Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

I hate him right now. I tell myself this isn’t really him—this is drunk Mateo, and drunk Mateo is a fucking nightmare. It’s not news. I’ve encountered him a couple times over the course of all these years. Right now as I look at this man, he looks like the man I love, but he isn’t.

Because I took away his light. I took away the person who matters most to him.

I don’t matter to him.

I’m not worth sticking around for.

The anger suddenly drains right out of me. Peace settles over me. I’ve been fighting this for so long. For years, I knew he still loved me. We were still best friends. When he came to my room, I still felt like he wanted to be there.

But he doesn’t anymore. He doesn’t want to be there anymore, and I don’t want him to be somewhere he doesn’t want to be. I deserve a hell of a lot better than that.

Tears try to burn behind my eyes because of my damn pregnancy. I know this is where the end begins. It has to be. I can’t even pry Mateo away from Mia when she isn’t here.

Plan B, it is.

“I want out.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Of this relationship,” I add, to clarify. “I want out of this relationship. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I feel like I just swallowed a vat of battery acid. Blood rushes through my veins. There’s a teeny tiny part of me—a ridiculous, absurd, insane part—that hopes he’ll wake up. Realize that just because Mia’s gone doesn’t mean he has nothing.

But we have been nothing lately. Since shortly before Christmas. Since I went against his wishes and told Mia I was pregnant. He ended our relationship that day; the bastard just didn’t have the decency to tell me. He left me dangling in the wind, holding onto a phantom love while he completely threw himself into his real one.

Bastard. This bastard.

I almost feel relieved. I don’t know how I have time to cycle through all of these feelings before the bastard responds.

Finally, he says very simply, “All right.”

Despite all I’ve just told myself, this agreement stings. It feels like a slap in the face. I remain standing here, waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.

I hate the swell of tenderness that follows. I hate the sympathy. I hate the regret. I hate that I feel so damn bad for my part in all this, but I could’ve stopped this. It’s my fault he looks so lost and alone right now. His pain could’ve been averted. I could’ve told Adrian about Vince. I could’ve set a trap for him that day instead of letting him take Mia, but I didn’t.

Mia isn’t even here, he may never even see her again, and he still doesn’t care if I leave.

But then, why would he? Apparently life is too unbearable to face without her.

I’m tempted to take one last look at him, but I don’t.

I just leave him here alone and try not to think about what tomorrow will bring.

—

I’m surprised to see Mateo at the breakfast table this morning, all put-together like always, no sign of the wrecked Mateo I saw last night. There are still dark smudges beneath his eyes, speaking to his lack of sleep, but he’s fully functional, fully assembled, perfect hair, clean shaven, his suit without so much as a wrinkle.

I couldn’t really sleep. As much as I told myself I wouldn’t, I spent all night thinking about this. What happens to me now? Where do I go from here? I didn’t even leave Rodney, and now I’m going to leave Mateo fucking Morelli? We have children together and I’m carrying his first son—his heir. How does this work?

I’m further surprised when he raises his gaze to look at me as I head toward the kitchen, and his lips curve up slightly. He hasn’t smiled since the dinner Mia didn’t show up to. Now he gives me a nod of acknowledgement that feels normal, and for a couple of terrifying minutes as I go to plate myself some breakfast, I wonder if he was so drunk he doesn’t remember last night.

Is that better or worse? Most people are more honest when they drink, which is maybe why no one likes drunk Mateo. Sober Mateo is made of pretty lies, so no one is ever prepared for the ugliness of drunk Mateo.

I take my usual seat at his right, but I feel incredibly awkward. I try to mask it, flicking a glance at him. “How are you feeling today?”

“Like garbage,” he says, smiling wryly. “From what I can recall, I deserve to, though.” Now he meets my gaze, and it’s the most connection I’ve felt with him in four months. “I apologize for last night. I was out of sorts.”