Page 70 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“Bacon, I still want to be with you. I’m just asking for time! And this isn’t sudden. I’ve been worried for a while now about how fast everything is moving between us. We’re like this—this—this… insta-family and?—”
“And what?” He throws his hands up. “You don’t want to have a family with me?”
“No, I do, but?—”
“But what?”
How do I explain to him that in one brief conversation, Ginny Quick, of all people, peered into my soul, saw every one of my insecurities, and dangled them in front of my face until I could no longer see straight?
How do I tell him that I want him, but I’ll be damned if I let myself need him?
He’s completely stone-faced.
“You said once that you’d give me anything I need,” I whisper and take his hand. “I’m so sorry, but this is what I need.”
“Do what you need to do.” He drops my hand and walks toward the door. Just before he’s out of sight, he stops. He keeps his back to me when he says, “Colleen?”
I sniff. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been alone. Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
With a slam of the door, he’s gone.
Chapter 22
Bacon
When your dad abandons you at eight years old and your mom all but relinquishes her parental rights when you’re thirteen, you don’t deal so well with the mother of your children moving out on you.
At least I’m not dealing so well.
But god knows I’m trying.
It’s three and a half weeks until the restaurant's grand opening, so I have a million things to keep me busy, but still, all I can think about is her.
On day three of our separation, I open our text thread and read through all our messages from the past few months for what has to be the hundredth time, trying to understand where things went wrong.
Sam let me know she found a furnished one-bedroom apartment that had just opened up above Tiddy’s.
You know things are bad when the pregnant mother of your children would rather live above a Tiddy bar than with you.
Double D, not double T. But still. It’s bad.
Suddenly, three small dots pulse on her side of the text thread, signaling she’s typing. My whole body goes on alert. The dots appear and disappear several times before stopping entirely.
I guess she thought better about saying anything.
I put my phone down and rest my head in my hands on the main food prepping counter in my brand-new restaurant kitchen while my sous chef and a few other restaurant staff scurry around. The producers of Yes, Chef! made sure I have a wonderful staff. They took care of interviewing local folks from Fork Lick and surrounding towns so I could focus on the creative aspects of the proceedings. For anyone looking to launch a new restaurant, I highly recommend winning a reality TV cooking show first and getting this level of support. It’s especially helpful when you’re experiencing heartbreak and have a hard time getting your head on straight.
This afternoon, we have some early reviewers coming in to sample our fare, and hopefully, they will garner us some good press. I could use any kind of win right now to lift my spirits.
My phone buzzes against the metal prep table, startling me. I pick up immediately.
“Colleen?” I’m embarrassed by the eagerness in my tone.
“Sorry to disappoint, buddy. It’s me.”
“Trent! Hey, man. It’s good to hear from you. How’s the book tour going?”
