Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I tell him, scooping a few spoonsful of scrambled eggs on my plate before grabbing a piece of toast.
He simply nods, stepping away from the counter and heading into the living room.
I take a few deep breaths, leaning over the small plate of food I’ve made, willing myself not to cry. I know I have a long way to go, but I can’t wait until the baby is born and I’m able to get a better handle on my emotions.
Thankfully, the door to my spare room is closed because I don’t think I could handle dealing with that emotional rollercoaster on top of his indifference.
I settle on the opposite end of the sofa from him, uncaring that he’s turned the television station to a sports recap show.
We eat in silence, his show ending and my eyes growing heavy because I haven’t been sleeping well.
The familiar sound of a cartoon from my childhood filters into my head because my eyes are closed now. I feel his warm hands on my calves, urging me to stretch, and I allow it.
It goes no further than him holding my ankles in his lap as he chuckles at the ridiculousness of the cartoon.
Maybe when I wake up, everything in my life won’t seem as bleak.
Chapter 19
Kit
“There’s no cayenne in here?” I ask the lady behind the counter as I point to the bag.
“None. I promise.”
I give her a quick nod as I hand over my credit card.
She rings up my order, handing me the slip to sign. I tip generously for bothering them with such a specific pickup order before walking out.
The drive to Jules’s house is uneventful, much like it has been every day the last two weeks that I’ve been inserting myself into her life.
I haven’t asked permission to show up at her house every damn day like we’re in a relationship, but she hasn’t questioned it either. I like taking care of her, making sure she has at least one decent meal a day, and she always whispers her thanks as if she feels like she doesn’t deserve the effort.
“No problem,” I always tell her. “I was grabbing mine, figured you might be hungry as well.”
I say it every day as if she hasn’t caught on by now, but I won’t stop until she tells me to.
We haven’t made love again, but I’m waiting, always watching for the moment when her body gives me clues to needing what I can offer it. I live for the moments after she eats when she gets sleepy and curls up next to me on the sofa.
Most days it doesn’t last long because she gets sick and has to run to the bathroom. I followed her the first couple of times, offering a cold rag, but she started closing and locking the door.
She says that she’s embarrassed by it, and just wants to suffer alone, but I know better. I saw the look in her eyes at my level of comfort I offered her that first Saturday I helped with her mother’s things. It was the care and attention she doesn’t want. I can tell she feels like she doesn’t deserve that as much as she doesn’t deserve my nightly dinner deliveries.
We’ve managed to sort through the rest of her mother’s things, but despite the pain I know it causes her, she’s completely shut herself off emotionally from the task. She hasn’t noticed that two boxes of things have gone missing, and I’m kind of grateful for that. She’s not exactly the type to allow people to bulldoze her, and I’d catch hell for removing them from her home.
She hasn’t gotten rid of much, but we’ve been able to condense the boxes enough to fit into the bottom of the closet through strategic organization.
She hasn’t mentioned shopping for the baby or nursery furniture, and I don’t bring it up either. It’s almost like we’re both pretending that it doesn’t exist right now, despite her getting sick so often. It’s the elephant in the room and we both seem okay to ignore that entire situation because neither of us want to start the argument right back up again.
I frown when I turn down her street and notice her car missing from the driveway. She’s always home. I park in front of her house, grabbing my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a text or something from her while I was inside the Mexican food place picking up our dinner.
The screen is blank, free of any notifications, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling up our text thread.
I still message to check on her in the mornings, but I’ve discontinued doing the same in the evenings since we’re always together then.
There’s nothing since my text this morning before I went in to work.
I still climb out of the truck, leaving the bag with our dinners in it to go knock on the door. She doesn’t answer, so I knock again. I gave the key back to Beth the Monday after I came over here in her stead, and now I’m regretting it. Just as I’m about to lean down on the porch to try to look inside her living room window, she pulls into the driveway. I don’t bother to hide my frown when I head in her direction.