Page 23 of Ghost's Obsession

“Thanks for helping me out. That couldn’t have been pleasant for you. I apologize for getting you involved in all this.”

“You don’t apologize for something you can’t control. You survive it. That’s what you’re doing. You’re surviving.”

She nods, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. I can tell from looking at her that she’s already exhausted and she just woke up.

“You’d be more comfortable in the house,” I say. Last night I’d asked her to move in. Saying that it felt all kinds of wrong having a pregnant woman living in my garage. But she said she was fine.

I’m not giving up though. Someone made her feel like she has to take the weight of the world on her shoulders and do everything alone. I swear to God, if the asshole who did this toher was standing in front of me right now, I’d put him through the goddamn wall.

I wait while she disappears into the bathroom with her wet cloth while I clean up the mess she didn’t ask me to deal with.

It doesn’t take long to clean up, just a splash of water here, a wipe down there. I’ve seen worse, and honestly, I’d mop the whole damn floor with my shirt if it meant she didn’t have to do it herself.

By the time she steps out, her face is washed, her hoodie’s changed, and her hair is pulled back tight and neat. She’s trying to reclaim her personal power after being vulnerable in front of me. I can see the effort in her shoulders, the set of her jaw.

I don’t say anything. Just hand her the water bottle I left on the worktable and a granola bar she probably won’t eat. She takes them anyway.

We step outside without a word and sit on the log pile behind the garage. The morning air is cool, the trees filtering soft light through early haze. She leans her elbows on her knees, head down, water bottle rolling slowly between her palms.

“You didn’t have to stay while I was throwing up,” she says quietly.

“I know. I stayed because I wanted to,” I tell her.

Her voice takes on an emotional edge. “I’m not your responsibility just because I work for you.”

Swallowing thickly, I croak out, “I am well aware of that fact. It’s hard for me not to respond when a woman is in distress.”

She glances sideways, just enough to catch my expression. “You weren’t weirded out?”

“Not even close. I was fuckin’ worried about you.”

She doesn’t respond right away but I hear her exhaling softly. I glance over at her again, noting that she still looks frail, but I see her shoulders relax a little.

After a minute or so she murmurs, “You are kind of hard to read. I don’t know why you do the things you do sometimes. You know what I mean?”

I run my palms down the front of my jeans, feeling uncomfortable. “It’s better to be hard to read than to be hard to trust.”

A tiny smile jumps onto her face. Barely there, but genuine, letting me know she appreciates my point.

“I mean it,” I add. “You don’t have to be tough all the time. Not with me.”

She nods slowly, then takes a sip of water. “I know. I’m not used to relying on other people. And I didn’t think this was how any of this would go.”

“You mean the part where I held your hair back when you were sick?”

“Exactly that part. Most guys would be running from a situation like that.”

“Well, I’m not fuckin’ most guys,” I tell her, my voice sounding rougher than I intend it to.

We sit in silence a little longer, just breathing in the pine-sweet air and not pretending to be anything other than two people dealing with something bigger than either of us planned for.

“Ready to head to the clinic?” I ask eventually.

She nods, giving me a wan smile. “Yeah, might as well get going.”

And when I stand, I offer my hand, not because she needs it, but because I want her to know she’s got a friend in me. She hesitates for a brief second before sliding her hand into mine. It feels like winning the fucking lottery.

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