Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Resting back on her heels, she says, “You mock, but I think you should get a professional opinion. Do you have a thermometer?”
“You’re my wife, supposedly, and now you’re my nurse?” I slip out over the arm of the couch, avoiding her perimeter to retrieve the first-aid kit. She’s making me feel like I have no sense of myself anymore. If I have to prove her wrong, I will. Happily.
“It actually hurts my feelings when you say things like that, Warner.”
It’s not her words. Sure, there’s a lot of nonsense to weed through the things she says, but there’s meaning in some of it, like now. My bullshit detector tilts, throwing off the balance I live my life by—that I’m always right. What if I’m wrong this one time?
I glance over my shoulder to see her still sitting on the floor waiting for me to return like she has nothing better to do. It’s that there that fucks with my head. The soft corners of her eyes, the gentle smile that doesn’t take over but provides reassurance, and the slope of her shoulders in comfort that she’s found here. She looks like she genuinely cares. And belongs.
That’s more than I can say for anyone else in my life. Where are they? My mother. Jimmy. I thought for sure my office would have filed a missing person’s report by now. Well, even with me emailing, it’s still out of the ordinary for me to miss work.
Do I give them the grace of my not having my phone?
Jimmy and I don’t talk every day. Would I have noticed if he’d been out of action for a couple of days? Probably not. Should I? Yeah. He’s my best friend.
I only see my mother once in a blue moon and at events and the occasional meal if she can squeeze me into her busy schedule. I could be gone for months, and she wouldn’t know any better.
But Jocelyn would. I didn’t even receive a reply other than “Take care of yourself.” Which is nice—I’ll give her that—but the lack of emails and contact from her is strange.
Shit . . . unless they all know my wife is taking care of me.
No fucking way. Is there really no way?
Turning away, I walk down the hall, scraping my fingers through my hair. In the bathroom, I search the medicine cabinet for antacids to help with the budding distress in my stomach. But I grab the thermometer because I know there’s no medicine to help with this affliction. It’s time to face Delaney head-on, standing my ground, and with honesty.
I can’t live in these conditions any longer. The stress she’s causing is worse than the concussion. Integrity, Landers. There’s no need to hurt her more than she claims she already is.
Walk in there. Tell her the truth. And call a car so she can return to living her own life instead of continuing to flip my world upside down.
Standing on the far side of the room, she doesn’t hear me when I enter. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her gaze staring through the window somewhere in the distance, but her mouth is twisted as she gnaws on the inside of her cheek. On second notice, I don’t see the light in her eyes like she’s high on life when she’s looking at me. Concern is more prevalent in her furrowed brow.
This feels invasive, like something she wouldn’t want me to see. Real. Raw. Honest. Having seen this side of her reflects on me in guilt. Am I being too harsh? “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” She angles toward me, a morphing of her body language as if she had momentarily lowered her armor and was caught with her guard down. She’s quick to rectify the situation, her shoulders straighter and head held higher. She doesn’t say anything, which is surprising, but I do. “I’ve not been myself the past few days.”
“We’ve not been ourselves in so long.” The wistfulness of her tone, the longing in her eyes, and the lowering of her arms, hanging without tension, leave little room for doubt. The release of a deep breath provides some relief, but entertaining the possibility of a past life shared with her lowers my guard around her.
What concerns me more is the fact that I had many opportunities to find the truth, but I chose to ignore those options. Do I need to hear it from her? Why would anything she says hold more weight than the internet, my friends, or even my assistant, Jocelyn? They would know. Granted, I would sound like a fool for asking them.
Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
Her usual energy has calmed as she approaches me. New angle? “Front or back,” she asks, taking the thermometer from me.
“What do you mean?”