Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Greyson, I knew who you were. How you were. And I loved you anyway. I loved you because of that. You anchored me, and I liked that. I felt safe with you. I never wanted you to be like Harris. Why would I? I already have a Harris in my life, and I love him. I always have. He’s like a brother to me. A funny, goofy older brother whom I adore and maybe hero-worshipped a bit when we were younger. But I’m not in love with him. That emotion was reserved for you. For the man I thought I knew. You should have trusted me, Greyson. You should have trusted me with your heart and your body and your soul. I would never have betrayed you.”

He diverted his gaze down to his precious daughter and felt like a hole had been ripped in his chest. A huge, gaping, bleeding hole . . . a fatal, self-inflicted wound that could only lead to anguish and death. A painful, agonizing death of the soul.

“There’s nothing more to be said here, Greyson,” she told him, her voice almost gentle. “I’ll go and say goodbye to Chris. I’ll fetch Clara on my way out.”

He nodded numbly, unable to say another word. She was right—there was nothing more to say. She was lost to him. And the family he could have had, the life he had so coveted, was lost with her. All he had left was this wonderful angel, this miracle child, innocent and sweet, who was at the center of all this emotional upheaval.

Olivia left, and he dropped a gentle kiss on Clara’s soft cheek.

“Daddy loves you, darling. Always and forever,” he whispered. So easy to tell her he loved her. She was the only person in the entire world to whom he had ever said those words, and it still surprised him how very much he meant them.

When she returned, her friend was with her. Greyson got up and gave Clara to her. His reflexes felt sluggish, and he sat down again. Olivia looked exhausted, and he was immediately concerned for her.

“Will you be okay to drive?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Yes. I wouldn’t take risks with Clara in the car.”

He hated her fucking car. It was almost as bad as her house, and he regretted not insisting he drive them to the restaurant. He would follow them closely to ensure they got home safely.

But as he watched her hug her friend and watched the man make a fuss over Clara, he found himself unable to move. She cast him a troubled look before she and Clara and Chris exited the restaurant, but she did not say another word to him.

Greyson looked around for his bag . . . there it was. Still on the chair next to his. Right where he had put it. His car keys were in the bag. He kept staring at the bag, willing himself to reach for it, to get his car keys . . . to move. Something. But he couldn’t do any of that. He continued to sit exactly where she had left him.

He heard her car start up, and a few moments later the front door to the café opened, and Chris strode in. The man halted when he saw Greyson still seated at the table. Greyson sensed his perusal but continued to stare at his bag.

He felt . . . he couldn’t . . .

His inability to move or even finish a thought was starting to terrify him. What was wrong with him?

Christién Roche sat across the table from Greyson and dropped a crystal tumbler in front of him. He poured a generous dose of amber liquid—just a shade or two lighter than Olivia’s eyes—into the tumbler.

“You’re in shock, mon ami. Take a drink.”

Greyson shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“I think . . . in this case, exceptions can be made.”

“No exceptions,” Greyson said hoarsely. Feeling a little more like himself. He couldn’t drink. The last time she had left him, he hadn’t stopped drinking for days . . . weeks. He wouldn’t do that to himself again. He had responsibilities. Aside from his own work, he had promised Tina he’d manage the restaurant, he had a self-defense class at the community center tomorrow afternoon, and most importantly, he had Clara to take care of. No more self-indulgent benders for him. Never again.

The other guy made a strange humming sound before getting up and disappearing into the back, where Greyson presumed the kitchen was. Greyson reached for his bag. He should leave. She wouldn’t be too far ahead of him . . . he should make sure she got home safely. It was his responsibility.

He pushed himself up and was surprised by how leaden his limbs still felt. Chris came back into the restaurant and tut-tutted when he saw Greyson standing. “Non, you cannot drive in this state you are in. First drink this.”