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)
As soon as the front door closes, I hurry to him. “Let me help you.”
For once, he doesn’t argue with me, standing up straight and taking my wrists. Suddenly his eyes are so very clear. The clearest they’ve been in months, which undoubtedly makes the red cheek I’m sporting from his mother’s slap so much clearer. And his lip wobbles. “I’m so sorry, Lo.”
“Stop,” I order, throwing my arms around him. “Just stop.” My face in his neck, I relish the feel of my husband’s arms around me, despite the weakness of his hold. “I’m sorry for leaving. I shouldn’t have left.” I feel his head shake into my shoulder where it’s buried.
“I’m sorry I pushed you. Hurt you. It’s . . . it’s been a bad day,” he whispers. “Forgive me.”
My tears come on fast, and I sob my heart out. For Billy. For me. For us.
I worry the second I open my eyes and find Billy isn’t in bed. Bolting upright, I scan the dim bedroom. No Billy. I scramble up and run to the bathroom. No Billy. Every lovely feeling of him holding me last night in bed, just the fact that he invited me into his bed, vanishes with my sleepy panic. Heading downstairs at the speed of light, I fall into the kitchen, coming to a startled stop. “Billy?”
He turns toward me, a saucepan in his hands. I’m so thrown. He’s dressed. Just in a pair of joggers and one of his old football T-shirts, but it’s more than he’s done in weeks. “Today is going to be a good day,” he says, pointing to the table with his spatula. “Sit.”
Confused, I look to the table that has been set for two. Even a candle in the center. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cooking my wife breakfast.” He raises his eyebrows, like a warning to do as I’m told. I ignore the obvious strain of him doing such a simple thing.
“I should be cooking for you.” I pad slowly to the table and lower to the chair, keeping my eyes on him as he walks across the kitchen to me, his face cut with the effort. Why is he doing this?
“How long has it been since I cooked for you?” he asks, placing two poached eggs on my plate.
My silence is because I’m trying to remember.
“Exactly,” he says, the saucepan hitting the table on a thud when he places it down, losing his grip at the very last second and sending the water splashing up the side of the pan. He grimaces.
“You don’t have to do this.” I reach for his hand and squeeze.
“I do, Lo.” He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them sweetly. “Now shut up and eat your breakfast.” Taking a seat beside me, he starts to pick his way through his own eggs. He has no appetite, I know that, but he’s force-feeding himself to make a point. A point he really doesn’t need to make. It kills me that he feels so terrible. He has no reason to. “I have an appointment with Dr. Smith on Friday.” His statement comes out of the blue, and I shoot him a look, mentally flicking through the dates to find the appointment he’s talking about. There isn’t one. He refused to go to his last one, and another wasn’t scheduled. “I called Dr. Smith this morning,” he tells me, pouring us both coffee, the weight of the pot a strain on his weak arm. “He moved a few things around.”
What does this mean? I want to ask but dare not. “What time?”
“One. I’d like to go alone, though, if you don’t mind.”
I recoil, unsure whether I should be offended. “Why?”
“It’s just something I need to do.” He reaches over and rests his hand over mine. “I promise I won’t dismiss anything.”
Hope. For the first time in a long time, I feel hope take me in its warmth and hug me tightly. I beam at him, and he smiles in return. Such a beautiful smile.
The sound of Boris crying pulls my eyes down to the kitchen floor, and I find him at my feet, something in his mouth. “What have you got?” I reach down and pull it free, frowning as I shake it out. It’s a vintage Adidas T-shirt. An item of old stock from my store.
“Oh, I pulled out some of your old stock from the store,” Billy informs me. “I thought you could set up an online store or something. Sell it all.”
I cock my head, once again taken aback. “Why?” He can’t be thinking that selling my old stock might raise enough money to get him to America. I’ve already calculated the money I could make, and it didn’t even get past the hundreds.
“Because you should,” he says simply, smiling across the table at me. “I’m not that tech savvy, but maybe a friend could help you set it all up?”