Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  And it didn’t hurt that the town was gorgeous. The perfect place to raise Clara.

  “Tina is giving the restaurant a face-lift. She’s rebranding, changing the menu, and redecorating. MJ’s is nearly unrecognizable now.”

  Chris muttered something unsavory beneath his breath and offered her a rueful smile.

  “If this will make you happy,” he conceded begrudgingly, “then I cannot stand in your way.”

  Make me happy? Libby wasn’t sure what it would take to make her truly happy again. But this shot at independence, a second chance at the career that she’d so willfully abandoned for a man who felt nothing for her, was a good start. She returned his smile, fighting back the ever-lurking melancholy, and put down Clara’s tiny onesie to hug the man who had gone from fun acquaintance to invaluable friend in just three short months.

  “You’ve been such a wonderful friend to me, Chris. I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me.”

  “It has been my privilege, ma petite,” he said into her hair. “You deserve happiness. You and my precious Clara bonbon both deserve it. I will visit all the time. I do not want Clara to forget her oncle Chris.”

  “That will never happen,” she promised and gave him one more huge squeeze before resuming her packing.

  “Ugh, this place is falling apart, Libby,” Tina said, wrinkling her nose as she took in the house Libby was in the process of moving in to.

  “It just needs a bit of TLC,” Libby disagreed, her eyes running around the tiny living room and kitchen as she mentally cataloged all the work that needed to be done. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, she had a renewed sense of purpose. She was optimistic about this house, about the future. While she had this to focus on, she didn’t have to think about Greyson. About the divorce papers she’d had drafted up. The ones she had shoved into Clara’s nappy bag and tried to dismiss from her mind.

  “I got it at a fantastic price,” she said. It had taken nearly all of her savings and a small loan from her concerned but supportive parents, but Libby considered it money well spent.

  “Yeah, I can see why.” Tina opened up the kitchen faucet and winced when the pipes groaned and slightly brown water spluttered from the tap in spurts rather than a steady stream. “You and Clara should at least move in with me until you have most of this sorted out.”

  “Then we’d be living with you indefinitely.” Libby laughed.

  “I don’t see a problem with that.”

  “You will when she wakes you up at night again,” Libby said, and Tina smiled slightly in return. Her eyes dropped to where Clara’s baby seat had been placed on the scrubbed-down kitchen counter, before hastily darting away.

  Libby wanted to ask her. She really did, but something painful and desperate in Tina’s eyes stayed her tongue. She had once believed she and Tina had no secrets from each other, but this was something huge and potentially emotionally destructive, and with everything else she had to deal with right now, Libby let the moment pass. She wasn’t proud of her own cowardice, but at the same time, she felt resentful that Tina had put her in this position.

  It had been hard not to miss Tina’s reaction to Clara during those first four weeks when they had shared a space. She had happily helped Libby with everything else but had never offered to hold the baby, or change her, or do anything that involved direct interaction with Clara. It was abundantly clear that her friend—who had once considered becoming an obstetrician—was not comfortable around Clara. But Libby had given Tina’s behavior a little more consideration after moving in with Chris. The other woman had given up her home to a constantly crying newborn and her emotionally wrecked best friend. With everything going on, of course it must have been difficult for her to adjust. Clara was older now, starting to develop a distinct personality, and she was a complete delight to be around. Libby felt certain that with their situation being less fraught, Tina would finally have the opportunity to enjoy Clara. It would just take some time.

  “We’ll be okay, Tina. The bedroom is fine, so’s the bathroom . . .” Well, it would be if she could just get the freaking plumber to come and sort out the pipes. But the guy was proving hard to pin down. Libby was tempted to google the solution and try her hand at plumbing. But she knew that would only exacerbate the problem.

  Libby had painted the bedroom and scrubbed it from floor to ceiling a week ago, after the transfer had been completed. She’d bought a single bed for her, and happily—thanks to Harris and Tina—Clara had a crib and anything else a baby could possibly need.

  Also, her parents sent way too many clothes and toys. Spoiling their first grandchild the only way they currently knew how. As did Greyson’s parents, in addition to Harris, Tina, and Chris.

  Libby felt overwhelmingly guilty about excluding her parents and about the fact that she knew Harris and his parents would like more of a presence in Clara’s life. Harris had been trying to arrange a visit for months, but Libby tended to avoid his calls, keeping their correspondence limited to text messages instead. Sending him pics of her life and her baby every day. She knew that Harris was concerned; he kept asking if she was all right, to which Libby only ever responded that she and Clara were both okay.

  Constance and Truman Chapman had visited them while they were staying at Tina’s. That had been predictably awkward. But the older couple had lavished attention on Clara, clearly enamored with her. After Libby had moved to the Garden Route, Constance had messaged her once only, a tersely worded missive asking if she and the baby needed anything. Libby had politely thanked her and told her they were both fine. It hadn’t deterred them from sending numerous care packages.

  Greyson, of course, hadn’t attempted to call or text her. Not once. And though she told herself that she didn’t care, that still hurt like hell.

