Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Tears splashed onto the page, making the ink smear and run.
Enzo knocked on the bathroom door. “Bianca? Are you okay?”
I jumped to my feet, quickly folding up the tearstained paper. “I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Be out in a minute.”
Then I shoved the folded page in a drawer, right next to the unopened box of Clomid pills I was supposed to start taking tomorrow. I picked up the box and looked at it, anger and resentment and fear and sadness rising in me.
The tears spilled fresh. I couldn’t do this again. I just couldn’t.
Tucking the box of pills at the very back of the drawer, I closed it, splashed some cold water on my face, and opened the door.
I knew what I had to do to save myself.
Fifteen
Enzo
The following week, I felt like I was walking on eggshells around Bianca, constantly terrified of saying the wrong thing, so mostly I said nothing at all. I had no idea if she wanted to be left alone or wanted me around, so I tried to strike an even balance, working late some nights and coming home for dinner with her on others. I tried to do things for her I knew she liked—brought her flowers, made her waffles, let her choose the movie.
Nothing made her smile like it used to.
She seemed to retreat inward. Our house was eerily silent without the usual bickering. I wanted to touch her, but it wasn’t at all clear whether she wanted to be touched or not, so I didn’t risk it. And I certainly didn’t ask about sex.
It killed me to see the light go out of her, but I had no idea how to make her feel better. And I was angry—so fucking angry. Why wasn’t this pregnancy thing working? I knew I was letting her down. She swore I wasn’t, but it was difficult not to feel that way. Her entire reason for entering into this marriage was to get a baby out of it, and I’d been so sure I could deliver. Here I stood ready to inherit the company—after the accident, my mother finally talked my dad into fully retiring—meaning that I’d gotten everything I wanted out of our deal. And she’d gotten nothing.
On Friday evening, I met up with the guys at the pub. When Griffin had first texted about hanging out, I’d hesitated to leave Bianca alone. But when I called and mentioned it to her, she encouraged me to go.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m really tired, so I’m just going to heat up some leftovers and go to bed early.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind and want company. I could make dinner.”
But she never reached out again, so I went to the pub.
Cole, Griffin, Beckett and I caught up over beers and wings and burgers like we always did, but even being at the Bulldog reminded me of Bianca. I kept looking over my shoulder toward the back room where our wedding reception had been. Had it really been less than two months ago? It seemed like we’d been together a lot longer than that. I could hardly remember what it had been like living in my place alone.
I heard my name and looked back at my friends. “Sorry, what?”
“What’s with you tonight?” Griffin asked. “You seem kinda out of it.”
“Just—just thinking about all the shit I have to get done this weekend.” I picked up my beer and took a long drink without tasting it. “Anyone feels like tearing up carpet, removing wallpaper, and ripping out cabinets, come on over to the new house tomorrow.”
“I can help,” Cole said. “I’m off tomorrow.”
“Same,” said Beckett. “My sister’s in town, so I should be able to get away for a while. She can keep an eye on my dad.”
“I’ll come too,” said Griffin. “Probably around one, after the garage closes.”
“Thanks, guys.”
Griffin and I stayed the longest, and later, as the two of us were walking to our cars, he asked me if Bianca was okay. “Blair keeps saying this week how worried she is about her.”
I frowned. “Yeah, she, uh, didn’t get pregnant this month. Again.”
“Oh.”
“She took it really hard.”
“Can’t you just keep trying?”
“That’s the plan.” I tried to keep my voice light. “But I get the feeling she’s not all that hopeful anymore. And I feel so fucking bad, you know? I want to be able to give her what she wants. I hate when there’s a problem I can’t fix.”
“Same. But I don’t think we can compare this to a blown tire or a kitchen remodel.”
“No, we can’t,” I grumbled. “It just sucks to see her this way. Is it weird that I like it better when she’s arguing with me or telling me what an egotistical dickhead I am? She doesn’t even seem like the same person.”