Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

Because Greyson so rarely swore, hearing all those f-bombs dropping from his lips was quite entertaining. He also never failed, and this breakfast was just one miserable fail after another. The eggs were cold—expected, what with him taking twenty minutes to open up that box—and congealed. She took a polite bite, then wrinkled her nose and lifted her napkin to her lips to discreetly spit out the mouthful she’d just chewed: it was sickeningly sweet.

Greyson, who had been silently brooding on the other side of the tiny kitchen table, his festering glare flitting from eggs to toast and back again, took a forkful of eggs into his own mouth before spitting it back onto the plate.

“What the fuck?” he exclaimed, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What in the actual fuck?”

Libby bit her lips to keep her laughter at bay.

“I think,” she said in a distinctly wobbly voice, “maybe you used sugar? Instead of salt?”

He glanced over at the stove, and the glare deepened even further.

“Why the hell is your sugar next to the stove?”

“If you look closely,” she said, an acerbic bite in her voice, “you’ll note that it’s placed next to the kettle, right between the tea and coffee. And if you squint, you may be able to make out the letters on the surface of the glass.”

He scowled at the huge black letters on the glass, prominently spelling out the word sugar as clear as day.

He shook his head and shoved the plate aside.

“At least the coffee is good,” she said, taking a cheerful sip from her mug, and he glowered at her.

“You made the coffee,” he reminded her, and she sent him a grin over the top of her mug.

“I know,” she said. He focused his scowl on the steaming black liquid in his own mug.

“Grab a couple of bowls and some cornflakes from the cabinet behind you,” she offered him quietly, not because she felt sorry for him. Never that. She was just . . . hungry. And since he was here, she might as well share with him.

His eyes lit up at her words, and he jumped up to do her bidding. She got up, too, heading to the refrigerator for milk and fruit.

They didn’t speak again until both had a large bowl of cornflakes garnished with fresh berries and bananas placed in front of them.

“Does she—uh, Clara—usually sleep this late?” he asked after swallowing down his first spoonful of cornflakes.

“It varies. She was more restless than usual last night; I think it exhausted her.”

“You’re really good at this,” he said, sounding almost shy.

“What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“Mothering. It seems to come naturally to you.”

“Thanks,” she said self-consciously, her cheeks heating at the compliment. “I’m a wreck most of the time. I call my mother every day for advice, and I’m always terrified I’m going to do something horribly wrong and mess her up for life.”

“Nothing you do will ever compare to my colossal fuckup,” he muttered, crunching his way through another spoonful of cereal.

Libby kept her focus on her bowl, reluctant to acknowledge his words. Right now, this situation with Greyson was one of those moments she was afraid would negatively impact Clara’s life. Her baby would grow up shuttling between two households, not knowing what it was like to live in a stable home with both her parents present. And maybe, because she would never know any better, that would be okay. But it was so, so far from what Libby had wanted for her child.

And Libby felt like she was at the crossroads now. The decisions she made about Greyson during this messed-up period of her life would forge the framework for Clara’s childhood. It felt like a huge and terrible responsibility, and she resented Greyson for putting her in this dreadful position.

A tiny whimper sounded over the baby monitor, and Libby tilted her head, waiting to see if it would lead to anything more. Another whimper, followed by a soft inhalation, and then a thin little cry.

“Aaaand she’s awake,” she said. She got up immediately and made her way to the bedroom. Clara’s cute little face was screwed up, and Libby grinned at how truly tragic she looked. “Oh, sweetie. It’s okay, Mummy’s here. Are you hungry? Pee-ew! Maybe we should change that nappy first, you little stinker.”

She heard dishes rattling in the sink and threw a quick glance over her shoulder through the open bedroom door to see Greyson clearing off the kitchen table.

“You don’t have to do that,” she called while nimbly undressing Clara.

“I made a mess; I should clean it up,” he said, barely raising his voice despite the fact that she was in a different room.

“No, what you should do is leave. We’re fine now. Thanks for staying last night, but I’ll find someone to change the lock today.” She truly just wanted him gone from here. She recalled the disturbing sight of him nearly naked after his shower, bent over with that tiny towel doing nothing to cover his behind . . . or the rest of him. Seeing him like that, the firm, sculpted planes of his butt, the impressive heft of his penis swaying between his strongly muscled thighs . . . it had sent a shudder of awareness through her body.