We pass by his all-female audience, and Brae flashes them his most panty-melting smile. “Any of you ladies want to point me to the nearest sporting goods store?”
I throw my head back laughing and speed walk ahead of him to avoid the embarrassing reactions that I’m sure he’s getting.
He catches up with me, chuckling, when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, and his eyebrows pinch together before he answers it. “Hello?” He listens for a second and then holds one finger up to me.
I point to the check out and motion that I’ll meet him out front. A quick line, sweet checkout lady, and a few new unisex baby outfits in a bag, I find Brae outside leaning against the wall.
“You ready?” His expression is serious, totally void of his earlier levity. Something about that phone call ripped away his teasing demeanor.
We walk to the Rubicon in silence. I don’t want to pry, but I’m worried about Blake. “Was that your brother on the phone?”
He opens the passenger side door and takes my bag to toss it into the backseat. “No.”
“Oh.” I grab hold of his arm, and he helps to hoist me into the seat. “Have you heard from him?”
His green eyes set on mine and he shakes his head. “No.”
Okaaay. Maybe we can try for a two-syllabled answer?
“I’m just worried.” I strap on my seatbelt, and before I get out another word, he closes the door and moves around the hood to climb in the driver’s seat.
He fires up the engine, but rather than backing out of the spot, he grips the steering wheel then drops his hands and turns to me. “There’s something you should know.”
Nervous butterflies explode in my stomach.
“The reason Blake went home . . . what my mom wants to talk to him about is”—he exhales, long and hard—“The General’s sick.” His shoulders relax a smidge, as if he’s been carrying around that secret for a few days too long.
“Sick as in—”
“Cancer, Layla.” Pain washes his expression. “He’s dying.”
My hand flies to my mouth to muffle my cry. I can’t speak, but shake my head back and forth slowly as if the movement will toss the truth from my memory.
“The doctors gave him six months tops. He’s, uh . . . even these last few months he’s going downhill fast.” He rubs his eyes as if he’s forcing back tears.
“I’m so sorry.” I grip his shoulder and squeeze, hoping to convey comfort. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Poor Blake. He thought this trip to see his parents would be their extension of an olive branch, a chance to come back into his life and be grandparents.
He was wrong.
On one hand, I think he’d take that news in stride. He hates his father, and I can see how his death would be upsetting, but I think it would be worse if he had a good relationship with him. On the other hand, the great thing about life is that it gives us plenty of time to make amends for the ways we screwed up. Time allows opportunity for healing. When someone dies suddenly, they no longer have the chance to make things right.
Oh God . . . Blake.
I sniff back the wave of sadness that overcomes me. I know deep down he wants his father’s approval.
“Blake, he’s . . . not okay, is he?” My fingers twist frantically in my hair, itching to comfort him and regretting letting him go.
Braeden’s gaze swings to mine. “Honestly?”
I nod.
“No. My mom said he got pretty pissed and took off.”
“He’s coming home. We need to call him. I bet he jumped on a flight—”
“He’s on foot. Left my car in the driveway.”
I pat myself down. “Shit. I don’t have my phone. Call him, call him right now.”
“I tried, Layla. He’s not answering.”
I breathe deeply, trying to soothe my nerves, regulate my heartbeat, and remind myself that my body isn’t my own right now and I owe it to this baby to chill the fuck out.
A dull pain tightens on my left side. I gasp and my hand flies there to push back what’s sure to be a baby part pressing against my rib.
“You okay?” His voice is laced with worry.
“Fine, just a big kick.” I breathe deeply through the cramp until it subsides. “We need to get back to the condo, just in case Blake shows up.”
He nods and points the Rubicon toward home.
“Drive fast.”
##
It’s almost three p.m. and my phone has rung on the hour every hour since we arrived, but none of the calls were from Blake.
Between pacing and staring blankly at the wall, I’ve had time to review every possible scenario, and lucky for me I have a vivid imagination. I’ve closed my eyes and prayed, even willed him to get in touch with me through ESP, but the only person who’s been consistently ringing my phone has been Trip.
“Here.” Braeden hands me a glass of OJ.
“No thanks, I’m okay—”
“You haven’t eaten.” His expression is stern, replacing his prettiness with the focus of a hardened soldier. “You need something besides water.”
My appetite dissolved. It’s as if my stomach is too full of worry to fit anything else in there. But he has a point.