Page 78 of The Girlfriend Game
Thirty-Seven
Zeke
Pacing backstage, I wait as Kendall finishes her speech, barely listening to her as noise rumbles and crashes in my head like ocean waves breaking over the rocks, loud and disorienting.
Kendall’s pregnant? When the hell did this happen?
Is she with someone new? Is someone else the father?
I haven’t seen her in two months. A lot can happen during that time. Maybe she is with someone else, and she’s moved on.
That thought has my heart sinking with despair.
When I caught sight of her from across the stage, my heart lodged in my throat and my knees nearly buckled. I fought the urge to run toward her and wrap her up in my arms. Tell her how much I’ve missed her and how good it is to see her. To be in her presence.
As my eyes scanned over her from head to toe, taking her in like a thirsty man does with a cold glass of water, I thought at first the lights were playing tricks on me. The dress she wore clung snugly to her heavy breasts and full belly, indicating a significant and noticeable change in her physical appearance since the last time I met her for coffee.
Kendall always looks incredible. Shapely and gorgeous, she makes my mouth water with thirst and desire. Her cheeks are a bright shiny pink, and her full breasts plump enticingly, showing off a glimpse of the delectable cleavage in the V-neck of her dress. Breasts I’ve been up close and personal with and still make me hungry for a taste.
I lick my lips instinctively at the desire that still flares inside me. How desperate I am to run my tongue over the swell of her full breasts again. How twitchy my fingers are to touch and caress the bounty that I’ve held in the palm of my hand.
Shit, I’m getting hard.
I don’t want to be hard. I want to be mad. I should be fucking mad as hell that she’s deceived me all this time and kept her pregnancy a secret from me.
Why would she do that? To me?
Did she move on that quickly? Did I mean nothing to her in the end?
Too many questions run through my head as I wait for her to finish. I scoff sarcastically. There she is out on that stage, accepting an award on behalf of the work she does getting patients to open up. To speak their truths. To learn to be honest with themselves and others.
Yet, Dr. Kendall Rush doesn’t practice what she preaches when it comes to her own life.
I stew in my self-righteous pity and resentment until the loud applause of the audience jars me back to the present. I should go. Leave now before I do or say something stupid that will irrevocably do damage to the thin remnants of a friendship we have left.
Stepping from the shadows of the stage wing, I watch as Kendall gracefully walks toward me. The minute our eyes lock, her expression fills with regret. I slowly move toward her, crossing my arms defensively, snarling in anger, ready to pounce.
She takes the wind out of my sails, though, when she collapses to her knees.
“Fuck, Kendall.” I hurry to her side, dropping to my knees in front of her, placing an arm around her back to help her sit up. “Baby, are you okay?”
She sobs uncontrollably for a few minutes as my panic ebbs and flows with the uncertainty of what to do. Finally, her tears run dry, and she lifts her eyes, shiny and wet, and says something I don’t expect her to say.
“Zeke, I’m sorry,” she cries, her voice wobbly and barely audible over the bellowed words of the presenter currently on stage. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t want to trap you.”
“Hey, shh, shh, shh. It’s okay.” I stroke her hair, the soft glide of her strands working their magic on defusing my anger, which dissipates and, in its place, comes acceptance.
Someone walks by, giving us a strange look. I manage to help Kendall to her feet with one hand at her elbow, the other around her back.
“Let’s go somewhere more private where we can talk. Is that okay?”
Without a word of disagreement or protest, I escort Kendall out the backstage door to my parked car, where I don’t say another word until we’re in the warm familiarity of her apartment.
“Can I make you some tea?” I ask, propping a pillow under her bare feet as she stretches out on the couch before rummaging through her pantry to find the herbal tea I know she likes. “Chamomile or Hibiscus?”
I plug in her water kettle and extract two mugs from the cupboard.
“Chamomile, please.”
