features, but instead of saying anything about it or starting another fight, she leans to the side, saying, "Yeah, I gathered. Hunter, I'd prefer it if you didn't tell him who you are. Just say you're ... "
"A friend?" I question. But that's a fucking lie.
She releases a breath, shrugging. "That's all I got."
I nod like I understand, even though I haven't the slightest clue. Harloe and I began as friends, then turned lovers, then enemies, and now... what are we? Too intimate to be acquaintances, but too distant to be anything more.
This is all so confusing.
Furthermore, I need to get this over and done with. The faster I rip this band-aid off, the sooner I can try to maneuver my way through everything and figure out a plan.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, much like it has for the last several hours. I already know who it is but can't even be fucked to answer. She'll get the drift sooner or later.
Plus, I have enough on my plate right now. With that in mind, I just go for it. Heading through the opening, I instantly feel that connection. I don't even see him, but I can practically feel him like he's a visceral part of me, burrowed beneath my skin.
Not that I even want to.
Forcing my feet to move forward, I slowly close the door behind me as my eyes bounce all over the place. I can't stay fixed on any one thing as I take in the toys scattered around the living room, the trash can doohickey I've seen some people use for diapers over by the other trash can, and right there, in the middle of a giant spread of pillows is ... my little man.
Tears burn the back of my eyes and nose, and I try to hold everything inside. I see his little tuft of unruly hair and a chubby little arm thrown over a pillow. I step closer, my heart beating a mile a minute in my chest as I take in his sleeping form.
"Fuck," I can't help but whisper. "He's so beautiful."
I hear a sniffle from my right and tear my gaze away long enough to see tears trekking down Harloe's cheeks as she stares between Maverick and me. What she sees in my eyes causes her body to shudder as she cries even harder. But I can't be bothered, as my attention feels like it's tied to a bungee cord, and it comes right back to him.
Jenna stands behind the couch, protective hands clasping the back of it. My eyes flick to hers before returning to him. I can't seem to get enough. No matter what new things have appeared since last I've been in this apartment, he's the most magnificent of them all.