Stepbrother Thief (15 page)

The next day, Gill interrupts me in the middle of a horror movie, coming into the living room and sitting on the coffee table. He's wearing a red T-shirt, black jeans, and a black shoulder holster. I look at the gun tucked away in it and then back at his face, pressing pause on my movie.

“When's Solène's birthday?” he asks me, looking right into my face. My hand clenches on the remote and my breath comes in shallow bursts. I know Gill notices, know it with every fiber of my being, and suddenly I'm scared. Terrified. Sweat beads on my forehead and my mouth goes dry.

“Why?” I ask him, brushing some honey gold hair from my face and glancing at the white linen curtains across the room from me. “Is that important somehow?”

“I want to make sure all of my records are straight. I don't have access to her real information anymore since Aveline got to it.” Gill reaches into his back pocket and produces a small piece of paper with a date scribbled on it. “Is that right?”

September seventeenth.

“That's right,” I say, staring at the false birthday I had Cliff give Gilleon when he told him he was adopting a baby girl. If that birthday were true though, it would make Solène a nice round nine years old instead of the nine and a half she really is.

“Hmm.” Gill stands up and moves away, back into the dining room, sitting down at his computer with a clenched jaw.
April seventeenth.
That's Solène's real birthday. Six months after Gilleon left.

I stare at the TV, but I can barely get my shaking hands to press the play button on the remote. I don't care about my movie anymore, don't care about anything but keeping my secret.

I'm scared.

I'm really and truly scared.

I don't want Gill to know about my daughter.

My daughter. No. That's not right.
Our
daughter.

Ours.

Mine and Gill's.

My heart is light, like a butterfly, resting softly inside my chest. Yes, it's tinged with a bit of sadness, with memories of my mother and her gentle smile, the way she wore her hair in a loose chignon and sung to herself when she was making coffee in the mornings. She'd have loved to be here today, shopping for the baby, sitting across from me at lunch, picking out odds and ends for my surprise plan for Gill.

But she isn't here and that's okay. I'm young, in love, in Paris, and I have a whole gaggle of girlfriends around me, primed with inappropriate commentary that sounds even more vulgar when it's in the language of love.

“
Tu me fais bander
,” my friend, Katriane, says, doing a very poor imitation of Gilleon's voice. “Let me take you over the dresser and I'll show you how hard I really am.”

“You think Gill's going to tell me about how hard he is and then fuck me?
That
is your best guess on how he's going to respond to finding baby clothes and stuffed animals on our bed?” She shrugs and pouts her pale pink lips at me, her lightly accented English a beautiful lilt against the murmur of the city streets.

“It's how I'd respond, were I male. Fortunately for us all, I am not.” I roll my eyes and allow her to open the door to the next shop, ushering me inside ahead of everyone else.

“He bought you that beautiful ring,” Jacqueline says, keeping the conversation in English for my benefit. I've been living here for four years now, and my French is pretty damn good, but I still prefer to speak in my native language. I mean, who doesn't? Normally, I speak French with the girls, but today's been declared a national holiday by the four of them—the day that I announced I was pregnant.

It took me a while to figure it out, longer than it should've, but things with Gill are always a whirlwind of love and sex and witty repartee, that I hadn't realized what might be happening until a few weeks ago. The news has been sitting on the tip of my tongue since then, on the verge of breaking out at any moment, but Gilleon's been so preoccupied with work that I didn't want to waste it. I want to savor the moment, like I've savored all the other wonderful milestones in our lives: the day I first met him, when we first kissed, when we got our own apartment.

I surreptitiously run my thumb over my engagement ring, a gorgeous vintage piece with an infinity twist on either side of the center diamond. The whole front half looks like it's paved in jewels, frosted in gems that sparkle when I move. It's more than I ever could've hoped for—especially because of the expression on Gill's face when he gave it to me. I could see the excitement there, the love, the promise of a good life.

“Stop daydreaming and let's shop,” Jacqueline says, grabbing my arm and tugging me away to browse rack after rack of clothes, row after row of furniture, and a whole host of accessories that I don't even begin to know what to do with. Oh well. Gill and I can worry about the practical stuff later. Right now, this mission is just for fun, for me to grab whatever catches my fancy. When I get home, I'm going to lay it all out on our bed and wait for Gill to come home.

As soon as he sees it, he'll know.

I smile to myself and let loose, emerging from the store with a brown shopping bag full of assorted clothes and toys. My friends walk me home, kiss my cheeks and bid me au revoir.

I head upstairs, a bounce in my step, a smile locked onto my face that I just can't seem to get rid of. And who'd want to anyway?