  Greyson had been strictly rationing himself. No more than one look a day. It was all he deserved. As such, the innocuous-looking manila folder remained firmly closed and tauntingly perched on the edge of his desk. He had put it there, of course; having recently discovered a masochistic bent within himself, he had placed the folder just within eyesight, perfectly straight, its edges not touching any other piece of stationery on the large walnut desk. He couldn’t open it yet. Not for another hour.

  His phone chimed, and he glanced at it and shut his eyes for a moment when he saw his brother’s name on the screen. He knew what it would be. It was all Harris sent him these days, outside of business emails. His brother, ever the opposite of Greyson, had recently discovered a sadistic inclination within himself, and Greyson was the one and only person on whom he chose to practice that tendency.

  Every day. Just one text. With an image attached.

  He swallowed and reached for the phone. The folder would wait, per his ritual. But this could not. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and opened the text.

  The breath escaped on a shuddering sigh as he stared into bright eyes and a gummy, dimpled smile. Again, that instant gut punch he felt every time he received a new picture from his brother.

  Clara.

  The name brought a grim smile to his lips. Olivia had chosen it to spite him, of course. And he couldn’t blame her. That one soft little jab didn’t come close to what he deserved. Besides, he found that he didn’t mind the name at all anymore. Whenever he thought of it, this was the face that came to mind.

  He didn’t ask from whom Harris got these pictures; Greyson knew Olivia was sending them to his brother. But he also knew that she hadn’t really spoken with the guy since she’d left. Depriving both Harris and Olivia of a friendship that had meant so much to them: yet another fault that could be placed at Greyson’s door.

  He stared at the image avidly, his finger tracing the soft curve of one chubby cheek. She was getting so big. He added the picture to the album he had titled Clara and flipped through the four months’ worth of photos slowly, working back from today’s to the first one he’d received from Harris about a week after Olivia had walked out of the hospital and his life. T
he angry, wrinkled, wet face, mouth open, gums gleaming as she cried. The picture broke a piece of his heart, as it did whenever he saw it. He knew she was probably crying because she was hungry or needed a nappy change, but every time he looked at the photo, he ached to pick her up, to cradle her as he should have that first day, to protect her, love her, and soothe her.

  But he had thrown that privilege away. Had tossed her and Olivia aside without once considering the consequences. Always so certain he was right.

  He had failed as a husband, and he had failed as a father . . .

  He shook his head in self-disgust.

  A father.

  All these years of feeling less than whole. Of feeling somehow lacking. All because he had been too damned proud to go for a second opinion. Because going to another doctor—to a fertility specialist—would have made it seem important to him. Would have made him look like he cared. And he hadn’t wanted to care.

  No. That was wrong . . .

  He hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he cared.

  His worst fear—unacknowledged even to himself—was having the belief that he was incapable of doing something so fucking basic reinforced. No kids for him. No grandchildren for his parents. No niece or nephew for his brother.

  And no child for his wife.

  He should have gone to another doctor once Olivia had agreed to marry him. He should have checked. But he had been too damned proud, too afraid of failing again. He hadn’t had to check. He’d thought he already had all the answers.

  His wife was pregnant? She must have cheated. That had been his answer, his universal fucking truth.

  He shook his head again, choking back a bitter laugh.

  He hadn’t just failed as a husband and as a father . . . most importantly, he had failed as a man.

  Once he had believed that his supposed infertility made him less of a man. But this, his treatment of Olivia. Of Harris . . .

  Of Clara.

  That was what made him less of a man. That was where he had fallen down.

  He buried his face in his hands and longed for a drink. But he was rationing himself there as well. No more alcohol.

  Drinking himself into a stupor would in no way make him the better man he was striving to be.

  He lifted his head and glanced at his watch.

  Twenty minutes to go. His eyes fell to the folder again. He could no longer fight the urge to open it. And while he knew he didn’t deserve this fix, he was too weak and selfish to resist it.

  He reached for it, opened it carefully, and stared down at the latest collection of photos his investigator had sent him. The man was old fashioned and paranoid—he never emailed information. Instead, every week, he brought his latest update straight to Greyson’s office.

  The folder remained on Greyson’s desk, and every day he allowed himself a glimpse into Olivia’s life. Today was special, because there were new pictures, updates, and anecdotes about how she was doing. He knew he shouldn’t be keeping tabs on her, knew it was invasive and that he had absolutely no right, but he told himself he was watching out for her. Making sure she was doing all right.

  He exhaled on a shuddering sigh as he stared down at the two-dimensional pictures. They didn’t do her justice. She was so beautiful. He was happy to see she was putting on some weight again. She had looked positively gaunt those first couple of months. But now her wavy black hair was glossy with health, and despite the encroaching cold, wet winter weather, her perfect brown skin had a sun-kissed golden glow to it. He knew it was warm and silky to the touch.

  Like so many other Capetonians, Olivia was of multiracial descent, going back several generations. She was exotically beautiful and had always fascinated him with her big, luminous light-brown eyes; her heart-shaped, generous mouth; and her slender athlete’s body. He’d hidden that fascination, of course; she was the only daughter of longtime family employees and had grown up in the Chapman house, and Greyson wasn’t going to be that guy.

