Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Almost all are in black and white, the way Kat likes her décor. All but one, the largest in the very center. It’s also the only one that’s not staged.
She’s leaning toward me, and her lips look so red as she’s mid-laugh, holding a crystal champagne flute and wrapping her fingers around my forearm. Her eyes are on whoever was giving a speech. I don’t remember who it was or what they said, but I can still hear her laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound.
She was so happy on our wedding day. I thought she’d be stressed and worried, but it was like a weight was lifted and the sweetest version of her was given to me that day. There’s nothing but love in the photo. No work, no bullshit, just the two of us telling the world we loved each other enough to stay together forever.
My eyes are on her in that picture, with a smile on my face and pride in my reflection.
I tear my gaze away and keep walking, feeling the weight of everything press down on my shoulders. I’m exhausted and like the childish fool I am, I wish I could just go to sleep and this would all be a dream. A huff of sarcasm accompanies my gentle footsteps up the stairs.
I want to go back to when we first got married. Before we both got caught up in work and started to live separate lives. Before I fucked up.
If only we could start over and go back to that day.
As I pass the open office door, I hear the clacking of the computer keyboard. So many nights I’ve come home to this, so many mornings I’ve woken up to it. She’s always in her office, which is a shame. There’s hardly any light, or anything at all in the room. File cabinets, papers, a shredder and a desk. There’s not a hint of the woman Kat is in this room.
I guess it’s the same as the living room, but at least a classic elegance is present there. It’s nothing but cold in here. If a to-do list could be made into décor, that’s what this cramped room resembles.
“Hey, babe,” I say softly and Kat ignores me. I clear my throat and speak louder. “I’m home,” I tell her and again, I get nothing from Kat, just the steady clicks. There’s an empty wineglass and two bottles on the floor by her feet.
Maybe she’s a little drunk, maybe she has her earplugs in too, but still, she’d hear me. Was it a long shot that she’d kindly accept me coming home? Yes. It’s not too much to ask for an acknowledgment, though. Even if she tells me to fuck off. I’d take it.
My teeth grind together as I grip the handle of the door harder. She deserves better. I know she does. This is exactly I deserve, but I don’t want it. I won’t go down without fighting for what I want.
The standing floor lamp in the corner of her office is on, but it’s not enough to brighten the room. Even the glow of the computer screen is visible.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask her and her only response is that her fingers stop moving across the keys.
She doesn’t turn to face me or give any sign that I’ve spoken to her. She heard it, though, and her gaze drops to the keyboard for a second too long not to give that away.
“I don’t want to fight, Kat,” I tell her and force every bit of emotion I’m feeling into my words. “I don’t want this between us.”
She turns slowly in her seat, a baggy T-shirt covering her slim body and ending at her upper thighs. Her exposed skin is pale and the dark room makes her look that much paler. Her viridian eyes give her away the most, though. Nothing but sadness stares back at me.
My body is pulled to her, and I can’t help it. I can’t stand that look in her eyes. Before I can tell her I love her and I’m sorry, before I can come up with some lame excuse, she cuts me off.
“I wanted to last night,” she says and then crosses her arms. She looks uncomfortable and unnatural. Like she’s doing what she thinks she should be doing, not what she wants. “When you texted me and then I texted you back. I was ready to talk then.”
“I’m here now,” I offer and walk closer to her, the floorboards creaking gently. There’s a set of chairs in the corner of the room from our first apartment and I almost drag one over, but I’m too afraid to break eye contact with her. It’s progress. I’ll be damned if I stop progress for a place to sit.
At least she’s looking at me, talking to me, receptive to what I have to say.