I had slumped against my pillow, tucking my hand under my head and staring at the ceiling, smiling. “Ever seen a Southern Cassowary?”
“Negatory.” I could hear the smile on his face. It made my chest hurt.
I had closed my eyes, swallowing hard.
“It’s an Australian bird. It looks like a Karen who is asking to talk to the supervisor after discovering her fat-free latte had two pumps of regular vanilla syrup instead of the sugarless.”
He spluttered, delighted. “I’m Googling it right now. Oh God. You aren’t wrong. That face …”
“Your turn.”
He thought about it, then said, “I always thought naked mole rats looked like shriveled-up penises. Of the ill-equipped, might I add.”
I laughed so hard that I peed my underwear a little.
There was silence afterward.
“Should I still not wait for you, Belle?”
My body felt heavy and full of pain, but I didn’t cry. I never cried over a man. “No,” I had said quietly.
And that was that.
As time passed, so did my fear that I was going to be brutally murdered by my stalker/s. I hadn’t heard from them （him?） in weeks, even though I checked my letters, looked around me, and took my gun everywhere. Plus, Simon, whom I referred to as Si just to rile him up, had taken it upon himself to shadow me everywhere I went, specifically whenever I was in Madame Mayhem. I read between the lines that his job wasn’t to help with the club, but to help keep me alive. Surprisingly, I wasn’t overtly upset about it. I was an independent woman, yes, but I was also not a complete moron. I appreciated any help I could get keeping myself safe until I found out more about who was after me.
Devon was supportive in more ways than one. He went along with all of my whims and requests.
When I told him I didn’t want to know the gender of our baby, he didn’t protest even once, although I knew he was the kind of man who liked to know everything about everything.
Until one day, when he came to pick me up for our weekly OB-GYN meeting and ran three minutes late. This was new. He was usually the one I kept waiting for a minute or two while I got my shit together upstairs.
I got into the cab and smiled at him. He smiled back, looking a little … off. Like a layer of ice had blanketed his face.
“I thought about another weird animal yesterday, after we talked,” I said, buckling up.
“Do share.” He sat back, quirking an interested eyebrow.
“Marabou stork. They look like they have a soggy ball sack under their beaks.”
He chuckled, and that was when I noticed them.
The faint pink scratches on his neck.
My insides flipped. Weakness made my knees buck. I had to breathe through my nose and lean against the door.
“I see you’ve been busy.” I narrowed my eyes at his neck.
“I’m always busy, darling. It’s called being a grown-up. You should try it sometime.” But he had the nerve—the audacity, actually—to turn a little pink.
“Good thing one of us is getting some, even if it isn’t me.”
I needed to shut up. I had absolutely no right to do this to him, after preaching to him about how much we were not a couple.
He rearranged his collar, looking uncomfortable, which made things worse. He wasn’t even an asshole about it, so I couldn’t throw a proper fit.
“Tell me all about it,” I demanded.
“No,” he drawled, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Do it now, Devon. I want to hear.” I crossed my arms over my chest, unsure why I was doing this to him. To myself. But the answer was clear—I wanted it to hurt. Wanted to punish myself for giving a shit in the first place. His mouth flattened into a grim line before he spoke.
“I had an unexpected two-hour window yesterday. An old friend was in Boston for a medical conference. We went to dinner in her hotel—”
“Let me guess, and you ended up staying for dessert?” I smiled viciously.
His face was blank. Unresponsive. I was going to burst in tears. Or maybe just burst period. Maybe my skin would rip apart. Maybe green, jealous goo would pour out. Maybe I would finally remember what I seemed to forget recently—that men are horrible creatures designed to hurt you.
“You slept with her.” I said it as a statement, hoping he would deny it or he’d say that he kissed her and it didn’t feel right so he left. Or promise it would never happen again, because he didn’t even enjoy it—that it was me he had thought about the whole time.
But he simply said, “Yes.”