Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

It had been hard not to miss Tina’s reaction to Clara during those first four weeks when they had shared a space. She had happily helped Libby with everything else but had never offered to hold the baby, or change her, or do anything that involved direct interaction with Clara. It was abundantly clear that her friend—who had once considered becoming an obstetrician—was not comfortable around Clara. But Libby had given Tina’s behavior a little more consideration after moving in with Chris. The other woman had given up her home to a constantly crying newborn and her emotionally wrecked best friend. With everything going on, of course it must have been difficult for her to adjust. Clara was older now, starting to develop a distinct personality, and she was a complete delight to be around. Libby felt certain that with their situation being less fraught, Tina would finally have the opportunity to enjoy Clara. It would just take some time.

“We’ll be okay, Tina. The bedroom is fine, so’s the bathroom . . .” Well, it would be if she could just get the freaking plumber to come and sort out the pipes. But the guy was proving hard to pin down. Libby was tempted to google the solution and try her hand at plumbing. But she knew that would only exacerbate the problem.

Libby had painted the bedroom and scrubbed it from floor to ceiling a week ago, after the transfer had been completed. She’d bought a single bed for her, and happily—thanks to Harris and Tina—Clara had a crib and anything else a baby could possibly need.

Also, her parents sent way too many clothes and toys. Spoiling their first grandchild the only way they currently knew how. As did Greyson’s parents, in addition to Harris, Tina, and Chris.

Libby felt overwhelmingly guilty about excluding her parents and about the fact that she knew Harris and his parents would like more of a presence in Clara’s life. Harris had been trying to arrange a visit for months, but Libby tended to avoid his calls, keeping their correspondence limited to text messages instead. Sending him pics of her life and her baby every day. She knew that Harris was concerned; he kept asking if she was all right, to which Libby only ever responded that she and Clara were both okay.

Constance and Truman Chapman had visited them while they were staying at Tina’s. That had been predictably awkward. But the older couple had lavished attention on Clara, clearly enamored with her. After Libby had moved to the Garden Route, Constance had messaged her once only, a tersely worded missive asking if she and the baby needed anything. Libby had politely thanked her and told her they were both fine. It hadn’t deterred them from sending numerous care packages.

Greyson, of course, hadn’t attempted to call or text her. Not once. And though she told herself that she didn’t care, that still hurt like hell.

Greyson had been strictly rationing himself. No more than one look a day. It was all he deserved. As such, the innocuous-looking manila folder remained firmly closed and tauntingly perched on the edge of his desk. He had put it there, of course; having recently discovered a masochistic bent within himself, he had placed the folder just within eyesight, perfectly straight, its edges not touching any other piece of stationery on the large walnut desk. He couldn’t open it yet. Not for another hour.

His phone chimed, and he glanced at it and shut his eyes for a moment when he saw his brother’s name on the screen. He knew what it would be. It was all Harris sent him these days, outside of business emails. His brother, ever the opposite of Greyson, had recently discovered a sadistic inclination within himself, and Greyson was the one and only person on whom he chose to practice that tendency.

Every day. Just one text. With an image attached.

He swallowed and reached for the phone. The folder would wait, per his ritual. But this could not. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and opened the text.

The breath escaped on a shuddering sigh as he stared into bright eyes and a gummy, dimpled smile. Again, that instant gut punch he felt every time he received a new picture from his brother.

Clara.

The name brought a grim smile to his lips. Olivia had chosen it to spite him, of course. And he couldn’t blame her. That one soft little jab didn’t come close to what he deserved. Besides, he found that he didn’t mind the name at all anymore. Whenever he thought of it, this was the face that came to mind.

He didn’t ask from whom Harris got these pictures; Greyson knew Olivia was sending them to his brother. But he also knew that she hadn’t really spoken with the guy since she’d left. Depriving both Harris and Olivia of a friendship that had meant so much to them: yet another fault that could be placed at Greyson’s door.