“Have you heard from Trey?” I asked.
It was kind of miraculous how often Cary and I ended up in the same place at the same time. Or maybe it was a shared curse.
“He sent me a text saying he was thinking about me but wasn’t ready to talk yet.”
“Well, that’s something.”
His hand ran up and down my back. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m in the same place with Gideon. I think about him all the time, but I don’t have anything to say to him right now.”
“So what’s next? Where do you go from here? When do you decide you’ve got something more to say?”
I thought about that a minute, absently watching Harrison Ford hunt for answers in The Fugitive, which we had on mute. “When something changes, I guess.”
“When he changes, you mean. What if he doesn’t?”
I didn’t have that answer yet, and when I tried to think about it, I went a little crazy.
So I asked Cary a question instead. “I know you want to put the baby first and that’s the right thing to do. But Tatiana’s not happy. And you’re not, either. Trey’s definitely not. This isn’t working out for any of you. Have you thought about being with Trey and the two of you helping Tatiana with the baby?”
He snorted. “She’s not gonna go for that. If she’s miserable, everyone else has to be, too.”
“I don’t think that should be her choice to make. She’s as responsible for getting pregnant as you are. You don’t have to do some sort of penance, Cary.” I put my hand over the arm he had lying in his lap, my thumb brushing carefully over the fresh scars on his inner forearm. “Be happy with Trey. Make him happy. And if Tatiana can’t be happy with having two hot guys looking after her, then she’s . . . not doing something right.”
Cary laughed softly and pressed his lips to the crown of my head. “Solve your own problem that easily.”
“I wish I could.” I wished for that more than anything. But I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
And I feared it might be impossible.
—
THE vibration of my smartphone woke me.
When I realized what the buzzing was, I began searching blindly for my phone, my hands sliding around the bed until I found it. By then, I’d missed the call.
Squinting at the glaringly bright screen, I saw it was just past three A.M. and Gideon had called. My heart skipped as worry chased away sleep. Once again I’d gone to bed cradling my phone, unable to stop reading the many texts he had sent me.
I called him back.
“Angel,” he answered on the first ring, his voice hoarse.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. No.” He blew out his breath. “I had a nightmare.”
“Oh.” I blinked up at the canopy that I couldn’t see in the dark. My mother was a fan of blackout drapes, saying they were necessary in a city that was never truly dark. “I’m sorry.”
It was a lame reply, but what else could I say? It would be pointless to ask if he wanted to talk about it. He never did.
“I’m having them a lot lately,” he said wearily. “Every time I fall asleep.”
My heart hurt a little more. It seemed impossible that it could take so much pain, but there was always more. I’d learned that long ago.
“You’re stressed, Gideon. I’m not sleeping well, either.” And then, because it had to be said, “I miss you.”
“Eva . . .”