Page 107 of For Her Own Good

Three seconds later, as I knew it would, my phone buzzes and despite having zero desire to talk to anyone with my brain exploding like the Death Star has just fired on it, I answer. And before I can say anything, Holden’s voice is in my ear.

“Are you sure?”

He means well. I know he does. It’s a huge decision and weighty for many reasons, but I’ve made up my mind and I’m tired of questioning myself, stewing over every little thing. Or every massive thing like this. I don’t feel awesome about this decision. In fact, I feel pretty crap about it. But I also believe it’s the best choice for myself and Patrick Enterprises and that’s going to have to be good enough.

“Yes, do it. Just fucking do it.”

Then I hang up and start trying to reach Lowry. Five maddening minutes later, I’m in a car on my way to his place because I’ve been texting and calling and even got desperate and tried to email him but nothing. Now I’m worried. Is he sick? Is he hurt or something bad happened to his family in Scotland and he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want me to fret? Except I’m goddamn fretting to the extent that I didn’t trust myself to drive and I didn’t have the patience for Holden to come pick me up, so here I am, checking my phone incessantly in the back of a Toyota Camry. Not a bad car, but the pickup is for shit and makes me want to yell at the driver. Because that would help, obviously.

At long last we reach Lowry’s building, and I barely say thank you before I’m heading inside, waving to the doorman as I pass at slightly less than a run, and pressing the button in the elevator—repeatedly, because again, that will clearly make it go faster—and then riding up to his hall, a ball of impending nervous breakdown. I suppose running to Lowry doesn’t help my case regarding being an independent woman whose boyfriend doesn’t have any say in her business dealings.

Except that I fucking need him. Not to tell me what to do about my business, but to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay, assure me that I have excellent judgment and that I’m not a horrible person nor an abject failure. And perhaps—as seems paramount to everyone who’s on the board of Patrick Industries—that my mind can be trusted. The worst thing is that I can’t even tell them I’ve never questioned my brain’s abilities because I have.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry in a fucking elevator. It’s not fair but I’m kinda mad at Lowry for not getting back to me. If he had, I could’ve asked him to come to my place, wouldn’t have had to bother coming here and I could’ve had some privacy for fuck’s sake. And I don’t even have a key to his place so I’m standing in front of his door and wishing to fuck I’d asked for one. He would’ve given me one, I know for sure.

I knock and listen, but I’m met with silence. Where could he be? Was there an emergency with one of his patients? But surely he could’ve found a minute to shoot me a text and tell me that? He knows how I get, he knows I’ve been having a hard time, and I can’t imagine he would ever do something to intentionally distress me. He wouldn’t, especially knowing my brain has been in such hardcore betrayal mode that I asked Doctor Gendron for an extra appointment. I see her every week, so I don’t make extra appointments without a damn good reason.

Even though it seems utterly fruitless, I knock again and press my ear to the door. Still nothing and I am way too close to having a tantrum right here in the hallway for comfort. I am a grown goddamn woman, I should be able to handle myself through this and not being able to see my boyfriend shouldn’t send me into a tailspin. Except the thing is, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my daddy and I could really use his help right now. The comfort of his body and his words, and the knowledge that he’s one of the people who know me best on this earth and if he says I am competent and trustworthy then I am because he wouldn’t lie. He’s told me before when my mind is lying to me. He’d tell me if I wasn’t in any condition to be making decisions or if the choices I was making were bad ones.

I need for him to say it. Loudly, repeatedly, until I believe him.

“Goddammit, Lowry, where are you?”

I jump back when someone answers.

“He’s gone, dear. Left for Chicago late last night.”

It is completely mortifying that Mrs. Rodriguez, the elderly woman who lives with her family down the hall, has seen me literally bang my head against the wall. And…Chicago? What the actual fuck?

Maybe something happened to Maeve? But he’s been gone since last night and…

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rodriguez. Are you sure he left?”

“Oh yes,” she says, taking a key from her pocket. “He left in a hurry but asked me to water his plants while he’s away. I’ve been doing it a couple of times a week anyway since he’s been spending some of his nights…elsewhere.”

She doesn’t say it cruelly or with disgust, but with that knowing old lady look that tells me she approves of the Scottish doctor having a love interest who he’s been having sexy sleepovers with. She’s probably been asking him when he’s going to marry me and have babies, for the love of god.

Which is when it hits me.Baby. He came over after I’d taken the test, when the sticks were sitting in the trash, and Lowry’s an observant person. What if he saw…oh my god, what if he knows and that’s why he…

I have to clap my hand over my mouth because I am too close—far too close—to vomiting for comfort.

That’s it, isn’t it? He saw the pregnancy tests in the trash and didn’t want to deal. Didn’t want to deal with a baby, something that would tie him to me forever, didn’t think he could stomach dealing with not only my issues but whatever ones she might inherit as well. Too much. I’ve always been too much. Maybe he thought he could handle me—he was handling me, with aplomb, I’d say—but not anything else. God knows a baby throws a wrench into everything.

I wouldn’t have thought he’d have left without a word, and if he’s gone to Chicago—back to Maeve? He wouldn’t. Except I wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable of abandoning a pregnant woman either, but here we are. Maybe this has something to do with his deep-seated fear about being like his uncle and he bolted? Why didn’t he fuckingtalkto me? He had enough time to ask Mrs. Rodriguez to water his goddamn plants, but he couldn’t be arsed to say a single fucking word to me?

“Dear, are you all right? You look like you need to sit down. Can I—”

“No, Mrs. Rodriguez, I’m—” I’m choking on a sob is what I’m doing because my entire world is falling apart. Everything is upside down. I’m getting into business with Jerome Garrett who I should believe is the worst of the worst, I’m turning my back on my father’s protégé—although after that performance today, I can’t imagine my father would object—and the man I thought loved me has left.

Except, that’s what Lowry does, isn’t it? Makes me trust him, makes me love him, coaxes me into complacency and into dumping all of my vulnerability into his lap, and then he fucking up and leaves. This is a pattern and I can’t believe I fell for this again.

“I’m fine,” I finish, and she clearly doesn’t believe me. Is looking at me like I’m a wounded fawn not worth saving because I’m so badly mangled. “There was a, uh, miscommunication. I’m sure we’ll talk later. Have a good evening.”

I bite my lip as hard as possible once I reach the elevator and punch the button for the lobby. Not going to cry. Not going to cry. I am not going to shed any more tears over Lowry Harrison Campbell. Not in front of his building where I summon another car to take me home. Not in the back seat where I sit in silence, not even bothering to check my phone now that I know why he’s gone. Not on my way to my apartment and not even once I’ve locked my door and then collapsed on my couch.

Numbness is stealing over me and I welcome it. I used to fight it because I knew what it meant, but it’s so much easier to be unfeeling right now. So I let it envelop me, surround all my feelings, and wrap them up in mist where they disappear.

I’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong. So very, very wrong. But who cares anymore? Not I.

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