Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
And so what if some days I just want to see it? Want to feel it? I want—
I step into the kitchen with a grin, ready to do something dramatic—maybe a slow, hip-swinging walk, maybe a little spin—but Bane is already moving.
Not toward me, though.
He’s frowning down at his phone, one hand adjusting his watch, the other reaching for the coffee pot.
“You’re up early,” he murmurs, still looking at whatever deeply important priest shit is happening on his screen. “I made your coffee how you like it.”
A steaming cup is pressed into my hands.
I blink at it. Then up at him.
I stand there, waiting.
Waiting for him to look.
For him to see.
For him to say something, anything.
A damn. A holy fuck, Moira, you’re illegal in six states. A get over here, you little brat.
Nothing.
He presses a distracted kiss to my hairline, mutters something about a meeting at the church, and then he’s gone.
The door shuts behind him. The house falls silent.
The coffee cup shakes in my hands, and I swallow back stupid, sudden tears.
Stop it. It’s fine.
It’s more than fine because it’s nothing.
He was busy. Late for a meeting. Jesus Christ, it’s not a big deal.
It’s just—
It’s just—
I look down at my reflection on the dark surface of the coffee. All that effort. All that energy. And he didn’t even see me.
My throat tightens. My stomach hollows out. I know it’s stupid, I know it’s small, but the feeling slams into me anyway. A ridiculous, overblown, shameful devastation that makes me feel like a wind-up toy running out of spin.
My fingers slip, and then—
“Shit!”
The cup crashes to the floor.
Coffee explodes everywhere—on my shoes, on the cabinets, on my perfect fucking skirt. The sound of ceramic shattering echoes through the empty kitchen, and my body seizes up, my breath catching hard in my throat.
Oh.
That’s just fucking perfect.
Hot coffee seeps into my socks. My lip trembles. My stupid fucking lip trembles like I’m some pathetic little girl about to cry over spilled coffee, and I want to scream at myself. I want to shake myself.
It’s nothing. It’s just coffee. It’s just an outfit. It’s just a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. He still loves you, he still wants you, you are not being abandoned, you are not—
I swallow hard, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.
Get it together, Moira.
I take a slow, shuddering breath and force my shoulders back.
I’m still meeting Kira for lunch.
I’m going to clean up this mess, fix my makeup, and pretend none of this happened.
And if my brain decides to gnaw on this for the rest of the day, I’ll deal with it later. With tequila. Or bad decisions. Or both.
No. I don’t do that shit anymore.
I’m being good now. I’m married now. I feel a low, horrified drop in my stomach. I’m married to a priest, for Christ’s sake.
I grab a towel and fall to my knees to furiously wipe up the coffee, tears squeezing out of my eyes.
Kira looks annoyingly radiant. Not that I’m bitter. I mean, I’m a little bitter, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, we are at lunch, and I am on. Big, bouncing, shining like a goddamn supernova because that’s what I do.
That’s how I win at life. I perform until everyone believes I’m the happiest bitch in the room, even when my insides feel like a squeezed-out juice box.
“So, tell me.” I lean forward, chin propped on my hand, eyes twinkling like I haven’t spent all morning wrestling with the void. “How’s living with Mr. Silent & Broody? Does he still do that thing where he stares into the distance like he’s contemplating existential threats everywhere he looks?”
Kira snorts, stabbing at her salad. “Every day.”
“Does he talk more now, or do you just sit in eerie, muscle-bound silence until one of you passes out from sheer lack of stimulation?”
Her lips twitch. “He talks.”
“Oh, groundbreaking. A whole word? Or are we up to sentences?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yeah, he’s still a grumpy bastard,” she says, casually twirling her fork, “but he’s going to be a great dad.”
Boom.
I barely stop my fork from clattering onto my plate. My fingers spasm around it, and for a second, I swear the whole restaurant tilts sideways.
I cover fast. Big grin. Big eyes. Big voice. “A dad? Holy shit, Kira! Congratulations!”
Her face lights up, and it’s—ugh. It’s sickeningly beautiful. No wonder she’s glowing like some kind of Earth Mother goddess with an actual future stretched out before her. And because I am a good friend, a supportive friend, I do what I do best—I lean in.
“Okay, tell me everything,” I demand, popping a fry into my mouth. I chew like I actually have an appetite, even though my stomach is currently a sinkhole. “Isaak as a dad? Oh my god, can you imagine? I bet he’s been, like, secretly nesting.”