Light in Mourning (Mourning, #2) (21 page)

“What’s sea glass?” his soft little voice asked her.
 

“Here, lemme show you.”
 

His little hand slipped into hers. His mom nodded to Georgia in agreement before the girl who stole my heart, and the little person that may or may not have my DNA coursing through his little body, turned the corner and walked out toward the beach.
 

“Are you sure? I mean, I don't really remember . . .”

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember. We hooked up one night in Jacksonville more than four years ago and that little guy was the result.”
 

“No fucking way.” I shook my head in disbelief. But it couldn’t be denied. He looked just fucking like me. I was sure I could dig up a baby picture that had me looking just like him. “Impossible.” I stared at her, unable to rip my gaze away.
 

“I’m sorry it took me so long. I didn’t have your number, and the situation being what it was . . . I just didn’t think you’d want . . .” She trailed off.
 

“Yeah.” I shuffled to the side and invited her in. We had four years worth of talking to do but I couldn’t calm down; my heart thudded and my breath came out in quick exhales.
 

I can't fucking breathe. Jesus Christ, is it hot in here?

My brain buzzed with a million thoughts, all the time my eyes searching her face.
 

Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Long legs. Light blonde hair.
 

Why didn’t I know her? Why didn't she look familiar? I’d been with a lot of women, but fuck—I never thought I’d forget a face like this.

I walked down to the water with a little fist clenched in my hand. The sweetest little boy I’d ever laid eyes on—a little boy who could easily be Tristan’s son. I tried to distract myself with small talk as we picked our way along the shoreline, pointing out shells, watching the sea birds, throwing sticks for Charlie to fetch, as his mom and possibly his dad talked in my house.
 

Our house.
 

The kitchen we made dinners in.
 

The bedroom we made love in.
 

The living room we planned our wedding in.
 

The house I’d been envisioning our kids growing up in, and yet here was this little guy, a product of Tristan’s one-night stand with someone else. The thought wrenched my heart into two painful, jagged pieces.
 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I bent beside him as he drew swirls in the sand with his finger.
 

“Trevor,” he said in a singsong voice. “You're pretty.”

“Thanks, Trevor.” God, even his name was close to Tristan’s. She’d named him after his dad.
 

Tristan and Trevor. My heart galloped inside my chest cavity, beating against the walls and threatening to burst out.

I suddenly felt lightheaded and plopped my ass in the wet sand.
 

The worst part was she seemed perfectly nice. She didn’t seem vindictive. I’d run into a few of Tristan’s exes and he had a type. Bleached blonde and bitchy, and while she was blonde, she didn’t seem at all bitchy. Other than the fact that she'd announced to this little boy that Tristan was his dad before she'd even spoken to Tristan about it, she seemed perfectly honest. Understanding.
 

I was about to throw up.
 

I took deep breaths and watched the little boy's wavy golden locks fall over his forehead as he drew stick figures.
 

Jesus, he looked like one of the little kids I’d imagined in my daydream last summer. Except this one wasn’t mine. He was Tristan’s and this beautiful little boy's mother’s. Another woman. The product of another night of passion Tristan had had with someone other than me. It didn't matter we hadn't known each other then; he’d always been mine. We’d belonged to each other, were meant to find each other from the beginning, and it felt like such a loss of a dream, having kids together, because now he might have a child with someone else.
 

And then I remembered we didn’t know for sure.
 

But God, he looked so much like him: the odds were in favor of Tristan being this beautiful little boy’s daddy. I ran a hand through my hair, a habit I was picking up from Tristan, and took a few deep, calming breaths.
 

I didn’t know what it would mean for us if this was his child. I didn’t know if I could stay. I loved him, but this was so much. Custody and visitation and shared vacations. My mind ran away with all the potential complications this could hold for our future.
 

Could this break us?

I knew I loved Tristan. I knew this little boy deserved his daddy. I just didn’t know if I could be a stepmom. I didn’t know if I could look into the face of this little boy who looked so much like Tristan: a reminder of a shared night he'd had with another woman.
 

I didn’t know if I had it in me.
 

