Sitting up straight, unable to relax, I rub a small circle to try to relieve the tightening cramp in my side. My lower back seemed to spasm all night, or maybe it was junior working out some kickboxing moves. Either way I can’t seem to shake the feeling that this baby is getting way too big for my body.
I take another gander through the small coffee shop, swiveling on my stool. A couple, some people in business suits, and a small group of girls, but still no Trip.
My eyes scan the area back and forth, unable to shake the feeling that somehow Braeden knows I’m up to no good. I told him this morning I was meeting up with some girls to walk for exercise and that he wouldn’t want to come and listen to them talk about menstrual cycles and yeast infections. After he recovered from gagging, he let me go, as long as I promised to text him when I got here, which I did, and before I leave, which I will.
A tall man with short brown hair, the color of milk chocolate, enters the café, stops, and immediately locks eyes with me.
Trip Miller.
His sky-blue eyes widen for a second before he continues toward me. I study him as he approaches. His worn jeans fit nicely on his long legs, a black long-sleeved collared shirt is left untucked and rolled up to his elbows, and as he gets closer, I can see part of a tattoo that curls up the left side of his neck. Although his hair isn’t as shaggy as it was in high school, it’s spiky in a way that still gives him an edge, and his face is still as handsome, but now more rugged and grown up.
The sight of him used to send my stomach tumbling in a flurry of butterflies, but now there’s nothing but simple appreciation and anxiety.
He stands at the edge of the table and blows out a deep breath with his hand on his chest. “Layla, wow . . . you look great.”
“Thanks, um . . .” I motion to the seat across from me. “Have a seat.”
He pulls out the stool and sits, the waitress on his heels to take his order. “Coffee, black.”
After she disappears to grab his drink, he turns to me. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“You didn’t really give me much choice.” I thumb the ceramic handle of my mug. “How did you get my number?”
“The receptionist at the UFL Training Center.” His cheeks take on color and he ducks his chin, clearly embarrassed over his stalking behavior.
“Vanessa.” That bitch.
“Um, yeah, sorry about that.” He peeks up. “You’re pregnant.” His eyes dart to my ring finger, and I’m grateful to have Blake’s engagement ring on so he doesn’t get the impression that I make a habit out of getting knocked up out of wedlock, which I do. “How many kids do you have?”
“This’ll be my second.”
The waitress delivers his coffee, but Trip doesn’t take a sip, only cups it in his hands as I’m doing with my tea. Silence stretches between us, and a sense of urgency to get what I need, call Trip off his interest in me and Axelle, and get home to welcome Blake back rides me hard.
“Listen, Trip, I don’t mean to rush this, but—”
“Cut to the chase.” His lips form a tight line, as if he’s disappointed that we won’t be skipping down memory lane holding hands for a while longer.
“Please.”
His knuckles go white around his coffee, and he fixes his eyes on mine, but doesn’t offer a word.
Great. I guess I’ll lead. “About the night at the party, you have to understand I remember very little. After hearing from Stewart that . . . I was raped . . .”
He cringes and rubs the back of his neck, but doesn’t confirm or deny it.
“I thought not remembering was a blessing, but after talking to you, there are missing pieces, and I have to know if anything Stew told me was even true.”
His expression hardens. “Fuckin’ hate that guy.”
I flash him what’s sure to be a weak smile. “You’re not alone in that, I assure you.”
He finally sips his coffee then sets it down, staring into it. “I had my speech planned out, thought through everything I was going to say, and now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.”
I lean forward, my forearms braced on the table. “How ’bout the beginning?”
He nods, takes another sip of his coffee, and then leans back in his chair. “I had a shitty upbringing. My stepdad was a prick. He’d slap me around, get drunk, and make my mom cry. I was kind of rebellious. I’m sure you noticed.”
“Yeah, I did.” It’s one of the things I adored about him.
“I liked you freshman year, but always thought you were too good, too, uh . . . sweet for a guy like me. Sophomore year came then junior, and as every year passed, I became more obsessed.” He shrugs. “You really stood out.”
He was obsessed? I was the one who was obsessed. “You never even spoke to me.”
“I know. You scared me. There was something about you, even just the way you looked, that intimidated the hell out of me. You were so confident.”