Page 77 of Not Before Game Night
I was pregnant.
Me.
And Cole didn’t love me.
Chapter 22
Cole
* * *
“Is thereanything else I can get for you?” Mom asked.
She walked into the hall and set down a glass of water on the table next to my paint tubes.
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.”
I wasn’t in the habit of lying to her, and I hated even the small ones.
She knew what had happened. I’d told her, just like I did with everything else. She did the supportive mom thing by coming to see me as often as she could but also giving me my space.
While it had only been a week since I’d last seen Vanessa, it felt like forever, and the day when I last saw her too didn’t quite feel real.
It couldn’t have been me who was telling her that I couldn’t give her what she needed.
“I’m gonna run to the store and grab you some vegetables. You need a hearty soup.” Mom nodded. “Something to give you strength.”
Because I hadn’t eaten much in days. She’d come by two days ago and stayed. I’d confined myself to the hall, painting, and I wished I could say that what I painted was up to scratch with what I normally did.
Before me was a host of nightmarish creatures and distorted fairies. It actually looked like I’d walked into the mouth of hell.
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“But you aren’t, and seriously, boy, if you were a few years younger, I’d march you over to Vanessa Cartwright’s house and make you fix this.” She looked annoyed, as annoyed as she had when I’d first told her what had happened.
“I have fixed it, Mom,” I told her. “I have.”
“What you did isn’t fixing anything. Cole, please think about it.”
“I have. I have, and now I have to just forget. I have to try. Mom… do you love me?”
She gave me an incredulous stare. “Yes, of course I do.”
“You want me to have the best, right? You’d want me to have the best. I know you would, and if you couldn’t give it to me, you wouldn’t force it. I’ve done too much. There’s just too much, and I wouldn’t want her to be with me, then I do something to hurt her. Then she’d hate me. She’d hate me. So, this is better.” I nodded.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and then walked out, leaving me.
She had no answer for me because we’d had this conversation several times before. Her with her positive outlook on life and me with the reality.
The reality of the situation was that Vanessa could and should do better.
I loved her, and if my love was true then I should want the best for her.
It was as simple as that.
It was true too that no amount of love I felt for her was enough.
I continued to paint my nightmare world.
