Page 89 of The Biker and the Baker
“A ‘splash’? A ‘bit’?” One brow jerks up. “Don’t you mean a deluge? An overflow?”
With a burst of laughter, I punch him with my free hand. “Shut up.”
“Nothing to be coy about,” he teases. “You’re my favorite little Indian Pitta.”
I bump into him with my shoulder before resting my head on his.
We wander in comfortable silence until we get to the raised bank of the lake, where a weathered bench and a short pier with a docked fishing boat sit.
On the bench is an abandoned, one-armed Ken doll. I pick him up. He’s a light-skinned Ken, freckled all over, with pale green eyes, red-ish hair and a goatee beard, a silver stud in one ear, and a gray scarf around his neck.
Ken’s kinda hot for a doll, I think to myself as we sit down.Looks a bit like Onyx, too.
“This must be Lola’s doll,” I say, stroking Ken’s fake hair.
Onyx is quiet, but I can feel him staring at me.
I look up from the doll to him. “What are you staring at, weirdo?”
His hair is trimmed in a flawless drop fade, the longer hair at the top rioting with textured curls. He’d shaved it down a few months ago to take a break from braids—which I lamented greatly—so now he’s got these fast-growing white-boy curls that make him look far too innocent and good-boyish. Talk about deceptive.
I sorely miss his braids, but the wait won’t be long, because I swear his hair grows faster than wild grass. Also, I told him I’d rip his balls off in his sleep if he dared to shave down his hair again.
“You remember that IOU?” he asks.
“What IOU?”
“From over a year and a half ago. When you talked that poor masseuse—me—into putting his job on the line to give you a massage between your legs?”
I blink at him. “Seriously? Who even remembers that?”
“I do,” he says simply. “Because youoweme. A debt is a debt.”
“Whatever,” I mumble with an eye roll, still stroking Ken’s hair. “What do I owe you?”
“A baby.”
I stop stroking. “Sorry?”
“I know I didn’t show it, but the miscarriage obliterated me as much as it did you.” His words are careful, treading lightly, but pushing forward regardless, as if this is something that must be said. “I was happy. You’ve got no fucking idea how happy I was. And then he was gone. Poof. Just like that. Fucked me up. Bad. And I’m sorry. So fucking sorry, Pia. But—”
“You want ababy?”
“Want us to start our life together, a family, yeah…”
An indescribable feeling spiking through me, I turn from him and face the lake.
It’s true—I was distraught after the miscarriage, but I never thought to stop and ask howhewas doing. Drowning in my own sorrow, I’d forgotten that I was his strength. That when I’m not well, he’s not well. When I’m low, he’s low. When I’m high, he’s high. And what did I do? I called a break onus.Went away. Never once thinking abouthispain orhisfeelings. Yet, when I came running back, he was there, patient and waiting. No resentment or accusation. The man who relied on me for strength had become my strength.
God, howdeephe must have dug. How much it must have taken him to be strong for me. For thebothof us.
He’d lost our baby, too.
He’d lostourbaby, too.
How could I have been so thoughtless?
Tears brim my eyes when I turn to face him again. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been so selfish—”