I smooth my hands down the front of my black sheath dress, just in case Gill's already home.

“Gilleon?” I ask, setting my bag down on the floor near the front door. “Are you home?” When he doesn't answer, a little thrill of excitement shoots through me. Good. I can set up my surprise and be waiting with a glass of wine and a sexy set of lingerie on before he gets here. Maybe Katriane is right—well, sort of. I don't think Gill will launch into a five minute description of his rigid cock before he takes me in his arms, but I can definitely see us both shoving the baby stuff to the floor for a quickie.

I move into the bedroom and reach back to unzip my dress when I see the note. I don't think anything is up at first—Gill's always leaving little love letters around the apartment. So I take my dress off, hang it back up in the closet—this little black number is designer wear, a gift from Cliff, and is definitely dry clean only.

I slip my heels off next and tuck them away before sitting down on the end of the bed and grabbing the note. I expect something like 'Love ya, See you tonight', but end up staring down at a full page of writing.

It doesn't start off well.

Regi,

Please forgive me for what I'm about to do.

Before you read this, I want you to take a deep breath and think of all the wonderful times we've had together. I have loved—and still love—you with a passion that's difficult to express in words. Still, I'm going to try because this could be the last time I ever get to tell you.

You're strong, strong enough to get through this. I know it won't be easy because it isn't easy for me either, but you'll survive and be even better for the experience. I know that because it's one of the things I love about you; your ability to survive, to thrive through the most difficult of times is unmatched. If I could, I'd stay by your side forever.

But it won't work; we won't work.

I can't tell you why now, but I hope you can believe that I have no other choice.

I won't forget for even a single second how good it feels to talk to you, to hold you, to lay next to you at night and wake up to you in the morning. Just know that I'm thinking of you always.

I'm leaving Paris today, and I won't be back anytime soon—maybe not ever. One day, I hope we can reconnect, look back on this moment as a dark splotch in an otherwise bright history together. Just so you know I'm safe and well, I've given Cliff my new number and address, but I've asked him not to give either to you. It's better this way. If I see you, talk to you, after all of this, I might not have the strength to do what needs to be done.

If I do that, I'll be condemning us both and I love you too much for that.

Stay safe, be happy, and don't let this ruin the beautiful future I see for you, Regi.

I love you, and I always will.

Gilleon.

My heart refuses to comprehend the words that are etched into the paper in my hand.

I curl my fingers tighter until the paper crumples, the ink blurring into jagged lines as I squeeze and don't stop until the page is contained in my shaking fist.

“Gilleon?” I ask, like he can hear me, wherever he is. I reach up suddenly, finding tears on my cheeks that weren't there before. I stare at the droplets on my fingertips, sitting there alone on the end of that bed in my bra and panties, a baby in my belly and a ring on my finger. Two blessings that suddenly feel like curses in light of the letter. “This can't be happening.”

I shake my head and put my hand up to my forehead, my thoughts spinning dizzily. No. I don't believe any of this. There's no way that Gill, my Gill, would do something like this. Five years we've been together—since I was sixteen years old. I don't know anything else, don't need to know anything else. I love Gill and he loves me. That's all there is to it, right?

I open the letter back up and read it again. And again. And again.

When I hear a knock at the front door, my heart soars and I wipe the tears away with my arm.

Gilleon.

That has to be him there, waiting for me outside, ready to apologize for the cruel prank he's pulling.

I stand up and snatch my robe from the bathroom, throwing it on and hurrying to the front door as I belt it closed.

“Gill?” I don't even bother to check and see who's outside, throwing open the door and finding Cliff standing there, his face broken and just as confused as my own.

“Regina,” he says, holding up a letter of his own. I lift up my own hand, realizing suddenly that I'm still holding the damn thing. Cliff nods once and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Papa?” I ask, not understanding, needing to, falling into a million jagged pieces that I'm afraid I'll never be able to put back together again.

I take a step back, clamping my hand across my mouth to hold back a scream. I'm not sure if it's sadness or rage or both that wants to come crashing out. Cliff takes a step forward and bumps into the shopping bag, knocking it over and spilling a dozen useless items across the floor. He pauses to pick up a stuffed green cat and a tiny yellow and white striped one-piece.

“Oh, Regi,” he breathes, dropping them both to the floor and putting his arms around me. “We're going to be okay, you and me,” he whispers, “I promise.”

I want to believe him. I do. I want to, but I don't.

The love of my life, the beat of my heart, the other half to my soul, he's gone.

Nothing will ever be okay again.