More Than Anything (Broken Pieces 1)

“Libby does. I do.”

The latter part of his statement stunned her, and she turned around to search his eyes for any hint of deceit . . . but he held her gaze, the belief he’d just spoken of shining in his eyes like a beacon.

“Why?” she asked bluntly. “I’ve been a total fuckup for most of my life. Not even I believe that I can do this. So why would you?”

“You haven’t been a fuckup.”

She made an impatient scoffing sound and dropped her eyes down his body to the erection still straining at his zipper.

“Are you saying these things because you want to get into my pants? And what the hell is up with that, anyway? Haven’t you gotten that fat-girl fetish out of your system yet?”

He glared at her, the tenderness that had been shining in his eyes just moments before replaced by brittle defensiveness. “You know I think you’re gorgeous, so don’t give me that bullshit,” he said, his voice low and rough.

She raised her eyebrows. Gorgeous was it? “I’m sorry, but my self-esteem took a bruising ten years ago when you and your asshole buddies made the sick bet that you wouldn’t be able to . . . what was it? Oh yes, ‘fuck the fat freak,’ right?”

He winced.

“Damn it, Tina. I’ve apologized for that. You accepted my apology.”

“You hurt me, you asshole. You did more damage than you could ever comprehend. I want to forgive you. I want to forget about it because I can’t keep looking back on that as the defining moment of my life. The moment that ruined my entire future.”

“I know you were young and that what I did, what was said, hurt you. And I’ve hated myself for it . . . but I do think you’re being overdramatic, Tina. It was a stupid mistake, and I know it must have stung for a long time, but it shouldn’t have, couldn’t have, defined your life. You can’t blame me for every fucking bad decision you’ve made since then. You have to take ownership for some of it.”

She stared at him, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she recalled that night, then the days and months that followed it, and the terrible years after that. Her inability to pick herself up after the consequences of that moment had ruined her life and turned her into an anxiety-riddled wreck of a woman. She’d had ambitions—her ultimate goal, before Harris had so casually ripped out her heart and destroyed her future, had been to become an obstetrician. Now she could barely look at babies, much less deliver them.

“I take ownership of the fact that I stupidly thought my crush on you was something more than that and that I allowed myself to be seduced by you, but—”

She was interrupted when the door to the ladies’ room swung inward and a couple of giggling teenagers strolled in. They both stopped dead at the sight of Harris, and one of them squealed in horror.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He slanted Tina a look that promised her that their conversation wasn’t close to done yet before excusing himself to brush by the two girls and exit the restroom. The pretty teens turned their speculative stares on Tina, and she offered them a tight, apologetic smile before vacating the room as well.

She strode blindly back to her office. Clara was crying—screeching, to be more precise—and Charlie was calmly attempting to soothe the distraught infant, cradling her and trying to get her to suckle on the rubber teat of a full bottle of milk. The baby screwed up her face and turned her head away from the offering. The wall of sound that met her ratcheted Tina’s anxiety up to the ceiling, and she stood glued to the floor for a moment, not sure what to do.

“She’s fussy,” Charlie said with an unperturbed smile, and Tina envied the girl her natural poise with the baby. “Not a fan of the bottle.”

Libby was attempting to gradually wean Clara from the breast. A necessity, since the infant was now in day care for four hours every weekday. But the plan was to keep the baby in the office in the evenings and on weekends, because Libby wanted to breastfeed her at night. The bottle was in case of emergencies. And Clara clearly wasn’t interested in it right now.

“I—” Tina swallowed past the dry lump in her throat, feeling overwhelmed by just everything: Harris, the business, the screeching baby, and the memories that were threatening to claw their way back to the surface. “I can’t. I can’t . . .”

Luckily the words were soft, distressed little pants that Charlie—whose focus was on Clara—didn’t hear. Tina turned and walked back out. She was vaguely aware of somebody—possibly Ricardo—trying to speak with her, but she kept going, walking until she was outside.