Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “Greyson, I knew who you were. How you were. And I loved you anyway. I loved you because of that. You anchored me, and I liked that. I felt safe with you. I never wanted you to be like Harris. Why would I? I already have a Harris in my life, and I love him. I always have. He’s like a brother to me. A funny, goofy older brother whom I adore and maybe hero-worshipped a bit when we were younger. But I’m not in love with him. That emotion was reserved for you. For the man I thought I knew. You should have trusted me, Greyson. You should have trusted me with your heart and your body and your soul. I would never have betrayed you.”

  He diverted his gaze down to his precious daughter and felt like a hole had been ripped in his chest. A huge, gaping, bleeding hole . . . a fatal, self-inflicted wound that could only lead to anguish and death. A painful, agonizing death of the soul.

  “There’s nothing more to be said here, Greyson,” she told him, her voice almost gentle. “I’ll go and say goodbye to Chris. I’ll fetch Clara on my way out.”

  He nodded numbly, unable to say another word. She was right—there was nothing more to say. She was lost to him. And the family he could have had, the life he had so coveted, was lost with her. All he had left was this wonderful angel, this miracle child, innocent and sweet, who was at the center of all this emotional upheaval.

  Olivia left, and he dropped a gentle kiss on Clara’s soft cheek.

  “Daddy loves you, darling. Always and forever,” he whispered. So easy to tell her he loved her. She was the only person in the entire world to whom he had ever said those words, and it still surprised him how very much he meant them.

  When she returned, her friend was with her. Greyson got up and gave Clara to her. His reflexes felt sluggish, and he sat down again. Olivia looked exhausted, and he was immediately concerned for her.

  “Will you be okay to drive?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “Yes. I wouldn’t take risks with Clara in the car.”

  He hated her fucking car. It was almost as bad as her house, and he regretted not insisting he drive them to the restaurant. He would follow them closely to ensure they got home safely.

  But as he watched her hug her friend and watched the man make a fuss over Clara, he found himself unable to move. She cast him a troubled look before she and Clara and Chris exited the restaurant, but she did not say another word to him.

  Greyson looked around for his bag . . . there it was. Still on the chair next to his. Right where he had put it. His car keys were in the bag. He kept staring at the bag, willing himself to reach for it, to get his car keys . . . to move. Something. But he couldn’t do any of that. He continued to sit exactly where she had left him.

  He heard her car start up, and a few moments later the front door to the café opened, and Chris strode in. The man halted when he saw Greyson still seated at the table. Greyson sensed his perusal but continued to stare at his bag.

  He felt . . . he couldn’t . . .

  His inability to move or even finish a thought was starting to terrify him. What was wrong with him?

  Christién Roche sat across the table from Greyson and dropped a crystal tumbler in front of him. He poured a generous dose of amber liquid—just a shade or two lighter than Olivia’s eyes—into the tumbler.

  “You’re in shock, mon ami. Take a drink.”

  Greyson shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

  “I think . . . in this case, exceptions can be made.”

  “No exceptions,” Greyson said hoarsely. Feeling a little more like himself. He couldn’t drink. The last time she had left him, he hadn’t stopped drinking for days . . . weeks. He wouldn’t do that to himself again. He had responsibilities. Aside from his own work, he had promised Tina he’d manage the restaurant, he had a self-defense class at the community center tomorrow afternoon, and most importantly, he had Clara to take care of. No more self-indulgent benders for him. Never again.

  The other guy made a strange humming sound before getting up and disappearing into the back, where Greyson presumed the kitchen was. Greyson reached for his bag. He should leave. She wouldn’t be too far ahead of him . . . he should make sure she got home safely. It was his responsibility.

  He pushed himself up and was surprised by how leaden his limbs still felt. Chris came back into the restaurant and tut-tutted when he saw Greyson standing. “Non, you cannot drive in this state you are in. First drink this.”

  “I told you I don’t . . .” The words died in Greyson’s throat when Chris shoved a mug of warm liquid into his hands. “What’s this?”

  “Sweet tea. Is good for the shock.”

  Sweet tea. Greyson would have laughed, but he didn’t seem to have any laughter left in him. He sank back down and obediently drank his tea. Chris sat and watched him closely, taking an occasional sip of the liquid he had poured into the tumbler for Greyson. It smelled like whiskey.

  Well, Greyson would never again underestimate the restorative qualities of a good cup of tea. Warmth started to flood into his limbs, bringing them—and him—back to painful life. Truth be told, shock was better. It kept the emotions at bay. The agony of loss was so much more bearable when one’s emotions were muted by the immediate trauma of separation.

  “Good, you are not so pale and ghostlike anymore,” Chris observed.

  “My marriage is over,” Greyson said, unable to stop the words from escaping, and then he could have kicked himself for saying them.

  “I believe your marriage was over many months ago.”

  “Perhaps,” Greyson agreed stiltedly, still not sure why he was talking to this guy about it. He wasn’t exactly a neutral party. “But I had hoped I could repair the damage.”

  “When you accuse your faithful wife of cheating, the damage is irreparable.”

