Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
No, you don’t.
Yes, you do.
No, your place is at home, Lo. Dealing with shit. Taking the emotional blows, because who else will? Billy needs you. What are you doing, Lo?
I reach up and push the ball of my palm into my forehead, cursing myself.
“Are you okay?” Luke leans over again, taking my wrist and pulling my hand down.
“I’m fine.” I stand and brush myself down of popcorn. “I should go, Luke.”
Slowly, he stands too, but I avoid his look of concern and glance away, my head hurting with the guilt that’s crept up on me. “Sure,” he says softly, no question, no matter how many there are in his eyes. “I’ll take you.” He leaves the room swiftly, his body radiating uncertainty.
Luke drops me at the end of the street with no prompt from me, and I know he waits until I make it into my house before he leaves. Boris greets me in his usual excited style, and my guilt grows. I drop my keys on the table in the hallway and make my way to the kitchen to let him out to the garden. The poor thing must be bursting for a pee.
“The wanderer returns,” Linda says dryly as I enter, pulling me to a stop. The kitchen is sparkling clean and she’s at the table, a cup of tea in her hand. There’s a dirty plate by the sink, a knife and fork on top. It’s there to make a point. That she has fed my husband. Linda puts dirty plates in the dishwasher, and if the dishwasher was full, she’d wash it by hand and put it away. She’s having a dig. Good for her. I would put my life on the fact that Billy didn’t touch whatever she made him, and as if I need to prove that to myself, I walk over to the bin and step on the pedal. There’s a pile of spaghetti on top of the lasagna I made. I hold my tongue and go to the back door.
“I’ve cleaned up your mess too,” she says, clipped and curt, as if I could have missed it. “I also changed Billy’s bedsheets.”
My jaw tight, I close my eyes to gather my patience. I already feel like a wicked wife. I do not need my mother-in-law to help me there. I changed his sheets yesterday morning while he used the bathroom. Why is she doing this? “Thank you.” I force the words out and quickly close my mouth before a barrage of bad language follows. “You can go now, Linda.”
She turns on her stool and glares at me. “What kind of wife are you?”
Right now, I’m the kind that’s being eaten alive with guilt. With torment. With anger. With sorrow. “Goodnight,” I say on a swallow, making my way past her, keen to escape her condemnation before it brings me further down. I’m yanked to a stop when she seizes my arm.
“You are despicable,” she hisses. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I needed some fresh air.”
“We all need something. It doesn’t mean we can have it. Billy needs health, but he can’t have it. I need my son healthy, but I can’t have it. What makes you think you can have what you need while the rest of us suffer?”
I swing around, my patience snapping. “I need that too, Linda,” I yell. “Don’t you think I pray every day for him to get better? Don’t you think I want the man I married back? I would give my own damn life if it meant Billy could have his.”
She scoffs, tossing my arm away as she releases me. “You’re thinking of no one but yourself.”
“Just get out,” I order, and she stands, snatching up her bag. I’ve just about had enough of her. No more. I refuse to take anymore. I realize she’s grieving too, but that doesn’t mean she has to be so fucking mean.
“He’s better off without you.”
“Fuck you, Linda,” I spit, shocking myself.
Slap.
I hiss, clenching my cheek when it bursts into angry flames. She hit me? “Enough!”
I swing around on a gasp, finding Billy in the doorway, holding himself up on the door frame. His bathrobe is loose, exposing his chest. It’s getting thinner by the day. “Billy,” I whisper.
His sallow face is cut with anger, and I fear the worst as he looks between us, finally settling his eyes on Linda. “You should leave, Mum,” he grates.
“What?”
“I said, leave!” His attempt to shout is feeble, and he immediately starts coughing, bending at the waist. “You will not treat my wife like that, Mum. She’s doing her best.”
“Billy, I—”
“Just leave.”
Stunned, I watch as Linda wanders out of the kitchen, her proverbial tail between her legs, stopping briefly when she passes her son. Her hand rests on his forearm for a second. No words. Then she leaves.