Free Unforgettable: Always 2 by Cherie M. Hudson

ridiculous thing was not telling you I was pregnant.”
    And here we were. At the main topic of conversation.
    I drew a slow, steadying breath into my lungs. Anger scraped at my sanity once more. “Okay then,” I said, holding her stare. “Tell me why you didn’t.”
    Her wobbly laugh surprised me. She shook her head, rubbing at her arms again. “Damn you, Brendon, I wanted you to ask me if it was yours.”
    I frowned. “Why?”
    “I wanted you to give me a reason to get indignant. But you believe me. The thought didn’t even cross your mind, did it? That you may not be the father?”
    “No.”
    She laughed again, although this time it was more a harrowed sob. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you. Because you are Brendon. This is how you approach life. With one hundred percent conviction. You didn’t even try to suggest you may not be the father. You’re incredible and giving and trusting. If I’d told you, you would have thrown everything you’d planned in your life away to come back and do what you thought was the right thing.”
    “What I thought was the right thing? It is the right thing, Amanda. No thinking required. It is the right thing. But you denied me that.” My anger flared hot as blood roared in my ears. I clawed at the back of my neck and looked away. “You didn’t even give me the chance to be a part of this.”
    “A chance at what? Being trapped? Being in love is all well and good, but love won’t stave off resentment and contempt when you look at your life – full of dirty diapers, puke-covered clothes and sleep-deprived nights – and remember the plans and dreams you had. You weren’t only managing a business in Australia, Bren, you were talking about creating a chain of them. You were getting amazing grades, had an amazing life, and amazing goals. Goals I knew you would achieve. And you are achieving them. Look at you, already talking to a bank manager about a business loan. What twenty-five-year-old does that?”
    “The same twenty-five-year-old who would have wanted to know he was going to be a dad the second the woman he loved found out.”
    The accusation – for that’s what it was – left me on a flat snarl. Yeah, I was angry. It had been a while since I was this angry. The last time I’d punched Raphael Jones and then got into a brawl with a gun-carrying bodyguard. This time I had no outlet for the rage building inside me, unless I could get to a gym, a boxing ring, somewhere to let out my pent-up physical energy ASAP.
    I didn’t like that. And I sure as shit didn’t like that I was angry. I didn’t do anger like this. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the Brendon I wanted to be.
    “I’m sorry, Bren,” she said, tears freely rolling over her cheeks. “I didn’t …” She stopped, scrubbing at her face. Sniffed.
    A part of me – so small it was worrying – wanted to stand up and walk to where she still hugged herself against the door. I didn’t.
    Couldn’t.
    “Did the thought of telling me ever cross your mind?”
    “I called you twice,” she said, with another one of those shaky laughs. “The first time was a week after I found out. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Chase. God, I couldn’t even begin to think how I’d tell Mom and Dad. Dad …” She stopped, closed her eyes, sighed, and then looked at me again. “I was sitting in my car, outside an abortion clinic, waiting for it to open, when I called that first time.”
    An empty chill pressed at something deep inside me. I stared at her. Had I thought I was angry before?
    “I called you to tell you. To apologize for fucking up. To ask if you’d come back so we could talk about it. I so desperately needed you to hold my hand, to tell me it was going to be okay, it was going to be gravy.” Another laugh, choked in a sob. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, her shimmering eyes flicking around the room. “I sat there in my cold car, aching for your warmth, your strength, staring at that