Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Aren’t we always?”
“What were you reading when I walked in?”
“The book club pick for the month.”
“Have I mentioned how much I love that you read those even though you don’t attend?”
“You have,” he playfully grins, “but I’m always open to hearing how you love the things I do.”
This wiggle of the eyebrows receives a giggle.
“Finished listening to the audio book about Gretzky while installing shelves earlier, so I figured it was a good time to start The Girl on the Train. I know you’re dying to talk about it.”
“Ohmygod, I am.” My overdramatic gushing is accompanied by me grabbing the unopened loaf from its counter space. “We can start discussing what you know and how far you are while I make myself a sandwich.”
His brow instantly crinkles in confusion. “Didn’t you just come from dinner with your parents?”
“I went to dinner there.” The confirmation is given on a fake, chipper grin. “Yes.”
“Was there…food?”
Tossing the bread on the island happens on my way to grab other ingredients. “Yes.”
“Was it edible?”
“Actually, yes.” My hand wraps around the fridge door handle yet rather than pull I meet his stare. “Minus the green onions.”
“You hate those as much as you hate chives.”
See. He knows me.
“Could you not pick around them?”
“Oh, I did.”
“And then what happened?”
“The Spanish Inquisition.”
His wince is expected.
“It started with my feelings on green onions and continued into my dating life, my house choices, and of course couldn’t end without discussing my physical changes. Although, she did compliment my skin as glowing right before she told me how Humpty Frumpty I look in this polka dot top.”
“Do you like the shirt?”
“I did until she said that.”
“Come on, Jaye. We’ve talked about this. If you like what you’re wearing, if you feel comfortable or sexy in it, that’s all that fucking matters, sweetheart. Your confidence starts with you.”
It’s impossible not to let my body slump at the reminder.
“And what’s she asking about your dating life? If we’re still together?”
This isn’t about to go well, is it?
My lack of retorting causes him to fold his arms across his chest at the same time he states, “She doesn’t know we’re a couple.”
Guilt convinces me to abandon the fridge and face him.
“Does she know that I live here?”
More shame scrunches my face.
“Does she know that I exist at all?”
Remorse barely has time to drop my jaw before he’s seethingly asking, “Does your dad?”
“He definitely knows you exist!”
“That I live here?”
“I think he…suspects that you still live in the garage.”
“Does he know that we’re fucking dating?”
“Again…he has his suspicions, but I have neither confirmed nor denied them.”
My word choice appears to be the wrong one by the way his eyes narrow. “You haven’t confirmed nor denied them.” He takes a long, slow agonizing lick of his lips. “Roger that.”
Shit.
“Archer-”
“It’s fine.” The icy exterior I loathe slides into place as he begins to back up towards the living room. “I’m gonna go put out the fire and head to bed early. I know you like for us to hit the gym before therapy when the schedule allows.”
“Arch-”
“Enjoy your sandwich. There’s an extra thing of mustard in the pantry if you need it.”
I’m not given the chance to say anything else to his face, and I have an inkling of my own that his glorious ass doesn’t listen nearly that well.
I mean…I wanna take a moment to appreciate how round and firm it is in those jeans, but I know now is not the time. However, I wish it was. Fooling around on a Friday night sounds way better than fighting.
Following out of the room, I meekly suggest, “Can we please talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Except there is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is.”
“There isn’t.”
“Damn it, Archer!” My body rushes around to block his ability to kill the fire. “Don’t do this.”
His stoic expression continues weighing down the butterflies in my stomach that I miss floating. “Do what?”
“Shutdown.”
The lack of a rebuttal has me finding the backbone I need to get better about having.
“We rarely fight. I mean actually fight. And whenever we do, you do this shit. You get upset or mad or pissed off, stuff it all down, swallow your tongue, and then just fucking bail. Why?! Is it because you think I can’t handle having an adult fucking argument or do you think I’m gonna kick you out for not being a ‘yes man’? Or is it something totally off the wall I don’t understand but want to?”
It’s his turn to have culpability claim his stare.
“Which is it, Archer? What’s the reason you’re afraid to fight with me?”
“I…” One hand snakes around the back of his neck to squeeze. “I…” The shoulder shrug that follows is clumsy. “I’m not fucking afraid to fight with you, Jaye. I just don’t like to do it. I don’t like seeing that look on your face. I don’t like feeling like an asshole. I don’t like thinking that the woman I love now hates me because I said some stupid shit in an argument when I could’ve done the right shit which was walk away until we were both more level fucking headed.”