Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“Maybe a little too much?”
“Maybe.”
We exchange small snickers that are followed by me investigating, “If he’s not working, do you happen to know where he is?”
“Christmas shopping?” she suggests the most logical and likely answer.
“I bet you’re right,” I casually brush off. “Oh well. Do you need dinner brought to you? The girls wouldn’t mind saying hi.”
“Nah. I’m good. On a strict seltzer water and celery diet. I need my thighs to go down at least a size before I put on that swimsuit.”
Pretty sure she might have body dysmorphia; however, unlike Lenny, I can’t just make those snap conclusions out loud.
“Understood. Enjoy your night, Kelby.”
“You too, Jaye.”
My finger has barely finished hitting end when Rainne questions, “Are we delivering dinner to Kel Kel instead of Dad?”
“No,” the polite explanation is accompanied by me hitting the bank app on my phone, “Kel Kel is on a special diet for…awhile…and Dad has other dinner plans.”
But what are they?
Is it shopping?
Is it wrapping gifts?
Did he tell me he was working late to throw off the scent of something extravagant he’s been working on like when he and Dad took ballroom dance lessons for our wedding?
“Without us?!” Henz squawks, offense clear and abrasive.
“You’ll be fine,” I swiftly reassure while checking our recent account actions. “Mimi’s making garlic braised short ribs and whipped sweet potatoes.”
“My favorite!”
Strange for a four-year-old, but I won’t complain. They’re both rather adventurous eaters, especially compared to others I’ve met who live and die by the blue box blues.
Looking through the recent purchases made from our shared account exposes some eyebrow raising activity.
Dinners to various restaurants around the city at a price that indicates it wasn’t just one person.
Large amounts spent at numerous clothing stores – several high end.
The grocery store, which wouldn’t be alarming except we tend to go there together and no extra food has been put in the house.
Additional unease fills me during my continued browsing as I spot the cellphone store as well as multiple hotel stays and rideshare purchases.
Okay, correct me if I’m wrong, but none of that shit screams Christmas gifts for the kids, right? Or me, for that matter! I refuse – and I fucking mean refuse – to put all these context clues together and come up with the most obvious plotline because I know my husband. I know he would never in a million years cheat on me. So…what the fuck is all this about? And the lying regarding working? And why aren’t you answering or telling me something reassuring?! Why aren’t you telling me I’m right?!
Logging out is hastily proceeded by me tossing my device in the cupholder and plastering on a phony grin for the girls.
They don’t need to know anything is wrong.
And surely nothing is actually wrong.
I know there’s a good explanation for all this.
I just wanna know what it is.
Our drive over to my parent’s home is filled with a mixture of conversations about their day, what books they’ve been reading, and off-key Christmas carols. By the time we reach our destination, I’m equally relieved to have other people for them to share their attention with and livid that I still haven’t heard back from the man I married.
Not. A. Single. Word. God, he knows how upsetting I find that shit. We already went through this nightmare when I was pregnant with Henz. He swore after damn near missing her birth, he’d be better about it.
The instant we’re inside my parents happily take over running the ship. They help the girls out of their coats. Wash their hands. Get them set up at the table all the while listening to the same stories I just did.
They love being grandparents. I mean…love. You probably remember how pushy my mom was back then, but you should be happy to know all that energy has really been put to the best use. She picks them up from school. They have Mimi dates. She reads to them. Enrolls them in classes they want to take as well as assists in the pickup, drop off department. Plus, she brags to all her friends about how special and creative they are versus just being a bunch of boxes on a check list someone else chose. It took her quite a bit to extend that courtesy to me. Sadly…she’s still working on it in some aspects. For example, she hates this purple blazer. Thinks it’d be more flattering on me in turquoise. She’s only voiced that thought sixteen times since I bought it.
“Sugar,” Dad cautiously calls, pulling me out of the thought fog I didn’t realize I had slipped back into, “you good?”
“There are no green onions on yours or Henz’s,” Mom rushes to announce. “I remember that neither of you like them. I don’t know why,” she heavily sighs to herself at the same time she places a napkin on her lap, “however, I am respecting your food preferences even though this dish is better with them.”