Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I told you I don’t . . .” The words died in Greyson’s throat when Chris shoved a mug of warm liquid into his hands. “What’s this?”

“Sweet tea. Is good for the shock.”

Sweet tea. Greyson would have laughed, but he didn’t seem to have any laughter left in him. He sank back down and obediently drank his tea. Chris sat and watched him closely, taking an occasional sip of the liquid he had poured into the tumbler for Greyson. It smelled like whiskey.

Well, Greyson would never again underestimate the restorative qualities of a good cup of tea. Warmth started to flood into his limbs, bringing them—and him—back to painful life. Truth be told, shock was better. It kept the emotions at bay. The agony of loss was so much more bearable when one’s emotions were muted by the immediate trauma of separation.

“Good, you are not so pale and ghostlike anymore,” Chris observed.

“My marriage is over,” Greyson said, unable to stop the words from escaping, and then he could have kicked himself for saying them.

“I believe your marriage was over many months ago.”

“Perhaps,” Greyson agreed stiltedly, still not sure why he was talking to this guy about it. He wasn’t exactly a neutral party. “But I had hoped I could repair the damage.”

“When you accuse your faithful wife of cheating, the damage is irreparable.”

“I don’t believe that. I feel if the marriage is strong enough, if the misunderstanding came from a place of genuine confusion and distress, there should still be some hope for reconciliation.”

“You do not strike me as a fanciful man. Yet . . . you say many unrealistic, idealistic things. Why is that?”

“I thought I was infertile.”

“You did not tell her that.”

“I thought we would be happy. That we could adopt.”

“You did not tell her that.”

“How the hell do you know what I told her or didn’t tell her?” Greyson snapped resentfully, and Chris shrugged in that fatalistic French way. Made all the more irritating by the fact he wasn’t French.

“I have known Libby for a long time,” the other man said, and Greyson glared at him.

“I’ve known her for longer.” Okay, so maybe he was turning this into a pissing contest, but he’d lost so much recently. He could really do with a bloody win.

“This is true. Then you know what she needs, non? What would make her happy?”

Greyson found himself unable to make eye contact with the man as he acknowledged to himself just how very unhappy he had made Olivia. In all the time he’d known her, he couldn’t recall a time he had ever made her truly happy.

“Merde,” Chris swore impatiently, and Greyson’s gaze moved back to the man. He looked disgusted. “You are truly a . . . how you say? A buffoon. I’ve known Libby since she was barely out of her teens. And the girl talks all the time. Talks about her family, her friends. Harrison, Tina . . . Greyson. Always Greyson. You had the power to make her happy. But you . . . you squandered this power. So easy for her Greyson to make her happy. All he had to do was love her. But you . . .”

Chris waved a dismissive hand at him and gave him a look of such disgust that Greyson felt smaller than a gnat.

“I do love her.” The words, soft, unfamiliar, and shaded with a large measure of self-discovery and reverence, fell into the silence.

Greyson did not know or understand why he had not recognized this sooner. Perhaps because the emotion was so unfamiliar to him. He loved his parents and his brother. But he had never been in love.

Only he now understood that he had. He had been in love for years. But he hadn’t recognized it as such because it had always been a part of who he was. This love had grown from reluctant affection, to infatuation, to desire . . . to this all-consuming, raging, out-of-control emotion that he hadn’t even known was there . . . because it had been hiding in plain sight.

“I do,” he repeated. “I’ve loved her forever.”

“You did not tell her that.” There was a pause before the statement was followed by, “Did you?”

Libby pulled over three times on the way home to cry. Part of her was surprised that Greyson hadn’t followed her from the café, but a larger part of her was grateful. She didn’t want him to see how much pain she was in. And she was happy to have this privacy to get the worst of it out of the way.

When she finally got home, Clara was awake and hungry. Happy for the distraction, Libby spent her time bathing, feeding, and playing with her baby. But hours later, when Clara was asleep again, Libby was left with nothing but her confusing thoughts.