Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Using a mixture of trisodium phosphate and water, I cleaned all of the surfaces. The cabinets had to be emptied completely. After I fully cleaned the shelves, I inspected everything in the kitchen for damage. It didn’t end there. After I removed all of the soot, I used a special citrus cleaner to go over everything all over again.
I’d also read online that leaving open bowls of vinegar throughout the house would help absorb the smell, along with sprinkling baking soda on the carpets in the adjacent room before vacuuming.
Even though it was quite cold, I kept all of the windows open in the house. It was going to be a long night.
When Bridget returned the next afternoon, I’d just finished getting the place looking presentable again. She was likely going to need to repaint in some areas, but at least a good majority of the mess from the fire was eliminated.
Brendan was ecstatic to get back to his room after being away.
Bridget looked around in amazement.
“I can’t believe this. It looks almost normal in here. Did you even sleep?”
My hair was disheveled, and I must have looked like death warmed over.
“I managed a couple of hours.”
She looked flabbergasted. “Simon, I don’t know what to say. This is beyond what I would ever expect…”
“It’s fine. It had to be done.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve hired someone.”
“You were freaked out. I didn’t want you to have to wait and worry about it.”
She was starting to get teary-eyed as she approached me and did something she’d never done before. Bridget rarely touched me; she avoided it at all costs. But she gently brushed my hair to the side with her fingers.
It felt so fucking good.
“Jesus, have you even eaten anything?” she asked.
“I need sleep more than food right now. I’ll grab a bite after I wake up before my shift tonight.”
“After all that work…you have a shift tonight? Simon, I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“Anything for you, luv.”
“I’ve heard you say that to an old lady before, but honestly I do believe you mean it. You’re a good guy, Simon.”
If this were a movie, she might’ve leaned in and kissed me at that moment. But when Bridget Valentine was the star of the show, things were never that simple.
I’d decided to do something I’d been putting off for a very long time.
Dr. Laura Englender came highly recommended. It was my third appointment, and I’d filled her in on pretty much everything that happened with me since Ben’s death.
Her office was conveniently located in Providence. A nice view of the river could be found just outside her window, so I liked to gaze at the water as I poured my soul out to her.
We’d spent a good portion of the first two visits discussing lingering issues having to do with my late husband. The most recent visit, however, was exclusively focused on my situation with Simon. It wasn’t easy, but I opened up to her about the sexual stuff that had been going on without getting too graphic.
“So…you can see why I’m so conflicted,” I said.
Dr. Englender straightened in her seat. “Sure, I mean, a hot, kind-hearted doctor who’s great with your son moves in with you, wants to give you intense orgasms while talking dirty to you in a British accent…it’s really a difficult decision.”
My mouth dropped. “Are you mocking me?”
“Even therapists can joke a bit, can’t we?”
“Oh, I guess. Okay.”
She scribbled something in her notebook—probably “can’t take a joke”—then looked up at me. “So, let me ask you something, Bridget…what is the worst that could happen if you gave into your physical attraction to him?”
Blowing out a breath, I really tried to think on that.
“The worst is that I could become even more attached to him than I already am.”
She tapped her pen. “Listen to your words—more attached than you already are. On a scale of one to ten, rate your current obsession with this man. How often do you think of him on a daily basis, ten being the most.”
“Nine.”
She adjusted her glasses. “Nine…”
“Yes.”
“So, essentially, if you sleep with him, your obsession may then move to ten.”
Is she mocking me again? I think she is.
“Yes. Most certainly, it would,” I said.
“So, you’re depriving yourself of something that you greatly want on many levels, when really, I would say your worst fear has basically already happened. You’ve already concluded that he’s leaving—yet you’re attached anyway, thinking of him all of the time. Knowing that he’s leaving has not stopped you from focusing on him.”
What is she getting at?
“You think I should give in to my desires despite the consequences?”
She shook her head. “That’s not my decision to make. I do, however, think that you should probably realize that the attachment you fear has already happened.”
Sweat was permeating my forehead. “This is not exactly what I wanted to hear.”