Page 116 of Protect Home
What was I thinking? I know…I wasn’t. I was trying a little too hard to hang with the girls and wound up swollen and emotional. I trot into my room for our stay and fall into the deepest of breaths as I strip off my clothes.
Goddamit. I can’t stop crying. Tears fall from my face, unwarranted at that, and I have zero control over them.
Deep breaths, Tenley. It’s okay. You’re okay.
I barely made it out of the restaurant before plopping on a nearby bench, insisting the man passing by with a horse and carriage take me home.
He ignored me, and I cried some more.
So, I resorted to ordering myself a Lyft and insisting Kodi and Navy enjoy their night without me.
The only thing on my mind was taking these foot killers off, a hot shower, and seeing August’s face.
Too chickenshit to just call, I decide to torture myselfand pull up August’s social media. It’s for research and job purposes, I tell myself. But I just want to see his face.
I can’t find the strength to look at my phone album of all the moments we’ve shared that I made a point to document.
Those will only make the ache in my chest right now worse. His social media should give me a good laugh reading all his ridiculous captions, hopefully turning my deplorable mood around for the better.
I scroll his profile, my finger hovering over the photo he posted of me yesterday, holding my suitcase before the trip. I knew he took it. Hell, August has been taking random photos of me my entire pregnancy, but this one…he looks at me like I’m so much more than the mother of his child.
It’s as if I’m his entire reason for being alive.
My heart has never felt so completely tied to another person.
So, I let him post it. I didn’t put up a fight and decided to be grateful a man like August Graves would count me special enough to document.
What I didn’t expect to find him tagged in are pictures of him on the town tonight. He must have decided to finally get out with the guys after putting the crib together, and it looks like they went to Delta, Atlanta’s most popular nightclub. The Strikers get VIP access, so it makes sense. They get a little bit of privacy while also experiencing some type of normalcy.
Good for him.
He deserves to have a night of fun and let loose. Especially when his life is about to get much busier.
However, the woman falling into August’s side doesn’t seem very private. The incredibly gorgeous brunette in sky-high heels and a formfitting yellow dress. She’s stunning.
He’s lounged back in a booth I recognize well, havingsat there myself a time or two with the team. His muscular arm is draped across the top frame of the booth while the other rests on his thigh. The woman is all but clawing at his side, anticipation in her bright eyes.
Despite their proximity, he looks disinterested.
My stomach sinks, turns, catapults, threatens to leave my body entirely. I feel like I could puke, and I know I’m not permitted to. I know what it’s like when the guys hit up Delta. Fans, women and men, throw themselves at them, hoping to be lucky enough for a player to take home for the night.
Lucky to be fucked into morning by a man like August.
I can confidently confirm what a great fuck he is, too.
I know in my heart of hearts this is innocent. I doubt King posting this picture meant anything and was his way of sharing a glimpse into his night.
August isn’t and wouldn’t be interested in another woman when he’s been nothing but vocal about his feelings for me. Not because I’m anything special, but because he’s shown me countless times how much he cares.
And those other women August used to entertain? Never once did I see him learn every small detail about them or move himself into their apartment.
So, no. I’m not special, but I’m beginning to realize how special I am tohim. That’s enough for me, and seeing this woman hanging all over him now turns the sour feeling in my stomach to one of pride.
I’m enough for him. I deserve to be the woman he chooses, and I see that clearly now.
That’s my man, and the closer I look at the picture, the more the stars align inourfavor. Because right there, peeking out of the pocket of August’s button-down shirt is an all-too familiar Polaroid. The same Polaroid I watchedhim casually take of me, testing out the nursery rocking chair.
We had just finished putting it together, finalizing all the last-minute touches on the nursery, and I just wanted to sit and look at it. To soak it in. Relax for a while in the space our son would spend his nights dreaming and growing into the little man I know he’ll be someday.
