Page 156 of Love Sick

He nods. “I injected it every three months for almost a year. That shit works, man. When she got pregnant, she gave me that.” He nods at the poster. “She had her baby, and all the pain sort of resolved. I haven’t seen her for a while now.”

I stare at the poster again, my view of him entirely reshaped. That poster isn’t swagger. It’s pride. I’m not certain where the line between the two lies, but it’s distinct.

When I turn back to him, his scrutinizing gaze is fastened on me.

He crosses his arms. “What do you think about all this stuff with Alesha?”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. “Honestly? I think keeping it a secret and letting Grace drown under all those rumors was a really shitty thing for her to do.”

A humorless laugh bursts from Asher. “Yeah. Do you ever think about how terrible it must be to be a woman? Rumors like that never spread about men.”

Surprised, I step a little closer. “I’ve got four sisters. I think about it all the time. Did you know Alesha thinks now that she’s public with Langston, the rumors will just…go away?”

Asher’s skeptical face says everything. “I always kind of thought Grace wasn’t interested in dating because of those rumors.”

“She wasn’t,” I say.

His head tilts. “I kept trying anyway—until it became obvious it wasn’t that she didn’t want todate. She just didn’t want to dateme.” He gives me a pointed stare. “But I guess I should be glad. Dating her looks like it hurts.”

I avert my gaze and take a sip of the smooth liquor. “How do you figure?”

Ice clinks against glass as he goes back to work. “Because you got hurt.”

My chuckle is bitter and tastes of fine whiskey. “I guess we weren’t as secretive as we thought, huh?”

“Nah, man. The second you guys stopped fighting in didactics, we all knew you’d fucked it out of your systems.”

“Well.” I swallow against a knot in my throat. “It wasn’t the dating that hurt. It’s thenotdating that hurts.”

“What happened?” His voice has gone thready, like he doesn’t want to know, but can’t help himself.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “When an insecure woman decides she’s not good enough for you, there’s no convincing her otherwise. Can’t force her to be with me. What else could I do?”

He doesn’t look at me. His gaze is fixed to the glasses as he grins. “I guess you keep trying til you find the Botox.”

* * *

The next day, my drooping eyes win against a documentary on recalled medical devices. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep when a soft knock raps on my front door. I blink at the uterus on the ceiling, confused. The stranger raps again, a little louder.

I rub my eyes and take a sip of water. The documentary is going strong, so I snap the TV off before I head to the door. It swings open in silence, and my stomach drops.

Grace stands at the threshold, unsmiling. Her wavy hair hangs limp, T-shirt and leggings rumpled. Hazel eyes meet mine and blink once. “Can I talk to you?”

The mangled organ in my chest lurches out a single throbbing beat. “Why?”

She looks down and pulls her lip between her teeth. “Just—please?”

I stare at the top of her head, at the slump to her shoulders, and the hopeful, self-destructive part of my brain urges me to hear her out. My feet move away from the door, allowing her entry, and her presence invades my space once more. Her scent fans out and clings to all the places it had dissipated.

Ugh. I’ll have to extract her all over again.

The door clicks closed, and I lean against it while she perches on my coffee table.

Silence.

She says nothing. I hardly breathe. Looking at her hurts, so I stare at the door to my bedroom and wait.

I squeeze my eyes shut against her sniffle. Her tears are knives in my flesh. I want to comfort her, but I also want to scream. She did this to us.

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