Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Me and Grace, the two musketeers. That’s all I want, all I need.
My dick argues that point, suggesting that what I need is a warm, soft, willing body with no strings attached. That’s all.
And while that may be true, that’s not what Riley is. She’s a woman who lives in my house, spends time with my child, and is becoming more enmeshed in my life with every passing day.
Off limits. That’s what she is.
I move my arm, putting physical space between us even as a cavernous void opens in my chest. “Yeah, I’m okay. She’s growing up too fast, but I’m sure every parent feels that way.”
“Probably so,” she agrees, taking a measured sip of her whiskey, and though she doesn’t comment on my movement, I feel as though my battle with my dick is as exposed as if she had. “But you handled it well, letting her lead.” It feels like she’s swallowing further commentary along with the alcohol.
“What?” I spit out, mostly angry at myself but taking it out any available target. “If you have more to say, go ahead. It’s not like you’ve ever stopped before,” I say, taking a healthy swallow of my whiskey because I think I’m going to need it to buffer whatever’s about to pass her lips.
“Where’s her mother?”
She asks the question softly and with as much kindness as possible. It doesn’t matter. It hits directly to my heart, which is thudding dully. I lick my lips, then press them together, gritting my teeth.
I don’t talk about this. About Michelle. Ever. With anyone. Not even Grace, and she’s the only person who has ties connecting them.
Other than me.
But my ties aren’t genetic the way Grace’s are. Mine are messily deep and emotional.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry,” Riley rushes to say, trying to take back the pressure her question has put on me. She curls her legs up, like she can sense the tension coursing through me and she needs to protect herself from it, but her knees brush my thigh and before I know it, my hand lands there, stopping her fussing and fidgeting.
She freezes instantly at my touch, her faint inhale sucking the air from the moment. Is she breathing? I don’t know. Am I? Definitely not.
I look down at my hand. It’s the left one, where I used to wear a gold band, but that ring has been in a jewelry box in my bedroom for years at this point, definitely long enough that I’m more accustomed to seeing myself without it than with it. My fingers are laid over Riley’s denim-covered knee, but there’s a gash in the denim that lets my middle finger actually rest on her soft skin. Goosebumps rise there, and I wonder if it’s from the cool night air or my touch.
I swallow, not sure how to say the words I’ve refused to speak for nine years, but eventually, they come. “Michelle died. Car accident.” My voice is gravelly, the words slow and methodical, as if I’m tasting them, experiencing saying them for the first time. Maybe I am? Surely, I’ve said that sometime over the last nine years to someone? But when I rack my brain, I can’t remember a single time I’ve actually said it.
Mom and Dad told my siblings, with a warning to not bring it up unless I did. At work, Dad prepped everyone, and since then, I’m guessing new hires are warned because no one has ever asked. I don’t know who told our friends, Michelle’s work, or anyone else. Everyone just knew, and I never had to say it. Until now.
“Oh, my God, Cameron,” Riley gasps. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I reflexively squeeze her knee, and she quiets, stilling her frantic movements once again. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” And somehow, as though saying it over and over makes it so, it is. “It was a long time ago. Sometimes, it feels like a lifetime ago, or maybe just a different lifetime,” I muse. “I don’t talk about it.”
“Of course. You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I stare out at the dark night in front of me, and I can almost pretend that I’m alone, no one to hear me. Except I feel Riley beneath my hand. She’s here, she’s real, and she’s hanging on my every word. That should make me shut down, clamp my mouth closed, and avoid this whole conversation the way I have for nine years. But it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s because it’s time. Maybe it’s because it’s her. But for whatever reason, the words come…
“We got married right after I got my MBA. We were twenty-five, and by the time we got home from our honeymoon, she was pregnant with Grace.” I feel the smile lift one side of my lips at the memory of Michelle crying happily while holding up a positive pregnancy test. “We were so excited. It was like everything was going according to plan. And you know how I like a plan.” Even though it’s barely a joke, it still falls flat.