She tried to smile, but it was hard when she was dying on the inside, her heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.
“You and Maddox better take care of yourselves,” she admonished. “And Drake. Take care of him too.”
It hurt to say his name. It was like a physical blow that unsteadied her. Maddox curled his hand underneath her arm and then slipped her beneath his shoulder.
“Come on, sweetheart. Your parents are waiting.”
Despite her vow not to fall apart until she was well away from Maddox and Silas and in her mother’s loving arms, she wept the moment her mother reached for her.
34
Evangeline surveyed her mother’s kitchen in disgust. It looked as if a tornado had struck. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere along with mixing bowls, opened packages, empty boxes and bags. Flour dusted one entire countertop and the cooktop needed a thorough scrubbing. She actually looked forward to that job. It was a good way to work off pent-up frustration by attacking layers of grease and dried food.
Her father had said in a somewhat bemused tone that she was cooking enough food to stockpile for the zombie apocalypse. And, well, he wasn’t wrong. She’d cooked, stored and frozen enough dinners to last them well through the spring and into early summer.
With a sigh, she mentally declared enough. There were only so many things she could cook before she ran through the stockpile of groceries she’d purchased mere days ago. She sat on the stool at the island to rest a moment and automatically ran her hand over her still-flat stomach where her child rested.
As expected, in sync with the surge of love and joy that always accompanied thoughts of her baby came a wave of agony and grief so strong that if she hadn’t already been sitting, it would have forced her to sink into the nearest chair.
It had been a month. A month! And yet in many ways it was only yesterday. She wasn’t sleeping. And despite the fact that she had been cooking like a fiend for the last four weeks, she couldn’t stomach the thought of consuming any of her dishes.
And every single day, she was tormented by her conscience. She had to tell Drake about her pregnancy. Everything had happened so fast. One moment she’d been convinced she would die. The next, Drake and his men had swept in like avenging angels and then . . . ? The rest had been a blur. There had been a doctor. Drake talking to her, his eyes dark with . . . what exactly? She strained to remember, but it was all so fuzzy.
He’d spoken to her in serious, impassioned tones, but even looking at him had sent shards of agony through her heart and all she’d been able to focus on, the only words she’d been able to form, was that she wanted to go home. Where it was safe. To escape the pain.
So stupid. As if she’d ever escape the pain of losing Drake. But she had to tell him he was going to be a father. No matter what he thought of her, that he didn’t love her, he deserved to know, and she wasn’t so vindictive that she’d ever try to keep him from his child. What he did with that knowledge was up to him, but she would tell him.
Would he even care? Would he believe the child was his? He believed in her so little that it wasn’t a stretch to think he’d deny he’d fathered her child. There were paternity tests, of course, but she wouldn’t force him to accept his baby. If he wanted nothing to do with either of them, there was no way she’d shove an unwanted child down his throat. Never would she allow her child to grow up as he had. Unloved. Unwanted.
Maybe after her doctor’s appointment. Her pulse leapt at the thought of going to see the obstetrician her mother had found. What if she’d imagined the positive pregnancy test? What if she’d wanted to be pregnant so badly that she’d blocked out a negative result? But no. When she’d arrived home, she’d had a cursory exam by her old family doctor, who had confirmed her pregnancy but advised her to make an appointment with an OB-GYN. Tomorrow was the earliest appointment she’d been able to get.
After tomorrow, she’d make some firm decisions about her future instead of existing in limbo as she now was. She made a face because this entire situation wasn’t fair to either of her parents.
Her mother watched and worried. She hovered anxiously, taking turns with Evangeline’s father keeping careful watch over her, but they didn’t press, didn’t push her, and most importantly, her mother didn’t speak or act condescendingly to Evangeline. She didn’t pat her on the head and tell her everything would be okay or that time healed all things, nor did she offer her any other trite clichés about recovering from a broken heart.