  It had felt wrong to want her, and he hadn’t acted on his attraction until he’d seen her at a party more than a year ago. She had been so independent, talented, smart, and absolutely gorgeous, and added to the fact that her parents had retired the year before, he hadn’t been able to resist her. They had fallen into bed that very first night, and it had stunned him to discover she was a virgin. It had felt right to offer her marriage. He had pushed for marriage, and it had soon become all he could think about. All he wanted.

  He should have told her about his belief that he couldn’t have children; he knew that. It was a fucking huge betrayal of trust to go into a marriage without telling the other party that you were unable to have kids. But he had wanted her—it had been crazy and irrational. He’d wanted to keep her in his bed, and the only way he could see himself doing so guilt-free was by marrying her. He’d had a vague idea that he’d somehow find a work-around to the humiliating “sorry, can’t have kids” conversation, and then before he knew it, she’d been telling him she was pregnant, and he had been fucking livid. He had watched her every move afterward like a hawk, hoping she’d reveal the identity of her lover to be anyone other than Harris. But the only man she’d been close to was Harris. Always fucking Harris. His brother and Olivia had always been tight. Always laughed and joked and talked . . . it hadn’t been that much of a stretch to imagine they’d taken that extra step toward intimacy.

  Greyson swallowed the nausea the mere thought of Harris and Olivia together still had the power to produce.

  The possibility had once seemed so damned real to him.

  But he really should have known better, considering his brother seemed to harbor complex and intense feelings for someone other than Olivia. But Greyson had been irrational. The emotion he’d experienced had felt perilously close to jealousy. But that was ridiculous; he couldn’t be jealous. No woman, not even Olivia, was worth feeling jealous over.

  And yet . . .

  One year ago

  The flowers were a little over the top. And uncharacteristic. Greyson pensively glared at the huge bunch of pale-pink peonies and seriously considered tossing them down the trash chute once he reached the penthouse.

  But he wanted to do something nice for Olivia . . . he had been working full on in the month since their rushed wedding, and he’d been home late and gone early most days. He had stayed in London much too long while trying to win over Olivia. Two months. He had allowed too many minor tasks to lapse, and he’d been playing catch-up for a few weeks. In addition to that, something fishy was going on in one of their Australian branches, and he was working hard to figure it out. That meant staying in the office late to make conference calls with their Oceania Division VP.

  Until he knew exactly what was happening, he was keeping it under wraps. Harris knew about it, of course, but Greyson wanted to be certain his suspicions were correct before he handed the matter over to his brother, the CFO. He knew he should have allowed Harris to take over by now . . . but the company was Greyson’s responsibility, and he liked to run a tight ship.

  Today was the first time in weeks that he was home in time for dinner, and he wanted to surprise Olivia by treating her to a romantic meal at one of her favorite restaurants and lavishing some attention on her. He hadn’t seen much of her lately, and he . . .

  He huffed a short, incredulous laugh as he turned the realization over in his head for a moment: he missed her.

  He stepped out of the elevator, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced down at the flowers again; it was a stupidly romantic gesture. But he wasn’t going to toss them down the chute. Peonies were her favorite flower, and he wanted her to have them. He wanted her to know that he had bought them with her in mind.

  He opened the front door to their penthouse apartment, his entire body tensing in anticipation. He was excited to see her. He would apologize for his neglect and promise that things would get better soon.

  The apartment was silent. No music or noise from the television. Just the loud, o
minous ticking of the huge grandfather clock. Olivia had once told him it reminded her of—how had she put it?—every horror movie ever. The memory made him smile. She always made him want to laugh or smile with her offbeat observations and unintentionally funny insights.

  “Olivia?” His voice bounced off the walls; the apartment was too large and sparsely furnished. Shortly after moving in, Olivia had told him the penthouse felt cold and unwelcoming, and he had suggested she redecorate. He wanted her to feel at home. And it wasn’t like he felt any particular connection to the stuff in here.

  She had recently started looking at color and fabric swatches. And the coffee table in the living room was now laden with decor magazines.

  Greyson wandered from room to room, hoping to find her in one of them, but he could tell that the penthouse was empty. Immensely disappointed, he moved to the huge chef’s kitchen—the one place in the penthouse Olivia truly appreciated—in search of a vase for the flowers.

  He was just placing the filled vase on a side table when the front door swung open and his laughing wife stepped over the threshold. Harris was with her, his face alight with amusement as he held something aloft above his head while Olivia tried to grab it from him.

  “No way, Bug,” Harris was saying, his voice wobbly with amusement. “You ate most of the others, this one is mine.”

  “You don’t even like chocolate that much,” she replied with a pout, and Harris grinned at her before deliberately popping whatever it was he was holding—chocolate, presumably—into his mouth.

  “I like this chocolate,” he said, his voice muffled by whatever he was chewing. He looked up, spotted Greyson, and swallowed before smiling. His teeth were still covered with some chocolate. “Hey, Greyson . . . settle an argument. Would you say turkish delight is the most hideous thing they could possibly put inside a chocolate? Or . . .”

  “Pineapple,” Olivia finished for him. A smile lit up her lovely features as she bounced toward Greyson and planted a happy kiss on his lips. “You’re home early.”