“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she told him. “I’m sorry for keeping her from you, and you from her. I can’t go back, Evan. I can’t change it.”
He studied her for a second, finally sighing and giving his head a shake. “We were partners,” he said. “Once, we were. We worked together during the most horrific circumstances imaginable. For God’s sake, we would have been able to handle an accidental pregnancy together too.” Despite the accusation in his words, his tone had softened, his anger obviously having faded, at least a little.
“Yes. Of course we would have managed. At the time . . . I decided we both needed more than just managing.”
“You decided that without me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“That wasn’t fair.”
“I . . . I know.”
“Do you?” She could see he’d asked it rhetorically, so she didn’t answer. He squinted off behind her for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “I’d like to spend some time with her.”
Her stomach squeezed. She felt momentarily defensive. But he hadn’t threatened her. He’d merely asked to spend some time with his daughter. “Okay.”
His eyes moved over her features before he gave a slight nod. “I won’t demand anything of you, Noelle. I know you’ve been doing this on your own for a long time, and she’s obviously living a good life. I just . . . well, I’d just like a chance to . . .”
“Yes,” she said, rescuing him as he’d rescued her. He didn’t know what to say either. He’d been even less prepared for this than her. “Of course. Tomorrow night the turtles make their journey to the shore. There’s a big gathering on the beach. Callie’s been looking forward to it for weeks.”
“I’d love to be there.” There was a bit of an awkward silence before he said, “I guess I’ll get a hotel room nearby.”
“We have a vacant cottage,” Noelle said. “You’re welcome to stay there.”
“Okay. Yeah.” He looked back over her shoulder again in the direction of the property. “That would be great.”
She nodded. “And I know you’re here for a reason,” she said. “We can talk about that after Callie goes to bed tomorrow.”
He ran his hand through his hair, her words causing a wrinkle to form between his brows. “Right. Yes. We’ll talk then.”
The sun dipped farther, and the last two people who’d been sitting on the beach a little way down the shore stood, packing up their things. “I should get home,” Noelle said. Callie would be back from her bike ride by now, likely stuffed on ice cream. Getting her to bed would be a chore and a half. Despite the thought, her heart warmed, and she felt the pull toward her child. “Come with me,” she said, turning toward the wooden bridge that connected the beach to Chantilly’s property. “I’ll show you to your cottage.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m pretty wiped.”
She imagined he was. She’d just knocked him for a loop. And she was going to need tonight to find her footing once again, too, before hearing why he was here. What had made him decide to seek her out? She almost didn’t want to know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cedro glanced over as the older man heaved into the metal toilet for the hundredth time. He groaned, wiping his mouth with his arm, and fell in a heap on the floor of his cage.
“You should be almost done,” Cedro remarked casually. He’d watched his father detox before. Messy. Gross. The man in the cage next to him had been puking his guts up for the past three days. Or what Cedro thought were three days, if he could count on the schedule of the lights turning on and off to tell him when it was day and when it was night. Until that morning, the man had been crazed, ranting and sweating and plain out of his mind. Lucky break for him in some ways. In others, not so much. Because now, with a sane mind, he’d have to come to terms with where he was.
“If you’ve been wondering if the cage was part of your sickness, it wasn’t,” Cedro said. “The cage is real. And your stench is definitely real. I can smell you from over here.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man slurred, rolling over and gripping his head.
“Make me.”
The man pulled himself into a sitting position, gripping his bars and squinting over at Cedro. Cedro wasn’t good at guessing ages. The guy looked old to him, but part of that was probably because he’d spent a week at death’s doorstep. His eyes were sunken in, and though his hands were brown, his face was pale and was sorta green, and he had deep wrinkles that looked carved into his skin and a generous amount of gray in his short beard. Yes, he was at least oldish, and there was something just a little familiar about him.