He turned with a wide eyed stare at the threat, face pale, and then hauled ass out of the café without another look back.
A few patrons applauded Olive’s strength and she flashed a brave smile, but looked to Mara for strength. “Okay people, show’s over! Back to those pastries I worked so hard on all morning.” Mara’s words had the desired effect and she whispered something to Olive, flashed a smile and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.
“Thanks.” The word wasn’t audible, at least not from my spot at the back of the line, but her plump lips were easy to read. “See you later,” she said and made a quick retreat to the door, her gaze never lifted, never wandered.
She hadn’t spotted me and I wasn’t sure if I felt relief or disappointment.
But on the heels of that question, came a realization I couldn’t shake as the line advanced forward. Olive hadn’t denied that she was pregnant, just that Wyatt was the father, not if you listened to her words carefully. My mind raced as I replayed the conversation in my head.
I’d have to be what, six or seven months along wouldn’t I?
That meant she wasn’t that far along, which put me in the running to be her baby daddy. “No,” I groaned to myself and slammed my eyes shut. Suddenly the calls, all eighty plus of them not to mention a few dozen text messages, made sense. So did her frantic tone. Her overly emotional response to one night together. Her anger.
“Shit.” It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Next,” Mara barked and I looked up, realizing the line was now nonexistent. It was just me. “Well? What’ll it be, Reyes?”
I looked at Mara closely, trying to figure out if she knew or suspected, or if that attitude was her everyday attitude. “A large black coffee and a ham and egg croissant-wich, please. And one of those caramel cream donuts.” I paid and took my food to the first empty table I found, for about a second. Too amped up to sit, I packed everything up again and headed outside, somewhere I could sit in the sun and think. To clear my mind.
Olive was pregnant. At least Wyatt thought she was and Olive didn’t bother denying it when she was at the hub of all gossip in town, where her denials would have had the biggest impact. If she was pregnant, why had she stopped calling?
Maybe the baby wasn’t mine. That thought caused another twinge of conflicting emotions. Relief that maybe the child wasn’t mind. Anger that maybe it was and she’d given up so easily. Terror that she hadn’t given up. Yet.
That conversation had caused more questions than it answered, which meant I needed to find out for myself.Olive“What a jerk!” An hour after my run-in with Liam, I paced my kitchen, angry and stewing. “I mean, who in the hell does he think he is, confronting me at work?” That sealed it, the guy was more than a jerk, he was an insensitive creep who only thought about himself. “And he never claimed otherwise.”
And that was the part that kept stirring my anger up all over again. Liam had never pretended to be a good guy, a stand up guy, well other than the whole military hero thing, and it was only my projection that were responsible for my constant disappointment. “It’s my own damn fault,” I reminded myself out loud while I prepared a delicious and nutritious meal for me and my baby. I had to stop thinking about Liam. Stop expecting more from him than he was capable of giving. Stop expecting…anything, really.
That was the plan. Moving forward my focus would be on me and the baby. And Time For Love.
Nothing else.
No one else.
It was a good plan. A solid plan that would preserve my sanity, so that I could lose it through motherhood. Every move I made, from here on out, would be to help my baby, myself and my business. And that all started with the overflowing bowl of vegetables and grain the internet said was the perfect way to give my baby a variety of vitamins and nutrients.
I set the Buddha bowl on the coffee table beside a tall glass of apple juice and made my way upstairs to change into my favorite sunflower covered pajamas, leaving my feet bare because the Texas heat didn’t end when the sun went down. All settled on the sofa with my feet tucked under me, I flipped through TV channels and Netflix options before finally settling for ridiculous internet videos which were good for a laugh. Or ten.
In the middle of a compilation of cooking fails, the doorbell rang. A quick glance at the clock said it was after ten in the evening and I frowned, knowing Eva or Sophie would call to give me a heads up if they were coming over. Aunt Reba wouldn’t call or stop by, ever, which only left one person.