Just Around The Corner. Tara Quinn Taylor
hadn’t noticed before.
Did that mean her baby might be left-handed, as well?
“Yes, I’m going to have it.” She swallowed. Her baby. And this man’s.
He looked up, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. “I can’t be a father.”
The sigh of relief escaped Phyllis before she could prevent it. “Who asked you to be?”
Back to his paper clip. She wondered if he was staring at it so intently because he was really trying to create some particular design—or because he didn’t want to look at her.
“I’ll pay for everything.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
A baby. A baby with her traits and his, all mixed together. Growing inside her body.
He raised his head, frowning. “Of course it’s necessary. I’m responsible. I pay.”
Two could play that game. “I’m responsible. I pay.”
“Well, then, we’re both responsible. We split the bills fifty-fifty.”
No! That wasn’t the plan. She was doing this alone.
But he had her. They were both responsible. She just hadn’t figured he’d care. How was she to know he had a streak of responsibility in his reclusive body?
“Have you been to the doctor yet?”
Phyllis shook her head. Don’t do this, she silently begged him. Don’t confuse me. Don’t weaken me by carrying any of my load, or I might not be able to carry it all when you walk away.
“You’ll let me know when your appointment is?”
She couldn’t breathe. Needed to get outside, let the cool October air chill her skin. Remind herself that she was okay.
“Why?” Somehow her voice sounded almost normal.
He shrugged. “I’m half-responsible. I should know stuff like that.”
“Just how much are you counting on here? What exactly will you want to know?”
“Not sure.” He’d picked up another paper clip. This one with his right hand. “I’m new at this, too. I guess when something costs money, I should know about it.”
That wasn’t as bad as she’d begun to think. It wasn’t personal. Merely financial.
“I’ll see that you get copies of the bills.”
His face expressionless, he nodded.
“There’s one other thing,” she added quickly.
Matt looked up at her, his eyes wary, questioning.
“Cassie Montford knows you’re the father—it seemed necessary that someone know in case something happens—but she’s been sworn to secrecy. I don’t want anyone else knowing.”
He seemed to consider that for several moments. “It would probably make things easier on both of us,” he said at last.
Phyllis stood, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Well, send me the bills.” Tossing the paper clip, he stood, too.
“I will.”
“Okay, see ya.” He’d followed her to the door.
“Goodbye.” Phyllis spoke with finality.
If she had her way, they’d never see each other again.
He made her tremble. He made her crazy and just a little angry. She absolutely refused to let him become part of her life.
She didn’t want or need his financial contributions.
This time it was the bills and not the check that would get mysteriously lost in the mail.
THE KICKING BAG went down. And came back up. Then went down again. Turning, Matt caught it with a perfectly placed side kick, knocking it into the corner of the wall. And, with hands properly angled in front of him, he turned and landed another perfect blow with the opposite foot.
Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. He didn’t bother wiping it off. It burned his eyes, but he ignored the pain, which was only the minutest portion of the punishment he deserved.
After more than an hour in his home gym, he wasn’t even close to the worn-out state he was working toward.
How could he have done it? He of all people?
Had life taught him nothing? The time he’d never be able to recapture. The humiliation and abuse. The lost dreams. Lost innocence. Had it all been for nothing?
Another smack on the bag, and the sand-weighted bottom scooted along the floor.
He just couldn’t believe what was happening. Couldn’t have imagined a worse day than the one he’d just had.
He’d made a woman pregnant. A perfectly respectable doctor of psychology was facing a complete and permanent upheaval in her life because of him.
Forgetting himself to the point of lost discipline, Matt hauled off and slugged the kicking bag with both fists, over and over, like a novice and completely unskilled boxer, rather than the Tae Kwon Do black belt he was. Logically he knew he was solving nothing. That he was probably going to hurt himself.
But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t harness the anger, the despair and disappointment coursing through him. Didn’t know what to do next, except wear himself out, force himself into complete exhaustion. How was he going to live with himself?
He’d just begun to find a measure of internal peace. Maybe even forgiveness. And in the span of a ten-minute office visit, years of hard work, of unrelenting self-control and mental promises, had been shot to hell.
He’d been in Shelter Valley for four years. Pretending to himself that he was building a new life, becoming the man he’d always expected himself to be.
When instead, he was exactly what he’d been before Will Parsons had been kind enough to give him this job, this chance.
A man who’d spent years in prison. He hadn’t been guilty of the statutory rape of which he’d been convicted. But he hadn’t been entirely blameless, either. He’d allowed that girl—a student—to think he found her desirable. He hadn’t intended to; he’d only meant to offer a confused young girl a measure of confidence, a sense of approval. In his own idealistic ignorance, he’d tried to help someone and had only confused her more.
Slumping to the carpet, sweat dripping down his back and chest beneath the soaked T-shirt he was wearing, Matt grabbed his aching head between both fists.
The tears, when they dripped slowly from beneath tightly closed lids, mixed in with the sweat. Fell unnoticed. Forgotten. Allowing no forgiveness for a sin not committed—and then committed six years after the fact.
This was the second time he’d contributed to the ruin of a perfectly lovely woman’s life.
He deserved to rot in hell.
And that was just what he feared would happen to him. Only it would be a hell of his own making, right here on earth, in this place of shelter where everyone else had family and friends and knew the comforts afforded by love. It was going to be his own private hell. Even in this journey of everlasting destruction, he would be all alone.
IT WAS LATE on the first Tuesday night in November, and Phyllis had just arrived home from Phoenix when the phone rang. She’d been at a pet-therapy session with Cassie and a woman who’d been brutally raped by a colleague while working in a nursing home.
Sighing, she picked up the phone, a portable. “Surely you’ve seen a doctor by now.” The voice didn’t bother with introductions