  “I don’t believe that. I feel if the marriage is strong enough, if the misunderstanding came from a place of genuine confusion and distress, there should still be some hope for reconciliation.”

  “You do not strike me as a fanciful man. Yet . . . you say many unrealistic, idealistic things. Why is that?”

  “I thought I was infertile.”

  “You did not tell her that.”

  “I thought we would be happy. That we could adopt.”

  “You did not tell her that.”

  “How the hell do you know what I told her or didn’t tell her?” Greyson snapped resentfully, and Chris shrugged in that fatalistic French way. Made all the more irritating by the fact he wasn’t French.

  “I have known Libby for a long time,” the other man said, and Greyson glared at him.

  “I’ve known her for longer.” Okay, so maybe he was turning this into a pissing contest, but he’d lost so much recently. He could really do with a bloody win.

  “This is true. Then you know what she needs, non? What would make her happy?”

  Greyson found himself unable to make eye contact with the man as he acknowledged to himself just how very unhappy he had made Olivia. In all the time he’d known her, he couldn’t recall a time he had ever made her truly happy.

  “Merde,” Chris swore impatiently, and Greyson’s gaze moved back to the man. He looked disgusted. “You are truly a . . . how you say? A buffoon. I’ve known Libby since she was barely out of her teens. And the girl talks all the time. Talks about her family, her friends. Harrison, Tina . . . Greyson. Always Greyson. You had the power to make her happy. But you . . . you squandered this power. So easy for her Greyson to make her happy. All he had to do was love her. But you . . .”

  Chris waved a dismissive hand at him and gave him a look of such disgust that Greyson felt smaller than a gnat.

  “I do love her.” The words, soft, unfamiliar, and shaded with a large measure of self-discovery and reverence, fell into the silence.

  Greyson did not know or understand why he had not recognized this sooner. Perhaps because the emotion was so unfamiliar to him. He loved his parents and his brother. But he had never been in love.

  Only he now understood that he h
ad. He had been in love for years. But he hadn’t recognized it as such because it had always been a part of who he was. This love had grown from reluctant affection, to infatuation, to desire . . . to this all-consuming, raging, out-of-control emotion that he hadn’t even known was there . . . because it had been hiding in plain sight.

  “I do,” he repeated. “I’ve loved her forever.”

  “You did not tell her that.” There was a pause before the statement was followed by, “Did you?”

  Libby pulled over three times on the way home to cry. Part of her was surprised that Greyson hadn’t followed her from the café, but a larger part of her was grateful. She didn’t want him to see how much pain she was in. And she was happy to have this privacy to get the worst of it out of the way.

  When she finally got home, Clara was awake and hungry. Happy for the distraction, Libby spent her time bathing, feeding, and playing with her baby. But hours later, when Clara was asleep again, Libby was left with nothing but her confusing thoughts.

  She picked up her phone for the first time in hours and found several messages waiting for her.

  One from Tina: Hey, looooong drive. But finally in Cape Town. Happily checked into my hotel and ready for bed.

  Another from Harris: Flight just landed. Glad to be home.

  Her mother had sent her a typo-riddled message: Spmthin wrpng wiyh new phne.

  Followed by one from her father: Ignore your mother’s last message. I put the predictive text on for her.

  The messages had prompted a small smile from Libby. Her mother couldn’t wrap her head around smartphones, and the new phone Libby had sent her for her birthday last week seemed to be particularly hard for her to master. Thankfully her father was a bit more tech savvy.

  Libby missed her parents and felt a fierce longing to just pack Clara up and go home to them for a bit. Maybe it was childish, but she always felt like none of the bad things in the world could touch her when she was with them.

  There was one more message. From Greyson: Are you home safe?

  She stared at it for a while before typing her one-word response.

  Yes.

  She swallowed down her tears and brought her mother’s number up on the screen. Needing to hear the older woman’s voice.

  “Hello? Libby? Roland! It’s Libby.” She raised her voice to call for her husband.

  “Hello, Mum.” She could barely keep her tears at bay, and her hands tightened on the phone as her mother’s warm voice enveloped her like a comforting hug. “I miss you . . .”

  It was hard to go into work the following morning, knowing that Greyson would be there. He didn’t make eye contact with Libby while he gave the expected “carry on as you normally would do” speech to the staff. After that, he retreated to the office, and she thankfully didn’t see him for the rest of service.

  The morning and afternoon passed pretty uneventfully, but Libby was still a bundle of nerves when she collected Clara from day care. She was desperate for a relaxing session of mummy-and-baby yoga, which had become part of her normal Monday-afternoon routine. She walked into the community center, smile at the ready for the crochet club, who liked to fuss over Clara. Sam Brand wasn’t sitting with them as he usually did, and her eyes tracked over to the self-defense class . . . only to see Greyson chatting with the group of teens. He was wearing a pair of low-riding gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He had his arms crossed over his impressive chest, and his legs were spread shoulder length apart as he nodded and listened to what a boy of about fifteen was telling him.

  It came as a nasty shock to see him there. Why was he here? How could she relax with him just meters away?

  Lia spotted her and waved. “Hey, Libby. How’re you doing?”

