Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

Clara had gone limp, and he gently shifted her so that she was cradled in his arms. So sweet and unbelievably tender with the baby.

He traced her features with a reverent finger before looking up at Libby, his eyes gleaming with moisture.

“When I heard that I probably couldn’t have children, I didn’t really care. I was nineteen; kids had been a distant dream. Barely even a dream. At that age, the thought of fatherhood had never occurred to me. It started to niggle as I got older. This awful feeling of inadequacy formed deep down in my gut. I forced myself not to think about it, told myself I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I considered going for a second opinion, but the thought of being told—again—that I was flawed in such a fundamental way was exceedingly disagreeable. I kept delaying it, telling myself it didn’t matter to me. But it did matter.

“I could never be a father. I could never give my parents grandchildren. And the thought of telling a woman, a potential mate, I couldn’t ever give her a child . . . it was humiliating. By the time you and I met up again, I had almost convinced myself that it was unimportant. And when I asked you to marry me, parenthood was literally the last thing on my mind. I just wanted you.”

Libby stared at him, her heart lodged in her throat as she finally began to comprehend just how devastating the mistaken knowledge that he could not father children had been on a proud man like Greyson. As if something like this could make him less of a man. She would never have thought that; most people wouldn’t. But Greyson wasn’t most people, and Libby imagined this so-called biological flaw had unconsciously eaten at him for years.

“It was only after you said yes,” he continued—and Libby forced back the urge to reach across the table and take his hand; it wasn’t her place to comfort him; not anymore—“that I realized that I hadn’t told you about my perceived infertility. I convinced myself I’d tell you. But I kept delaying the conversation. Do you have any idea how daunting the thought of telling you was? You’re beautiful, perfect, talented . . . why should you have to settle for someone who couldn’t even give you a child? I didn’t want you to think less of me or, worse, feel sorry for me. The thought of you marrying me because you pitied me was repugnant. By the time we married, I’d convinced myself we could adopt, that you’d be fine with that. Then we moved back to Cape Town, and you seemed so happy to be home. You started hanging out with your old friends, with Tina . . . and Harris.”

The pause after he said Harris’s name seemed significant, and Libby, still not sure where this was going, sat up a little straighter. Greyson seemed so much more vulnerable than she had expected. The words were tumbling from him in almost-frantic haste, and she knew that he was building toward something big. Yet everything he told her was a complete revelation, and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

“I’d come home, and Harris would be there. He would stay for dinner or a movie; he’d just be hanging out, helping you with the dishes, talking, laughing, playing . . . and I was back to being the third wheel. The Ice Man who just didn’t get you guys.”

Her jaw dropped at that, and she stared at him, feeling sick to her stomach as she finally began to get an inkling of what this was leading up to.

“When you told me you were pregnant—”

“No,” she said, her voice quiet but vehement as she tried to stop what she knew was coming. Because if he said it, then nothing would ever be the same again.

“When you told me you were pregnant,” he repeated doggedly, “I felt such anger and resentment and absolute hatred. I felt betrayed by the two people—”

“No, Greyson. Don’t you say it! Don’t you dare say it.”

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said miserably, for once apologizing for the right thing. But the affront was so completely unforgivable that his apology made absolutely no difference. “I’m so sorry.”

“Harris?” she said, her voice thick with tears. “You thought Harris and I . . . ?”

“It was the only thing that made sense to me. I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself it couldn’t be true. But I couldn’t imagine who else it could be. And then the birthmark seemed to confirm . . .”

“Oh my God,” Libby moaned, her hand going to her mouth as the tiny bite of scallop she had swallowed threatened to come back up. “I think I’m going to be sick.”