Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I thought maybe it was because of the pregnancy,” Harris confessed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“Initially, I did too. The first time we slept together was . . .” She hesitated, blushed, and then rolled her eyes at her own stupid embarrassment. “It was my first time. Don’t ask,” she forestalled him, lifting a hand when Harris frowned and looked like he was about to comment on that. “I was celibate and not on anything. He used a condom, but it broke. He didn’t seem overly concerned about it, but immediately after that he mentioned marriage. I figured it was because of the broken condom; I mean, before that night I had always believed that he felt nothing but indifference toward me. I brushed it off . . . but he kept asking. Even when it became evident that I wasn’t pregnant after that first mishap. I know I should have refused his proposal, but he made it seem—ugh, you know Greyson—he made it seem so logical. Like I’d be silly not to agree to his proposal.

“I hesitated at first, but the way he was—we were—together . . . it felt like something more, something real, was developing between us. It felt like a fairy tale, and I was a complete idiot for allowing my past infatuation to color my decisions. I bought into the ridiculous happily-ever-after fairy tale. I foolishly thought that maybe he harbored similar rose-colored visions of the future. I expected this perfect life with this perfect man, but it was nothing like what I imagined it would be. He worked long hours; he rarely confided in me or spent time with me. I mean, you saw what he was like, those evenings he’d come home while you were visiting. He’d be so surly and uncommunicative. Barely a hello before retreating to his study. We had our moments, but they were few and far between, and nonexistent after I told him about the baby.

“I was such an idiot. I was blinded by my own lust and infatuation. I think, realistically, I knew marrying him was a mistake. I knew I was being stupid, but I thought he liked me, that maybe he could love me. I can’t believe I actually thought we had a plausible reason for marriage. Hindsight tells me I was grasping at straws.”

She shook her head. Disgusted that she had been so stupid at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Stupid and embarrassingly naive.

“Now he says he can’t have children, and I-I’m just so confused. I don’t know why he pushed for marriage. I don’t know what he wanted or wants from me. All I know is that he seems to hate me. And I think—I’m sure, after tonight—I hate him.”

“I know he’s been a moody bastard lately,” Harris said. “More so than usual. He wouldn’t talk to me and has been picking arguments for no reason, but he wouldn’t fucking tell me what the problem is. But there must be something else going on. Let me talk to him and see what’s going on in that head of his. Don’t do anything rash until you’ve heard back from me.”

“Rash? I’m sorry, nothing I do now will be rash . . . he spent the last seven months thinking the absolute worst of me. He never let on, he made me believe that we had something real . . .”

Only he hadn’t. Not really. The first two months of their marriage hadn’t been perfect, but she had told herself they needed to get used to each other, used to married life. It had felt like the start of something potentially good. But now, looking back on that promising beginning, she realized that it had only been sex. Lots and lots of really hot sex. The times not spent in bed, he’d been at work, and they had rarely had any meaningful conversation.

Libby had always known that he was naturally reticent; Greyson had never been one to let anyone—even his own twin—close. He was buttoned down and closed in. She had figured it would take time for him to get used to the idea of having her around, having a mate he could share his thoughts and feelings with.

And then the last seven months, after she’d announced her pregnancy, had been completely joyless and frigid, without even sex to foster the impression of closeness. Now that she thought back on it, she considered all those moments she had spoken to him about the baby, consulted him—despite his blatant lack of interest—on nursery decor, urged him to consider names. She remembered the missed ob-gyn appointments, that first ultrasound test (the one Tina had attended with her), and the scary fall after which she’d started spotting. Her parents, Tina, Harris—even her less-than-friendly mother-in-law, Constance, for heaven’s sake—those people had been there for her. Greyson hadn’t.