  Greyson’s head shot up at the sound of her name, and his eyes immediately found her. His gaze raked over her, taking in her black yoga pants, off-the-shoulder top, and high ponytail in seconds. His attention switched to Clara, and a small smile played about his lips as he took in the baby’s matching outfit. Libby had even managed to scrape together enough curls for a tiny, loose topknot.

  He raised a hand in acknowledgment, and she nodded before deliberately dismissing him and making her way to the stage.

  “Hey there, Auntie,” Libby greeted Lia with a grin. Daff had given birth to a bouncing baby boy just a couple of weeks ago. He had been nearly two weeks overdue, and toward the end, Daff had been cranky and almost impossible to be around. “When will Daff and Connor be joining us for yoga?”

  Lia rolled her eyes. “She’s complaining about everything right now. Especially the stitches.” Connor had been quite large, and Daff had required an episiotomy. An unfortunate fact that poor Spencer had not yet heard the end of. “When I suggested she join us for yoga, she practically kicked me out of her house. So . . . I doubt we’ll be seeing her anytime soon.”

  The other women laughed.

  “Right, time to get started . . .”

  “Wait, Lia, you have to tell us,” one of the other women, a pretty, blonde single mother named Alix, called out. “Who’s the hunk teaching Brand’s class today?”

  Lia’s eyes flew to Libby; she looked like a deer trapped in headlights. Clearly not sure how to answer the question.

  Libby had thought most of the town was aware of their relationship. It seemed that Alix was a little out of date with her gossip.

  “He’s my husband,” Libby stated curtly, putting Lia out of her misery. Alix’s eyebrows flew to her hairline, and her speculative gaze raked over Libby and then Clara.

  “Oh. I thought you were a single mum, like me,” she said bluntly, her eyes dropping to Libby’s bare ring finger.

  “Not quite,” Libby said dismissively. Not willing to discuss her personal business any further. Besides, the woman could go fawn over some other guy. Greyson was . . . he was . . .

  Her thoughts stuttered to a halt as she ran out of steam.

  Greyson was nothing to her. She had no claim on him. And he had none over her.

  But he was her child’s father, and it wasn’t okay for Alix to stare at him like a hungry shark ogling her next meal.

  Unfortunately yoga did not have the desired effect that day. Libby’s eyes kept drifting to Greyson. He seemed so at ease with those kids, so knowledgeable in what he was trying to teach them. She had never known he was this adept at his chosen field of martial arts.

  Clara picked up on her tension and cried through most of the class, setting the other babies off. In the end, Libby excused herself. Greyson appeared next to the stage while she was rolling up her mat.

  “Do you want me to hold her while you pack up?” he asked quietly. Aware of the avid gazes from the other women, Alix especially, Libby nodded and handed Clara to him. She heard the collective sighs from all the females—young and old—in the huge hall when he cuddled Clara to his chest and kissed her wet cheek.

  He didn’t seem to notice the ovarian meltdown in the room, his entire focus on his daughter.

  “Hey, munchkin, why so grumpy?” His large hand stroked her small back in soothing circles as he continued to quietly speak to her. He walked her over to the group of teens, and Charlie ran to them and took Clara from Greyson, making a huge fuss of her while introducing her around to the other kids. Clara, always happy to be the center of attention, stopped crying and stared at everybody in fascination. While Greyson kept a close eye on them, Libby kept an eye on him. She packed up the remainder of her things and said a quick goodbye to the ladies, who were only halfway through their yoga session.

  She threw her bag over her shoulder and made her way to Greyson.

  “Why are you here?” she asked him, her eyes on Charlie and Clara.

  “Brand asked me to help him out with a couple of his self-defense classes. I don’t usually teach this one, but Brand had a business meeting today. I instruct the ladies’ class on Wednesdays and a youth class on Saturday afternoons.”

  “I didn’t know you were good enough to train people.” />
  “I told you—I have a black belt.”

  “What else don’t I know about you?” she asked, her voice soft and speculative and a little resentful.

  “I hate carrots,” he said, the words hurried and impulsive.

  “I’ve seen you eat them,” Libby replied with an incredulous little laugh.

  “Didn’t say I didn’t eat them; of course I eat them. They’re healthy. But I absolutely loathe them. Same goes for cabbage and”—he shuddered—“brussels sprouts.”

  Libby stared at him, a little astounded by these revelations. It was so typical of Greyson to stoically endure something he disliked because it was the right thing to do.

  “And then there’s this,” he suddenly said, digging his phone out of his back pocket.

  Libby watched while he scrolled through it. He nodded when he seemed to find what he was looking for and turned the screen to her. She stared blankly at the beautifully colored, complicated-looking mandala on the screen.

  “What is this?”

  “An app. A coloring app. I like to color things. I find it soothing.”

  She stared blankly at the beautiful blend of colors, and they all ran together when her eyes blurred with tears. Her lips compressed, and she handed his phone back without a word.

  He had always enjoyed jigsaw puzzles, building models, putting pieces together to create a whole. It came as no surprise to her that he enjoyed an activity like this. It would speak to his sense of organization. What did surprise her was the amount of creativity and imagination such a task would require. And Greyson had never struck her as a particularly creative man.