If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“What were you going to say earlier?”

We’re walking back to the main house and the sun is setting. It’s a beautiful evening, but I was

reluctant to leave our bubble in the barn. Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

He smirks at me. “If you think I can remember anything resembling the English language after what you

just did with your tongue . . .”

I smack his arm, blushing. “Would you hush?” I look around, but we’re out here alone. “Before we went

into the barn, I said I liked being your friend, and you acted like you wanted to say something about it.

Is this . . . You’d tell me if this was getting too weird for you, right?”

He reaches for my hand as if he needs the support. I don’t hate it. “Remember how I said my therapist

walked me through that exercise?”

“Yeah.”

He squeezes my fingers gently. “When I imagined my future, I didn’t just see Jackson Harbor. I saw

you.”

My stomach flips. I saw him too. I was just too scared to say it. I’m still too scared.

His steps slow, then he stops altogether as he turns to face me. “If you truly want to be my friend and

nothing more, I’ll take it and consider myself lucky. But I’m done pretending I’m not in love with you.”

Can a stomach drop and dance all at once? Because mine is. We’ve never said those words. And now

. . . “East.”

He scrunches up his face and shakes his head. “I screwed this up twice, and while I regret that the way

I handled things hurt you, I can’t regret my choices, because now I have Abi. She might not be my

blood, but she’s my . . .” He shifts his gaze skyward, and my heart twists as I watch his eyes fill with

tears. “She’s my proudest accomplishment.”

“She’s amazing,” I say. “And so are you, Easton. She’s lucky to have you as a dad.” It’s really just that

simple. I love the way he is with her. I love how unequivocally he puts her first. I love . . . him. And now,

looking into his eyes while the cool spring breeze whips my hair around my shoulders, I know I’ve loved

him forever. Even when my heart was broken and I tried to lock it away to protect it, I never stopped

loving him.

He tilts my chin up and studies my face. “I’ve never felt like I was in a position where I could choose

you both, so I made myself stay away. I kept my distance until I could have another chance with you

that might actually last. Something solid enough to weather the worst storm. I want that chance,

Shayleigh.”

I want all of that, but I can’t deny this piece of me that hesitates. This cautious bit of my soul that’s

sending up a warning signal that we’ve been here before. I’ve believed in the improbable and was

crushed. Twice. “Why do you want me, Easton?” It’s only once the question passes my lips that I

realize it’s not the first time I’ve asked. I asked him when we were in Paris.

“Because of who you are. Because we’re good together.”

“But why?”

He grimaces then shakes his head. “I’m not good with the romantic words.”

I try not to crumble. I don’t want it to matter, but he was doing so well, and I asked and ruined it. “I think

you’re better than you believe you are.”

“You’re the writer.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Do you think I could make

the past up to you? Do you think you could love me too?”

Reaching up, I stroke my fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “Easton, I never stopped loving you.”

He dips his head, lowering his mouth toward mine, but I stop him with a fingertip to his lips. “Loving you

is part of who I am.”

He must see the hesitation on my face because the worry doesn’t leave his. “But . . .?”

“But I’m scared.”

“Even having decided that you’re not moving? You’re still . . . You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust life. I don’t trust all the things out of our control. Things happen and choices have to be

made and . . .”

“I’ll prove it to you, then.” He nods, and I see his determination in the set of his jaw. “I’ll have to prove

you can trust me. That I won’t hurt you again.”

I press my palms against his chest and rise onto my tiptoes as I slide them up to his shoulders.

He dips his head, stopping with his lips a breath from mine. “When you pictured your future today . . .

could you make any room in there for me?”

“No, Easton.” I shake my head, and his face drops. “I don’t need to make room because you were

already there.”

He wraps his arms behind my back and lifts me off the ground, crushing my body to his as he kisses

me. I kiss him back and try to ignore the nagging feeling that tells me I’ve invited heartache back into

my life.

Shay

Do doctors’ offices intentionally turn down the heat in rooms where women are wearing these flimsy

exam robes? Because as I sit on the edge of the table and wait for my doctor to join me, I’m practically

shivering. I think my toes might be turning blue.

I wrap my arms around myself and sigh. The fact that I’m even here instead of just getting a quick STI

panel drawn up at the lab speaks to the magnitude of my hypochondria. Symptoms? Exhaustion.

