Page 53 of Giving Grace

“No.” It’s the truth, I don’t but when I say it, he looks at me like he doesn’t want to believe me. “He was right, so I just left.”

“He was right?” His tone goes heavy again. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he was right—I couldn’t prove any of it so what was the point?” I pull my hand from his and push myself to my feet. “And to be honest, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want anyone to know because I was pregnant and I was afraid it would change the way I felt about her. Change my mind about keeping her—and I wanted her. I needed something good to come out of what happened to me. That’s what I realized, as soon as I asked him—that I didn’t want to know. That I was glad I didn’t remember and when he slammed the door in my face, I was relieved...” My voice cracks and even though it’s dark, I have to look away from the shape of him because I can feel him looking at me. Judging me. “I supposed that makes me a coward, huh?”

“You’re not a coward.” I sense, rather than feel him reach for me but I pull away before his hand can find mine. He makes a soft, frustrated sound before pushing my name out on a heavy breath “Grace—”

“Goodnight, Ryan.” I turn away from him with as much dignity as I can and stumble my way around the bed and across the room.

“Goddamnit.” I feel him surge to his feet behind me. That he’s close. Seconds away from stopping me from leaving. “Can we at least—”

“No, we can’t.” Using the thin slice of moonlight to navigate my way through the dark, I find the door and use it to make my escape.

Thirty-four

Ryan

I fucked up.

Big time.

Which, in of itself, isn’t a surprise. When it comes to Grace, I’m nothing but a walking, talking pile of fuckery.

I’m halfway across my room, intent on following her and doing something stupid, when my phone starts to rattle on my dresser again. This time I snatch it up and answer it.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growl into the phone because I’m sure it’s Patrick and even though I’ve been on my best behavior for the past few months, I’m suddenly feeling like me. The old me. The me that swings first and asks questions later. The me that leaps before he looks.

“I’d like my daughter to answer her phone.” A slightly familiar male voice cuts across the line. “But I guess I’ll settle for talking to you.”

Grace’s father.

Shit.

“Alright.” I growl at him because, even though this is Grace’s father and my heart is slamming around in my chest like it wants to jump up my throat, I’m still pissed over the way they treated her. “So talk.”

“I’m more of a face-to-face kinda guy,” he tells me. “And since—”

“You at Patrick and Cari’s?” I cut him off because as it turns out, I’m a face-to-face kinda guy myself.

“Yeah.”

“Great. Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes,” I tell him before hanging up the phone.

Pulling up my texts, I scroll through the long list of messages from Patrick.

Patrick: Bring them back.

Patrick: I’m serious.

Patrick: Ellen is freaking out.

Patrick: It’s my wedding day,

you fuck, and Cari is losing

her shit.

Patrick: Ellen is talking about

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