“I didn’t protect her before, did I?”
I think about the night of the senior dance, Kennedy’s face—muddy and bleeding. I think about years of poisonous taunts and hissed insults, which can break a soul as easily as sticks and stones break bone. “I left her to the wolves, and they had a feast. That’s not going to happen again. No fucking way. I’m trying to protect her this time.”
He nods. “You failed her before because you were selfish. An adolescent, thinking only of yourself.”
“I know that!”
He spreads his arms—the big reveal. “And yet here you are—repeating yourself. Thinking of your wants. Your feelings. Like an irritable teenager all over again.”
“I’m thirty-two years old—I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake!”
He leans forward in his chair. “Yes, you are. And for the last few weeks, you’ve been acting like one. So it’s disappointing to see you regress overnight.”
My teeth grind, and I jab a finger toward him. “You know something? Fuck you, Waldo.”
Then I walk out his door too.
? ? ?
After that disaster, I go to the office, still pissed. Actually, more pissed, because he didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. Doesn’t see my perfectly rational point that tucking Kennedy safely away in my house, in my bed—is the best, the only acceptable course of action. There are women who’d sell their soul to live in my gilded cage. But I don’t want any of them.
As I stand in front of my desk, shuffling papers and banging drawers, Jake steps through the doorway.
“As far as temper tantrums go, yours is pretty pathetic. You should talk to Regan—she can give you some pointers.”
“Fuck off, man.” I don’t even look up.
He folds his arms across his chest. “Can’t do that, buddy. You’re screwing up way too badly for me to just sit back and watch.”
I slam my top drawer shut with a bang, then point at him. “Give me a motherfucking break! Like you’d be any different if it was Chelsea? How would you react if it was her walking into the lion’s den?”
Jake’s voice is low and lethally calm. “Chelsea can walk into any damn den she wants. Because I am the lion. And I’d make sure I was with her.”
I breathe hard as he comes to stand in front of my desk.
“Your problem is you underestimated her. You threw down a marker you never intended to pay, and she called your fucking bluff. She’s going, Brent—nothing you say is gonna stop her. So the only question left is, what are you going to do now?”
Then Sofia walks into the room. “Hey . . . guys? I think—”
I immediately cut her off. “Et tu, Sofia? Not now, okay?”
“I know, but listen—”
“Contrary to what you all think, I’m a big boy. This is between me and Kennedy. We’ll work it out, and I don’t—”
“My water broke.”
There are few words in the English language that are capable of grabbing immediate and undivided attention. Fire is one. Bingo is pretty high on the list. I’m going to come is my personal favorite. But, much like the One Ring, my water broke rules them all.
Jake and I spin around and face Sofia, who’s now leaning up against the wall. The bottom back of her green dress is noticeably saturated and liquid drips down her legs, leaving a trail on the carpet behind her.
“Wow—that’s a lot of water. You could drown a puppy in that much water.”
“I’ll call Stanton,” Jake volunteers.
Sofia holds up her hand. “No! He’s in court, and I don’t want him driving the Porsche to the hospital—he might kill someone or himself.” She takes a deep, cleansing breath and assumes her drill sergeant persona. “Jake, go to court and bring Stanton to the hospital. Mrs. Higgens knows where he is. Brent, have Harrison bring the car around—then take me to the house to get my bag and then to the hospital.” Her lips pucker and she exhales slowly—almost whistling.
Everything else disintegrates in the light of this monumental development. Because even though Sofia is chanting everything is fine to no one in particular, her face is tight and pale. She’s shaking scared, and she’s one of my best friends in the whole world. She needs me.
Jake and I move at the same time—him out the door, me sweeping Sofia up into my arms. Her hands clasp around the back of my neck even as she says, “I’m in labor, Brent, not an invalid. I can walk.”
“Of course you can—but why should you have to when you have a manly man like me around?”
As I head down the stairs, I adjust Sofia’s considerable mass in my arms. And of course, she notices.
“If you tease me about how heavy I am, I’ll rip your beard hairs out.”
“Tease? Me?” I grin. “I would never tease a woman about her weight—especially a pregnant woman.” I make it down the last step, then add, “Although . . . I think my titanium prosthetic just bent under the strain.”
She pinches me. On my neck, my arms—anywhere she can reach.