Page 5 of The Ring
“What?” I respond, shocked. Is that what our friends think happened between us?
“She went away,” he justifies.
“For four months, not nine,idiot,” I say, almost shouting.
He frowns, undeterred. “She could have been hiding it for the first months or gone to France to get rid of it.” He sounds like he’s talking about a fucking conspiracy theory, not the girl he’s known for most of his life.
I’m boiling. “Didn’t you go to visit her?”
“Yes, but it was right after she arrived in Paris. Besides, I spent most of the trip doing business, and when I saw her, I think she was wearing loose-fitting clothes. She’s always been pretty skinny, so I don’t think she’d get a big baby bump. She could hide it easily. And she left a few days after the Monroe-Nodrick anniversary gala, which she and Anthony missed, and no one really bought the story that they both skipped it because they got sick,” West rambles.
Fury coils in my chest, and I want to kick him right now. Iget up from my chair, walking over to pour myself some more water, needing to put some distance between us.
“So your big theory is that we broke up because I got her pregnant, and I was such an arsehole that I didn’t take responsibility for it, so Cornelia had to go to France alone to either give it up for adoption or get an abortion?” Saying this makes me livid, and my fucking headache is doing nothing to calm me down. I rub my forehead.
How could he think I’d do that to her? I would have done anything for her. If she had ever told me she wanted to have kids, I would have asked her how many. There were so many moments when I imagined what it would be like to have a house full of mini versions of Cornelia that I helped create. They’d probably be as breathless as the original and little whirlwinds that, from time to time, would drive me insane, but I’d have adored them, no matter what.
“Maybe.” He sounds more unsure than when he first made his accusation. “I wouldn’t find fault with you if that were the case. It’s a really fucked-up situation to be in.”
“West, I’m twenty-one, not sixteen. If I get someone pregnant right now and don’t take responsibility, it’s not something to justify or call a mistake. It just means I’m abastard.”
“But—”
“I didn’t get her pregnant!” I interrupt him, shouting.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,I’m sure,” I answer, growing tired of this conversation and already anticipating it won’t be the last time he asks. I decide to save myself the trouble and give in now. My voice tightens as I let the words out: “If you insist on knowing… I—I…” I swallow hard. “I had sex with someone else.”
The words leave a metallic taste in my mouth.
“What? With whom?” he asks, staring at me, shocked and in disbelief. Then he frowns, “Was it like the time with?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Andwith whomdoesn’t matter. What matters is that it happened.”
Except itdoesmatter. It’s what matters themost.If it had been with anyone else, I’m sure Cornelia and I could have found a way to move past it.
He blows air out of his mouth in frustration. “That was dumb,” he says, clearly annoyed with me.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my best mate, who is fine with me leaving my pregnant girlfriend without support, but he isn’t okay with me sleeping with someone else while I was with her. I feel that, in his own weird way, he believes the first is a mistake brought on by immaturity, while the latter is a deliberate act.
“No joke,” I deadpan, staring at the ceiling and letting out a long sigh.
“How did it happen? Were you drunk?” West presses, clenching his jaw. He’s mad, even though he’s trying not to let it show. I don’t blame him. Cornelia is like a sister to him, and he’s known her longer than he’s known me.
“I–I…” I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say sharply.I can’t.I can’t. I hate thinking about that night. I hate thinking about what happened. Even if there’s not much to think about.
West rises from his seat. “I have to go to work,” he informs me. Unlike me, he does work.
He owns an art gallery and a nightclub in Mayfair. Rather fun jobs. Maybe I should do something like that, but the only things I know about art aren’t enough to build a career on, and the only thing I know about nightclubs is how to party and get drunk in them. Even though I know he tends to have meetings in the morning, a part of me feels like he is using it as an excuse to get away from me.
“Just don’t tell anyone,” I tell him as he’s about to leave the kitchen. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.” And neither do I.
He turns back to look at me. “Did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
