Page 56 of One Pucking Heart

ELENA

For years, I’ve wondered what it would feel like to make it, to reach the destination I’ve been striving for. I’ve dreamed about it, archived pictures in the vision board in my mind, and looked forward to the day when I would be happy. The day all my dreams would come true.

This is not to say I would’ve traded my life with Ariana for anything. We struggled, but we were happy. She was enough, but as I worked for more, I couldn’t help but dream about what it would be like when I was living a life that was more than enough.

The thing is, I’m here. This is it, I think. This is my more than enough, yet I’ve never been so miserable. I’m constantly questioning my choices. My mind knows I’m doing the right thing, but why does it feel so awful if this is what is meant to be? And when will this torture end?

According to the plastic stick in my hand with the blue plus sign, not anytime soon.

Leaning my back against the bathroom wall, I slide down until I sit against the tiled floor. Knees bent, I hug my legs to my chest as the tears fall in streams. I’m consumed with pain and regret. How did I get here?

I have more money than any single person should possess. I’m working at my dream job. My daughter is happy and thriving. Yet here I sit, wallowing in self-pity and getting ready to start the single-mom journey all over again at the age of forty. Where was my common sense? Why didn’t I get on birth control?

Beckett and I used a condom almost every time, save for a few heat-of-the-moment encounters in the shower. Even then, he pulled out. We were careful. At forty years old, I didn’t want to start birth control and mess with my hormones when I wouldn’t need it for long. I know neither method we used was a hundred percent, but I figured along with my age, it was sufficient.

I’m so alone and drowning in sadness, and the one person I want to talk to, I can’t. Beckett, being the fixer he is, would accept responsibility for me and the baby—no questions asked. Yet the entire reason I left was to give him the happiness and life he deserved. He doesn’t want this. I want someone who is at the same place in life as me, who is ready to settle down, who doesn’t want to party late into the night, and isn’t the whore of the team. I’m not going to guilt Beckett into a life he doesn’t want, only for him to wake up one day, a few years down the road, and resent me for stealing his youth.

Beckett and I are compatible, and we do share a deep love for one another. I know this to be true. There are just too many factors at play that make our pairing less than ideal.

I love him. I truly do. And that’s why I won’t trap him.

Had we met under different circumstances and in another life, our love story would be epic. In this life, we simply can’t work.

Avoiding him all week has been exhausting. When I started feeling sick after Seattle, I’d assumed it was the stress of the breakup. It takes a lot out of a person to avoid the one person they crave. I needed some time and distance between us. Beckett required a few days of separation so that when I did talk to him, he’d listen to reason. I can’t put it off anymore. It’s too draining. But now this new development will require a lot more finesse when I go to explain.

Perhaps I’ll deal with the breakup first, and in a few months’ time, when Beckett has healed and moved on with his life, I’ll let him know about the baby. I don’t expect anything from him. He didn’t choose this. He’s here because of me. He’s here because of the millions sitting in a bank account with my name on it. Now, it hardly seems worth it. Some things—in fact, most things—are so much more valuable than money.

Tossing the pregnancy test into the garbage can, I will myself off the bathroom floor. As far as restroom floors go, it’s pretty nice, but it’s not the most comfortable place to have a nervous breakdown. I snatch the box of tissue from the fancy faux-rusted metal box that sits atop the granite countertop and take it with me. I look around my hotel room and sigh. All this luxury and not a single service looks appealing. I yearn for Beckett’s couch and the fuzzy blanket he bought for me.

I pass the bowl of fresh fruit, one of the perks of this fancy suite. They’re probably charging me fifty bucks an apple and working the price into the extravagant daily rate of this place. Not that it matters to me. I never have to worry about money again. Sure, motel rooms frequented by cockroaches may no longer be in my future, but apparently, happiness isn’t either—so all in all, an even trade.

I fall back onto the floral upholstered sofa with a groan. I’m sure this thing is designer and cost way more than it should have, but it’s not remotely comfortable. I blink away the steady river of tears that falls from my eyes, dabbing my face with tissues. There’s no sense in attempting to stop the waterworks at this point. There’s so much misery festering under my skin that it demands to be released.

I’m so alone. I miss him. I need him. Somehow, this time around seems more miserable than the first. It doesn’t make sense because when I left home after becoming pregnant with Ari, I was in dire straits and struggling to put a roof over my head on a daily basis. The same stressors are no longer part of my life, but the ache in my heart feels greater. I truly never thought I’d have the chance to be a mom again. I definitely never dreamed that if I was fortunate enough to get another chance that I’d be doing it alone.

A knock sounds at my door. Stupid room service people. They’re always stopping by with fruit baskets, fresh flowers, or baked goods. I don’t want any of it. “No, thank you! I’m good!” I call out.

There’s more knocking.

I hate this place and its intrusive deliveries and uncomfortable sofas. With a grumble, I force myself up from the sofa. Let the room service guy see me in all my puffy-eyed, tear-soaked, snotty glory. Maybe he’ll realize then when I say I don’t want any of the perks of this suite, I mean it.

I swing the door open, and the room service guy is nowhere to be found.

It’s Beckett.

His chest heaves, and brows furrow with anger. He takes me in, and his features soften. Stepping into the hotel room, he closes the door behind him. It’s so good to see him. My lip trembles, and the tears stream down my cheeks.

“Elena…” My name is a plea and an accusation all rolled into one. He wraps his strong arms around me and pulls me into his chest. He holds me tight and kisses my head while I cry all over his shirt. “I’m. So. Mad. At. You.” His words are a staccato, uttered between kisses.

In true Beckett form, he pushes his needs, his questions aside and comforts me. He sees me hurting, and he wants to fix it, and as the weak person I am, I let him.

He leads me to the sofa and pulls me onto his lap. I circle my arms around his neck and bury my face. I can’t look at him. My embarrassment idles, burning the surface of my skin. But I can’t resist his love. I need it.

Time passes in a blur, and he holds me as I cry. Though it seemed impossible, my tears eventually run dry. There’s no avoiding him now. Panic rises as I think about what I should do and say. I climb off his lap and scoot back until I’m on the opposite side of the sofa. Grabbing a handful of tissues, I clean up my face and blow my nose.

“I’m sorry.” Regret scalds my words, and more emotions sting the back of my eyes. I drag the tissue across my eyes and take several deep, fortifying breaths. “How did you find me?”

“I had you followed.” He works hard to keep his face void of emotion, but I see it anyway, and the sadness behind his eyes breaks my heart.

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