Page 49 of Fall Love

Am I capable of such a thing? I don’t know. I’ve never been committed to anyone other than myself. And I don’t know why I’m like that. I just am.

My hand rubs over my belly without a thought as I realize I am committed to another human being, or one soon to be. Motherhood will be one of the biggest commitments of my life.

A pregnant pause follows Charma’s question, and I’ve taken too long to answer her, so I hold up my swollen fingers and wiggle them. “I’m not really a ring kind of girl.”

Still, my throat thickens around the admission. Is that true about me? If I can’t wear a ring, does it mean I’ll never be committed to another person? An adult, not a child. A partner. An equal.

I don’t know why this suddenly weighs on my mind. Because I don’t care. But I do.

Miss Charma tilts her head, assessing me a second.

“Your feminine intuition is already strong, Nevie.” She nods toward Tate, as if she’s read my thoughts, my unspoken questions, but my gaze lands on her, stuck on what she just called me, which obliterates all other thinking.

She’s never called me Nevie before. But my dad did, and I swallow additional thickness in my throat. If she calls me Snowflake next, I’m going to be a puddle right on this street.

“Have a good one,” I mutter to Charma, pulling myself away from the booth, before I do something ridiculous, like break into tears.

“So, how are you?” Tate asks as I step away from Miss Charma’s booth. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s following me. I sense his presence like a shadow behind me.

Or is he a ghost, as he’s practically ghosted me for days. And I hate this feeling. The feeling of uncertainty. The feeling of being dismissed. The feeling that I’ve served a purpose for Tate, and now he’s finished.

Quickly, I react to him, spinning to face him, causing him to almost bump into me with the abruptness of my stop.

“How I am is . . . I have this modern invention called a telephone. It’s even portable and handheld now. Slips right into your pocket.” I nod toward his hip, knowing he has his in his back pocket even if I can’t see it. What I do see is the tight fit of his Henley. The strength of his forearms. The sudden collapse of his smile.

“If you wanted to know how I am, I suggest you should have used it.”

Sweet goddess, I’m so bitchy sometimes. As the words leave my mouth, sharp and defensive, and completely uncalled for, I wish I could draw them back. And while I could blame it on pregnancy hormones, that isn’t the issue. The truth is messier than that, and I hate how quickly I know it.

Too much is colliding together. The sale of Rusty’s Wrecks. Tate as the father of my child. An uncertain future. The impending birth of Little Wrench.

My stomach somersaults and has nothing to do with the baby rolling around inside it. I’m caught between wanting Tate to never speak to me again because of the sale, because it would be easier to just be angry and done with him . . . and wishing, in a way I don’t want to examine too closely, that he had checked on me. That he’d asked how I was holding up instead of just disappearing into silence, like the sale meant nothing to me emotionally. Because it was more than a simple business transaction to me.

It was stupid. Wanting both things at once. Worse than stupid, actually. Which makes me not know how to behave around him. I don’t know if I can trust him, and even worse, I don’t know if I can trust myself.

Because I still feel this strange pull to him. This unexplainable feeling of . . . hope.

Ugh!

I spin away from him again, but he catches my wrist, gentler than I expect, like he’s trying not to lose me rather than hold me here.

“You’re right. I should have called.” His voice is quieter, less sure of himself. “I just didn’t know how to navigate this,” he quietly admits. “I didn’t know if you’d want to speak to me. Or not.”

For a second, I don’t answer him because the honest response would be too complicated, and I don’t feel like being honest in a way that leaves me exposed.

But as I stare at him, aware that we are still standing in the middle of a fall market, the booths and people around us seem to fade away, leaving just Tate and me and a well of vulnerability between us.

Slowly, I exhale, as if that single breath takes all the fight out of me, leaving me simply tired.

“Yeah, well . . .” I start, noting there’s less bite in the words than previously. More exhaustion than anger. A pinch of disappointment, maybe. “It’s not like you could read my mind.”

It’s not like he could know how mixed up I am inside if I don’t express the confusing emotions rolling around in my head.

I close my eyes briefly, press my lips together, and choose my next words carefully. When I open my eyes, I say, “I’m assuming everything went through on the sale.”

After a beat, he nods. Hesitates. His own response comes out cautious. “It will take a few weeks to get your money.”

“It’s never been about the money.” I gently tug my arm from his grasp, noticing the strain in my voice. Like I’ve been holding myself at a distance for too long, and the space between us is starting to drown me.