Harley
The color drains from Rome’s face as though I punched him in the stomach, or lower
“Calista is sick?” He says it softly, as if he’s doing his best to wrap his mind around this new information.
His reaction takes me by surprise. Maybe I shouldn’t have just blurted it out. Of course, I didn’t expect him to show up here, so I’m not exactly prepared. This was supposed to be a quick in and out, “no worries, I want nothing else from you, see you later” kind of thing. It was supposed to be easy-peasy, because the man I met two years ago would’ve thanked me on his knees for not uprooting his life with a child. But the despair on Rome’s face tells a different story. His shocked eyes and ghost-like appearance say that just like everything else in my life, this isn’t going to go as planned
