Page 8 of The Game Plan
“No.”
Fuck. One word. Two letters that gut me.
A rush of air leaves my lungs. Relief is the first. I’m not going to be a dad. This responsibility isn’t mine. It’s the answer I’d been hoping for all day.
But right now, on its heels comes something else. Something heavier.
Disappointment.
And that part makes no damn sense.
I drag my hands down my face, tipping my head until it’s resting on the back of the seat.
I swallow, keeping my voice even. “So that’s why you left?”
“I didn’t know how to stay. Didn’t know how to face you—face anyone—when suddenly I was living my worst nightmare. The life I swore I’d never have.”
She’s silent for the briefest of moments, and when she speaks again, her words are quieter. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
Like this.
Like she’s something to be ashamed of. Like she thinks I’d look at her any differently.
“That’s bullshit,” I blurt before cringing at how harsh I sound.
She flinches but doesn’t argue.
I don’t know what to say to make this better. For once, I feel like I’m at a loss for words. I’ve always been the friend everyone comes to, but right now, I could use a lifeline of my own.
I do the first thing that comes to mind. I reach for her hand again. I don’t know who this is anchoring—me or her—but I want her to know she isn’t alone.
She swipes at her eyes. I hate seeing women cry. It triggers an internal need to fix everything. And I especially hate seeing Savannah cry.
“I–” Her voice breaks as tears pour down her cheeks. “I wanted the father to be you.”
My breath catches as I whip my head in her direction.
Her chin trembles. “If it were yours, then maybe I wouldn’t have felt so…so lonely.” She sucks in a shaky breath, fighting to keep her emotions in check. “Maybe I wouldn’t have spent the last few months terrified, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to do this alone.”
Alone? What the fuck? Where’s the baby’s dad?
She’s not alone. Not as long as I’m breathing.
The words take up residence inside me, and I’m not sure if now is the right time to voice them.
Instead, I squeeze her hand again. “You should’ve told me.” My voice stays steady, even though I’m breaking, and the baby isn’t even mine. “Not because of what it would’ve meant, but because you didn’t have to go through this by yourself.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”
For a moment, we just look at each other—both of us searching for what to say next. I know it’s not my problem. But what if I want it to be?
She shifts in her seat, hesitating briefly before awkwardly leaning over the console in a way that doesn’t crush her growing bump. Her arms come around my shoulders, tentative at first,as my senses are flooded with everything that is Savannah Holycross.
Vanilla. Cinnamon. Peaches.
As she squeezes me tighter, I take the opportunity to inhale her intoxicating scent. A deep exhale hits my shoulder through the material of my polo.
Before I can even think about what this hug means, she’s pulling away, pressing a quick kiss to my stubble-covered cheek. A whisper of warmth—of hope. A flash of something I can’t decipher in time before she’s pulling away, and I feel her slip from my grasp.
