Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“If you want to wear ladies’ lipstick, do it properly.” She attacks me with her lipstick, beaming up at me. “Better. You’re even more handsome with shimmery lips.”
“Probably.” But what color is it? “Come on, I need to feed my wife and peanuts.” Standing her up, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, checking. No color, just shimmer. “These need tightening,” I say, noticing the top of her dress getting lower on her boobs, the straps lengthening.
She slaps my hands away and walks off, and I recoil, injured, insulted, and everything in between. “That was uncalled for, wasn’t it?” So fixing straps doesn’t fall under acceptable levels of fussing? But painting toenails does? Help me out, someone, please. “I was only trying to help.”
“Where are you feeding me?” she calls back.
And feeding does too? I’m so confused. And annoyed. Her terms. Always her terms. I reach for Ava’s wrist and pull her to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me,” I grumble, turning her to face me again, confused by her smirk. She’s playing? “And you can wipe that grin off your face.” I move in and take it upon myself to do what I originally intended. Fix her fucking straps. “You’re fucking intolerable sometimes,” I mutter, moving to the other side. “I know you only do it to get a rise out of me.” I check each strap. Double-check. “Better,” I conclude. “Ridiculous dress.” Had I known the straps weren’t reliable, she wouldn’t have left the villa in it. “Why do you insist on being so difficult?”
“Because I know it drives you crazy.”
And there it is. An admission. Proof, not that I needed it. “You just enjoy reducing me to a crazy madman.”
“You make yourself a crazy madman. You need no help in that department, Jesse. I’ve told you before; you do not dictate my wardrobe.”
Maybe not, but I buy the clothes, that earns me some rights. “You drive me crazy,” I mutter for the sake of it, reinforcing it.
“What are you going to do?” She’s still fucking grinning. Why am I taking the bait? “Divorce me?”
I beg your pardon? “Watch your fucking mouth,” I snap, stunned.
“I didn’t even swear,” she says, laughing.
“Yes, you fucking did.” I scowl at a man who passes, his eyes on Ava for slightly longer than is acceptable. And no time at all is the only acceptable amount of time. “The worse word,” I confirm, watching him quickly correcting himself when I catch him in the act, admiring my hysterical wife. “In fact. I forbid you to say it.”
“You forbid me?” she asks, her laughing ramping up.
“Yes, I forbid you.”
“Divorce.”
For God’s sake. “Now you’re just being childish.”
“. . . ish,” she whispers, her lips puckered delightfully, ready for me to kiss. How she drives me wild. “Feed me.”
“I should fucking starve you and reward you with food when you do what you’re fucking told,” I mumble, turning her toward the restaurant nearby. “I’ll feed you here.”
“Looks lovely,” she says as I guide her with my hands on her shoulders.
“I love you,” I whisper in her ear, feeling her body tense and her face push to mine.
“I know.”
“Table for two, please,” I say to the host. “Outside if you have it.”
“Certainly, sir.” He plucks two menus from the stand and shows us the way. “Drinks?”
“Water, thank you.” I help Ava into her seat, pushing her close to the table. My smile is huge. Her chair will get farther away each week. “The tapas are sublime,” I say, handing her a menu.
“You pick,” she says, not bothering to look at the options. “I’m sure you’ll make a suitable choice.” Is she being sarcastic?
“Thank you,” I say, unsure.
“You’re welcome.” Definitely sarcastic. She pours water and drinks a whole glass.
“Thirsty?” I ask, eyes wide as she glugs down another. “Be careful, you might drown the babies.”
She snorts, spraying some water, and I smile as she wipes herself up. “Will you stop with that?”
“What?” I ask, injured. “I’m just showing some fatherly concern.” The atmosphere suddenly goes from playful to tense, and I watch, confused, as Ava studies me, thinking. What?
“You don’t think I can look after our babies,” she says, her voice small. “Do you?”
What? Where’s that come from? “Yes, I do.” Although, admittedly, I’m concerned that she’s relying on me to share all the dos and don’ts of pregnancy. Which, annoyingly, is the catalyst for many of our current disagreements. If she would only read the book. I know she wants this, has come to terms with it, is happy about it, but my life would be a lot less stressful if I didn’t have to worry about what she’s eating and whether it could be harmful to the babies. Am I being over the top? I don’t think I am. Only a father who’s lost a child might understand.