I walked into our bedroom and found Tristan propped against the headboard, staring off into space. I frowned at his vacant expression. His mind was consumed with thoughts; I could see them running a thousand miles a minute. I tried to quell the anxiety that had been building in my tummy all day. Tristan and Lexi had spent two hours talking at the kitchen table while Trevor and I played on the beach with Charlie, making sand castles and splashing in the waves. He’d asked me if Tristan was really his daddy. He’d said that he’d never had a daddy before. I told him I didn’t know, but with every word he said, my heart broke for him.
 

I took my time going through my evening routine of brushing my teeth and washing my face, because I was dreading crawling into bed with Tristan. After Lexi and Trevor left, Tristan had locked himself in his office. I didn’t know what he was doing, or thinking, but I didn’t bother him. I knew he needed just as much time to adjust to this as I did.
 

“Hey.” I crawled into bed beside him. He snapped out of his thoughts and curled an arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his body. He dipped down and kissed the top of my head, nuzzling his nose in my hair. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and melted into him. I burrowed into his chest and enjoyed the feeling of his soft skin against mine. I swallowed down the lump in my throat, but wasn’t able to calm the raging of my heart.
 

“I have to take care of him.” Tristan murmured into my hair. “He looks . . . he looks so much . . .” He sucked in a quick breath and held it, like he was waiting for my reaction.
 

“I know,” I whispered. Trevor looked just like him. Chances were good that Tristan was his dad. Tristan’s fingers kneaded into the muscle of my neck and I could tell he was staring into space again, his thoughts taking him away.
 

“Lexi and Trevor are in town for a few days. I asked her if I could take him out, spend some time with him.” Tristan stood across the kitchen from me the next morning, coffee cup in hand, hip resting against the counter and sexy as ever.

“Okay.” I stood and watched him, waiting for more, but unable to ask the questions, unwilling to pry.
 

“You don’t mind?”
 

“No.” I obsessively wiped the countertop down with a towel, anything to avoid looking in his eyes.
 

“Are you sure? I just don’t want to miss anymore time with him.”

“How long will she be in town?” That question came out clipped. I didn't mean it to, but it rolled out before I'd had a chance to catch it.
 

“She took a few weeks off. Once she tracked me down, she figured we'd need time to figure things out . . .”

“Do you remember her?” I asked without looking up at him. He didn’t answer right away, the waves rolling on the shore becoming louder and louder with each passing moment of silence that stretched between us.
 

“I’m not sure.”
 

I finally peeked up at him as he ran a hand through his hair.
 

“Did she tell you anything about . . . that night?” The words barely escaped my throat. It physically hurt to say them.
 

“She said we were at a little sports bar. A place I used to go to a lot. She said we took shots and played pool, and I was pretty wasted by the end of the night. She drove me home; she said it seemed like I was going through something.”

“What do you mean?”
 

“Like I was looking to forget something. Or someone,” he mumbled and looked away from me.
 

“Oh. Do you think . . .” I trailed off.
 

“She’s telling the truth?” His eyes darted back to mine. “I don’t know. I don’t see why she wouldn’t. She knew where I lived . . .” He gnawed on his bottom lip once he’d finished. “Four and a half years ago—the month it would have happened—would have been my birthday.”

“Oh.” My brows knit together in confusion.
 

“And the anniversary of my mom leaving,” he said so softly I had to strain to hear him.
 

“What?” I whispered.
 

“My mom left on my birthday. We had a birthday party, cake, pictures, everything was perfect, and then late that night . . . she left. Every birthday was hard for me—the anniversary of her leaving. I always got shitfaced to forget. So when she says it seemed like I was going through something . . . I was.”

My thoughts slammed through my head. Oh God, Trevor was his son. He'd had a one-night stand with Lexi. One night and they’d made a baby.
 

“Well, I’ve got stuff to do, so . . . I’ll see you in a few hours?”
 

“Georgia.” He set down his coffee cup and made his way toward me.
 

“No, it’s okay. Just go be with Trevor. He’s sweet; enjoy him.”

“Do you want to come?” Tristan’s eyes lit up.
 

“No, I can’t. I really have stuff I need to take care of. Calls and . . . whatever. So I’ll see you later?” I turned to leave the kitchen.
 

“Georgia, wait.”

I turned and watched him watching me. His eyes held a look of pain and confusion and anxiety. His shoulders were hunched over, both hands shoved in the pockets of his worn jeans. His white shirt fitted to his lean form. I wanted to run to him, press my nose into the fresh cotton, and inhale him. Take a hit of my favorite scent in the world, one that helped to center me.