Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Sorry, I have an early day tomorrow.” I grab her hands that are clutching my shirt and remove them.
“I thought you were going car shopping with me?” Chase asks.
Fucker. “Yeah, I need to go into the gym beforehand. There are a few things I need to do before Monday.”
“Oh, I love a man who works out.”
“He actually—”
I hold up my hand, stopping him. “Sorry, I really need to go. Chase, call me when you’re ready.” I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can out of the bar. I hear Blondie yell in her whiny voice for me to come back, but I don’t bother to stop and address her. I need out of here. I don’t know why I let Chase talk me into this. I’m not ready, and I’m not sure I ever will be.
Chapter 4
Winnie
Three weeks later
* * *
I glance down at the phone in my hand, reading the text message for a third time.
* * *
Harrison: I miss you. Hope you have a wonderful day.
* * *
I don’t respond to this one, like I’ve opted not to for all the previous ones. Dropping the phone back on my desk, I run my hands across my tired face. That message makes nearly three-weeks straight of similar messages. Sometimes they arrive in the morning before I wake, some hit my phone sporadically throughout the day, and a handful reach me just before I go to sleep. The man knows my routine, probably better than I know it.
He’s also persistent as hell.
When the man sets his sights on something, he refuses to give in until he’s accomplished his task. At one time, it was one of the many things I loved about him. Now, I wonder why that determination stopped. When I was ready to leave, he didn’t stop me. Sure, he may have said he didn’t want to go—didn’t want to divorce—but his actions lacked the gumption I know he had. It was like, deep down, he wanted the separation. The divorce. Even though I really didn’t. I wanted him to fight. I wanted him to fight for me as much as I wanted to fight for him. I started off slipping on the proverbial boxing gloves and getting ready to duke it out to the finish, but when those nights remained as empty as our bed, I just… gave up the fight.
The bell rings, letting me know I’m about to be hit with fourteen preschoolers, all anxious to tell me their weekend plans. My plans? I’m hoping to fall asleep tonight and wake Sunday morning. Tomorrow is a day filled with dread, though not for the reason you may think. The calendar lets me know it’s my thirtieth birthday, a day that most people celebrate and hate just the same, but it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of my failures. The life I had planned but didn’t have the ability to follow through. Our plan.
The plan that will never come to be.
I push all thoughts of Harrison and our marriage out of my mind and stand to greet my students. As soon as I do, the nausea sweeps in, and I feel a little lightheaded. I sit quickly, setting a shaky hand over my stomach. This flu bug is going to be the death of me. I’ve been feeling crummy for several days, though I’ve never spiked a fever. My stomach protests just about everything I put in my mouth, and I can’t seem to shake the bone-deep fatigue that accompanies whatever strand of sickness I have.
As a preschool teacher, I’m accustomed to sickness. I live it, practically daily. I’ve been puked on more times since school started this year than I care to even admit aloud. Young kids are still learning the signs of trouble looming, and often, by the time I’m made aware, it’s too late. The vomit is flying.
They forget to tell you that part when you’re in college and student teaching.
I meet them at the doorway, anxiously pushing aside the nausea. Pulling a mint from my pocket, I stick it in my mouth before the first student comes down the hallway. “Good morning, Allie,” I say brightly to the cute little brunette.
“Hi, Mrs. Drake,” she replies eagerly.
I wave her inside, ready to greet the rest of the class and ignoring the pang of longing I get every time someone says my name. Mrs. Drake. Technically, it’s Ms. Drake now, but little kids don’t seem to understand the difference, and I’m not really in any position to teach them that variance. Sure, I could have taken my maiden name back, but when the judge asked—and I knew she was going to—I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back. It was like I was erasing Harrison completely, eradicating every aspect of him from my life. He may not have been there physically, but by keeping his last name, I was able to hang on to a tiny sliver of what we used to be.