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)
“Oh, I know. I remember her telling me a dozen times.”
“She kept talking about the movers.” I shake my head. “We didn’t need any movers.”
“Sure, sure. I remember that squabble.”
“Squabble,” I repeat and run my hand over my hair. “She knew I could handle it.”
Pops laughs at the thought. A deep laugh, and then he leans back in his chair.
“You guys can handle that, then you guys can handle anything.”
“It feels different, Pops.” I swallow and fight back the swell of emotion. “This isn’t just a fight.”
“How would you know? You haven’t even really had a fight, have you?”
I stare at him blankly, knowing me and Kat haven’t ever gone at it before, not really. A little bickering here or there, but this isn’t some argument over dishes. This is worse than he can imagine, and I’m ashamed to speak that truth.
“Just get her something shiny. Spoil the woman,” he says, throwing his hand up.
I let a trace of a smile linger on my lips as I picture handing Kat a bouquet of roses. I’d pick the dark red ones, but make sure there’s some baby’s breath in the package too. One of the large bouquets. The ones that make you lean in and smell them. Too good to resist. That’s the kind I’d get her.
I can see her soft smile as she peeks up at me, holding it in both her hands.
A warmth settles through me. I wish it were that easy. I’d buy every flower I could if that were the case.
“Whatever you do,” Pops says, distracting me from the vision of Kat forgiving me, “just don’t give up.”
“I won’t,” I tell him and I damn well mean it.
Kat
My fingers relentlessly tap on my phone and my gaze drifts to the door. He’s coming. Soon.
Evan needs to get his things and get out. Mistake after mistake after mistake. That’s what this relationship has been. There’s undeniable love between us. I won’t argue with that. But some people aren’t meant to be together and at this point in my life, I should be concerned with having children and not the possibility of having to bail my husband out of jail.
There’s a bit of anger that’s carried me through the last two days. It’s what I focus on. It’s what gives me the strength to tell him I don’t want to be with him anymore. To tell him it doesn’t matter when he says he loves me.
I know it matters, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that I’ll always want him and have love for him. I’ll always want to feel loved like I did when we first got together.
But there’s only one way for the story of the two of us to end and that’s with him packing his things and getting out. Loving each other simply isn’t enough when we’re so far apart in other ways.
As if he heard my thought, the front doorknob jiggles and the sound of keys clinking creeps into the room.
Fate hates me. No, that’s not strong enough of a word. It must loathe me because the sight of my husband standing in our doorway shatters my heart.
I attempt to keep my expression cold, but my body goes numb and the same coldness that swept over my body only weeks ago when I felt my marriage falling apart drifts over my skin now. His eyes are bloodshot. He can’t force a look of anything but agony as he turns his gaze from me and walks slowly into the room, closing the door behind him. The shock to my system is crippling and I can’t look him in the eyes. He doesn’t try to hide the desperation. His disheveled hair and all-around rough appearance make my body itch to touch him. To comfort him. To make the obvious pain go away.
I think that’s why I’ll never be able to deny that I love him. The image of him in pain destroys me to my core. My soul hurts for his, and I want nothing more than to take his misery away.
I need to love myself more than I could ever love him. I’m trying to. My God, am I trying.
He nods his head as he tosses his keys down on the coffee table and stands awkwardly in front of me.
I have to swallow the tightness in my throat and ignore the heat flowing through my body begging me to give in. “Hi.” I’m the first to say anything at all and break the uneasy tension in the living room.
“How are you?” he asks and it feels so odd. Like we’re just old friends or acquaintances.
“Not the best,” I answer him. I try to find that anger, I remember everything as my eyes shift to the entrance to the dining room, but there’s not an ounce of anger that will come to my rescue.