Queasiness. And a side of I-could-fall-asleep-any-fucking-where.

I’m a doctoral candidate slated to defend her dissertation in less than a month. I don’t need to talk to

my doctor. I need a nap. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past few weeks. But

even when I made sleep a bigger priority, it didn’t make any difference. And according to the scale on

the way in, I’ve lost weight.

Please don’t be cancer.

Fear is an icy hand on my lungs.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call.

Dr. Hassell steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “How are you, Shayleigh?”

I smile. I like my doctor. I started working with her in graduate school when the weight loss started

destroying my body. It’s so weird. Everyone praised me for getting thin, but it was killing me. My hair

was falling out, my periods stopped, and I could see my ribs when I stood naked in front of the mirror.

Funny that vanity was the thing that made me finally accept that I had an eating disorder and needed

help to overcome it. “I’m . . . tired.” I laugh, since that’s why I’m here. “But I guess you already know

that.”

I expect her to stand behind the room’s laptop and start noting my symptoms, but she doesn’t. Instead,

she takes the seat next to the table, sitting sideways so she’s facing me.

“I know it’s ridiculous to come in for being tired, but I lost my dad to cancer, and my mom’s primary

symptom before her diagnosis was fatigue, and—”

“Shay, it’s understandable.”

My cheeks heat. “I feel like a hypochondriac.”

“When was your last period?”

“A few weeks ago?”

“And was it a full period or just a little bleeding?”

I shrug. I’ve been heavy, and I’ve been anorexic. My period was never regular until I got a handle on

both and went on the pill. “It was light, I guess. That’s not uncommon for me.” Shit. My eyes instantly fill

with unexpected tears. Am I going to have to get a hysterectomy before I’ve even had a chance to start

a family? I wipe at my cheeks. “If it’s uterine cancer, do you think . . . will I still be able to have

children?”

Dr. Hassell grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and hands it to me. “Shayleigh, I don’t believe

your symptoms are from cancer—uterine or otherwise.”

I dab my cheeks gently then blow my nose with the grace of a trumpeting elephant. “Sorry. I’m just

under a lot of stress right now, and it’s making me emotional.” I force a laugh. “And making me jump to

conclusions, apparently. It’s just stress, right? All this . . .?” I wave a hand in front of my face to indicate

the hot mess express that I’ve become.

“Stress could be a contributing factor to your symptoms, but according to the urine sample you gave

my nurse, you’re pregnant.”

I blink at her. “I’m . . . Excuse me? What?”

Her smile is gentle. “Pregnant.”

My brain takes so long to make sense of the word that it might as well be from a foreign language.

“How could I be . . . I’m not even . . . I’m on the pill. I haven’t missed a period.”

She gives me a sympathetic nod. “That can happen too.”

I used condoms for two weeks after that food poisoning. Just in case. But that doesn’t account for the

sex I had leading up to my sickness. In fact, before I ate the bad shellfish that made my weekend a

total pukefest, it would have been better described as a sexfest. With a married man. Coոtent of

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“I don’t do OB anymore,” she says, “but I can get you a referral if you’d like to continue with the

pregnancy or even if you’re not sure yet.”

“I’m sure,” I say quickly. I understand why she might question it—a single woman with no boyfriend in

sight—but of all the things I’ve been questioning about my life as I wrap up my doctorate, my desire to

have a family is not one of them. When I visualized my future, I pictured children.

I just imagined they’d be Easton’s.

Fresh tears pour from my eyes as I imagine his face when I tell him the news. “Shit,” I whisper. “You

must think I’m such an idiot.”

“Not my brother,” I blurt. Even if I was ready to drop this bomb on my family—and, hello, I’m not—I

wouldn’t want him to be my doctor. I know he’s good at his job, but that’s just weird. My family is close,

but not check-your-dilation close.

“I wouldn’t advise anyone to choose a family member. I’m sure your brother would feel the same.”

I nod along as she goes through some basic pregnancy advice, and I accept the pamphlets she offers.

But I’m trapped in my own mind, nausea tearing me apart as I realize I have to tell George I’m

pregnant. I have to tell his wife.

I’ve become the kind of woman I swore I’d never be.