Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Trace and Princess were already gone from bed. She sleeps in the bed with him, curls up on his chest and purrs until she falls into a peaceful slumber. I spent half the night jealous of her and how he kept absently stroking her fur even in his sleep.
The smell of bacon and eggs has me walking to the kitchen in a daze. I have to pass through the living room as I go. It looks better without all the junk. It still needs a serious overhaul, but I can do it. I can make this place cozy and homey for Trace.
Swallowing back tears, I prepare myself to face him. He doesn’t strike me as the type that would want anyone to make a big fuss over the fact that he’s sick, and I promise myself to face this stoically.
He’s at the stove when I come in, frying bacon and humming along to the radio as he works. It’s another classical piece, and I wonder if he’s always loved this music or if his cat is the reason he enjoys it.
Princess is on the floor, enjoying what I think might be a homemade meal. It shouldn’t surprise me that he takes such good care of his cat. Trace might like to pretend otherwise but he has a big heart. A big, beautiful heart.
He looks up from the stove. “You’re just in time. Food is done.”
I pull the phone from my pocket, feeling like it burns my fingertips. “You, um, you missed a call.”
He places the device on the counter without even looking at it. He points with the spatula. “Thanks. Grab plates for me. That cabinet.”
I get the plates and hand them to him right as I burst into tears.
7
TRACE
I woke up this morning with one resolution: I will not make Molly sad today. I could tell last night that I hurt her. But I didn’t know how to fix it. People aren’t something I understand, and that’s never bothered me. With Molly though, I find myself wanting to try. I want to understand her and be there for her.
When she comes into the kitchen, her face is pale. She’s probably expecting me to pull another Jekyll and Hyde. I won’t do that today. “You’re just in time. Food is done.”
She’s back in her clothes this morning which disappoints me even though I’m the one who set them out for her. Part of me had hoped to wake her with breakfast in bed, to cuddle her warm-from-sleep body close. It was a stupid fantasy.
She pulls my phone from her pocket. “You, um, you missed a call.”
Something isn’t right. I set the phone down on the counter, more concerned with comforting Molly than figuring out who would have called. I point the spatula in the direction of the nearby cabinet. “Thanks. Grab plates for me. That cabinet.”
I didn’t realize how much I’d like to cook for two until this morning. A man could get used to this. He could wake up every morning to spoil his girl with her favorite breakfast foods. Nope, not mine. Got to keep that in mind.
She passes me the plates, but something is definitely wrong with her expression. Then without warning, she bursts into tears. Not the quiet little tears you can wipe away discreetly. These are big, heaving sobs.
I toss the plates down on the counter and my hands are on her shoulders before I even realize I’m touching her. “You don’t have to eat the scrambled eggs.”
“It’s not that,” Molly hiccups. She throws herself into my chest, wrapping her arms around my middle and squeezing me tight. Her tears wet my t-shirt as I rub her back and try to figure out what the hell is going on.
I let her cry, waiting for her storm to pass. The moment she tells me who made her sob like this, that motherfucker is dead. No one makes my beautiful girl cry.
When she finally stops, I step back long enough to reach for a paper towel. I clean the tears from her face and force myself to stay calm until I have the name of the person whose ass will be getting kicked today. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re so strong and brave and really nice.” She sniffs. Her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks like she might start crying again any minute now. “And I know you wouldn’t want me making a big fuss over you, but you’ll just have to deal with that.” She pushes her finger into my chest. “Because we’re friends and it’s OK to be sad when your friend is sick.”
I capture her hand and bring it to my lips. I press a soft kiss to her palm, unable to resist. I need to be touching her all the time, the urge only grows every minute I’m around her and I can no longer fight it. I’m tired of holding myself back. “What do you mean sick?”