Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Honey, I’m home!” I drop my jacket to the console table, stepping into a quiet apartment, which is odd. When Mimi’s home, there’s usually an audible trail. Music playing, a TV left on playing mindless soaps with a variety of British accents. The whirr of a dishwasher that previously went unused; this place hasn’t been silent since Mimi arrived. The sound of her humming, the shuffle of her bare feet. The drip of a shower she’s forgotten to turn off properly.
“Mimi?” I call, making my way to the kitchen. It’s usually a good bet. Not because she’s a fan of cooking but she is a fan of eating. I try the bedroom next. She’s not there either, though from farther along the hallway I hear a thump and a muffled curse.
She’s in one of the spare bedrooms.
“What are doing in here?” I ask, pushing the door wide. The bed is covered with hangers and the walk-in closet is full. “Why are all your clothes in here?” My words sound dumb, my mind on delay. Two questions and she hasn’t even looked at me yet. By this point of our greeting, usually we haven’t come up for breath.
“I’m just making sure everything is tidy,” she says, stepping back as she slides her hand down an evening dress I know she hasn’t yet worn. “You can give these to Primrose maybe? They’re brand new and she’d look so pretty in them. Or maybe she’d like to sell them.”
Before I can ask her what the fuck she’s talking about, she turns and my stomach drops. At least one part of me instinctively understands.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been crying.”
She nods and gives a brave yet wobbly looking smile. “I can’t help but feel sad. I guess that it’s inevitable when things come to an end.”
“What are you talking about? What things?”
“Whit, I know you know this isn’t real. I can’t pretend anymore.”
“You can’t… what?” I shake my head as though I’m hearing things—as though my ears are waterlogged and need a good clean. “What are you talking about?”
“I made a mistake.” Her eyes are suddenly rain-filled clouds. “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the moment. I shouldn’t have stayed here with you because I’ve ruined everything.”
She begins to cry, and my instinct is to go to her, but she holds out her hand and rushes past me into the hallway.
It takes me a beat to process, but I’m quick on her heels.
“What the fuck, Mimi,” I call after her. She doesn’t turn back as she ducks right into the bedroom. Our bedroom. “What the hell is going on? I’ve only been gone an hour.”
“I told you. I can’t do this, not with you. It’s not right,” she says adamantly, pulling on a drawer and scooping out an armful of her underwear. She turns to the bed and I notice her open suitcase, clothes hanging half in and half out, not sure if they’re coming or going.
My fingers fasten around her arm as she moves to the chest again. “You can’t love me, or you don’t?”
“What difference does it make?” she says, wrestling her arm away. Her eyes are red and angry, her face the color of spoiled milk.
“It makes all the difference,” I retort, getting between her and the drawers. “You can’t say one thing and mean another. Something has happened, and I want to know what it is.”
“I can’t stay here,” she says, her voice low and adamant. “I can’t be with you, not without being someone else.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“This has all been an act,” she shouts, throwing up her arms. “I’m not the woman you think I am. I’m not happy and carefree. It’s all been a fucking lie.”
“No.” I stop and blow out the breath crowding my chest. “You can’t fake it that well, darling.”
She slides me a look full of spite and malice. “What would you know? How would you even tell?”
I bark out a laugh, but I’m not feeling very amused. “That’s fucking classic,” I grate out, catching her arm again. “You think my ego is that fragile? That you’ll insult my prowess and I’ll tuck tail and run? I’ve been making women come since you were wearing pigtails.”
“I’m sure you’re very proud,” she retorts haughtily. “Release my arm. I’m going to leave, and nothing you can say will stop me.”
Her expression. The malice in her voice. I want to throw her on the bed and kiss some sense into her—kiss her to compliance. But I’m not that man. I’m not a bully. So I release my fingers before I do something we might both regret.
I stalk from the bedroom, but I don’t leave. Instead, I pull a bottle of whisky from the cabinet and treat myself to a generous pour.
What’s going through her head?