“Of course.”
“I mean, my parents earned their retirement gifts, and I’m happy for them. But . . . I don’t want to feel beholden to those people. I can take care of myself and my child. I don’t need them.” Libby’s voice was strained and nasal with tears but still held a firm note of defiance and anger.
“I get it,” Tina soothed. “You can stay with me until we figure out the rest, okay?”
“I need Clara’s things,” Libby cried, feeling totally despondent as she recognized that she couldn’t sever all ties completely yet. Not until she got everything she needed for her baby.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it,” Tina promised.
Something was wrong with this fucking whiskey. It wasn’t doing the job. Greyson glared at the nearly empty bottle bitterly before taking another swig from it, hoping that this time it would have the desired effect of wiping the image of Olivia’s tearful face from his memory. The liquor barely burned on the way down anymore, and he paused for a moment, giving it time to work, and then swore when he saw her face, clear as day. The confusion, followed by horror, and then an emotion that he had refused to acknowledge as pain at the time. Instead of dulling his senses, the whiskey was giving him clarity that he would rather not have. The pain and confusion on her beautiful face hadn’t been an act; he could see that now.
The absolute loathing that swiftly followed had also not been faked, and that memory more than any other drove him to finish the bottle before reaching for another.
There was banging coming from the front door, and he swore, resenting the intrusion.
“Fuck off!” he yelled in response to the thumping, but the intrusive asshole was persistent, and the banging only got louder. Swearing even more, he slammed the bottle of alcohol down onto the coffee table, staggered to his feet, and stumbled to the door. Apparently, the whiskey had succeeded in screwing up his motor skills if nothing else. He flung the door open and experienced a moment of sheer, unadulterated joy when he saw his brother standing there.
Could it be that Harris had forgiven him for the unforgivable?
“I’m here for some of Libby’s things,” Harris said, his grim face and voice immediately dispelling the notion that his brother was there to offer him absolution. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Greyson felt dread rising from the pit of his stomach.
“Why?” he asked stupidly, and Harris rewarded the question with an irritated glare.
“She’ll be staying with Tina for a while.”
“Not with you?” Was that really his voice? It sounded thick and slurred. Fucking whiskey. Leaving his brain as sharp as the proverbial tack while apparently negatively impacting every other aspect of his body.
“No, Greyson. Sorry not to confirm your disgusting and offensive suspicions about us, but no, she won’t be staying with me. I would be happy if she did, mind you . . . but apparently she’d rather not be around someone who looks like you right now.”
Greyson took the hit; he deserved that and much more. But it still stung like a son of a bitch.
“She can stay here. There’s plenty of space,” he said, knowing even as he said it that it was a ridiculous idea.
“Are you fucking joking? Why would she stay here? After everything you’ve accused her of?”
“I could move out.”
“Look, I haven’t even spoken with her. Tina called me.”
Greyson took a moment to absorb that information. “She did?” Martine Jenson quite understandably hated his brother’s guts. For her to voluntarily call him was a big deal.
“Yeah, Libby doesn’t want to speak with me, either, right now.” Harris fought hard to keep the hurt out of his voice, but even in his less-than-sober state, Greyson could tell Harris was bothered by that.
Jesus. He had cocked things up so badly there was very little chance of ever setting them to rights. He knew that. Months of seething resentment and anger, of treating his wife poorly. Of avoiding his brother and scrutinizing the man’s every interaction with Olivia through a haze of distrust and poisonous suspicions. Every smile, every touch, every comment between them filed away carefully for further inspection and then added to the growing list of reasons to detest them for betraying him.
He shook his head and came back to the present when Harris brushed by him and headed toward the nursery that Olivia had so lovingly decorated while always asking for—but never receiving—his help or advice.
“Can you pack a bag for Libby? I don’t want to go through her things.” Harris threw the question over his shoulder as he entered the nursery. Like Greyson needed any more proof that his brother and wife were not lovers. A man who had been intimate with a woman would think nothing of packing a bag for her.