Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

And she had felt a disturbing awakening of senses that had been dormant for too many months. She didn’t want to feel that way around him, didn’t want to be sexually aware of him. Not again . . . not anymore. This marriage was ending; all that was left to decide on was the formalities.

“I can change the lock,” he said confidently, snapping her out of her disturbing thoughts, and she shot him a derisive look over her shoulder. She thought of his incompetence in the kitchen. He had sounded confident then too. The man really had no sense of his own shortcomings. He needed a serious reality check. And yes, it was petty, but Libby wanted to be around when he tumbled from that lofty perch of self-assurance.

“Okay.” It was hard to stay focused with the stink Clara had created wafting up to Libby’s nostrils, but she managed to get the word out almost cheerfully.

She had her eyes on Clara’s cute tush as she ran a baby wipe over it and so didn’t know Greyson was in the room until his voice had drifted to her ear from just over her left shoulder. “What did you say?”

She jumped and then glared at the man standing just behind her. And why was he standing so damned close? And in such an awkward spot? “Move over there so that I can see you without getting a crick in my neck, would you?” she instructed him, pointing to the head of the bed, the soiled nappy still in her hand. Greyson reared back comically before doing as she had instructed, giving her a wide berth. He had a pristine, neatly folded white handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth as he stared at Clara in abject horror. The baby had stopped crying and was now happily gurgling, her fat, dimpled little legs kicking as she tried to catch her toes. She was naked and completely oblivious to the foul stench she had created.

“How the hell can something so small produce a smell that huge?”

“This isn’t too bad. It can get much, much worse,” Libby said.

“Seriously?” he asked, sounding truly appalled, and Libby tried hard not to grin. He was staring down at Clara with something close to fear in his eyes, and it was hilarious.

“Uh-huh,” she said, grabbing a nappy-disposal bag from the changing table on the other side of the bed. The small room was very cramped with Libby’s double bed, Clara’s white crib, and the matching changing table all squeezed into the tiny space. She had managed to get only one bedside table in. The other one was stowed in the living room and serving as a coffee table for now.

“Did you mean it? About me changing the lock?”

“You might as well make yourself useful,” she said with a shrug, then gave him an assessing look. “In fact, since you’re just hovering there, doing nothing much, can you open that faucet again and run her another bath? Not too hot—just lukewarm is fine. I’ll feed her while you’re doing that. I don’t usually feed her before bath time, but our routine is shot to hell with my working hours being the way they are, and then she didn’t get her bath last night as planned, and . . .” She stopped talking, feeling like a failure and not wanting to reveal much more of the hopelessness she felt. Fearing he’d use it against her if they ever got into some kind of custody dispute. She didn’t trust him at all. She knew he wanted Clara, and after witnessing his reluctance to let go of the baby last night, she wouldn’t put it past him to fight dirty.

And maybe it wasn’t wise to have him constantly around, but aside from wanting to see him fail, she also felt she should begin to subscribe to the “keep your enemies closer” school of thought. But she had the very real fear that while she was waiting for him to fail, he might be around to see her fail. Fail at her job, at her friendships, or as a mother. She would hate for Greyson—of all people—to witness any of that. The terrifying possibility was nearly enough to change her mind about allowing him to “fix” things around the house.

Nearly.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, in response to her earlier statement. His words succeeded in drawing her from her dark thoughts, and she tilted her head, curiously waiting for him to continue. “You’re doing an amazing job, despite the shitty hand you’ve been dealt.”

“The hand you dealt me, you mean?” she asked, and his eyes shut for an instant before he nodded.

“Yes.” He thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and swayed restlessly back and forth on his heels for a couple of moments. “I’ll get the bath organized.”