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)
I poured myself some wine, sat on the bed, and held up my glass. “To seven weeks of wedded bliss. May the next seven be as fruitful as a glass of sparkling strawberry jampagne.” I tapped my glass to hers.
“Cheers,” she said, taking a sip. Her face puckered for a second.
I tasted the wine and my mouth did the same. It tasted like a mouthful of fizzy liquid jelly donut. “Mmm.”
She nodded. “Mmm.”
I pulled the top off the box of chocolates. “Here. Because nothing goes with sugar like more sugar.”
“Thank you.” She chose one and took a bite.
“Well?”
“Delicious.”
I grinned. “And all this time I’ve been spending money on the good stuff when you’re happy with drugstore wine and candy.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How was your night with the guys?”
“Good.” I leaned onto my side, propping my head in my hand. “They’re going to come over to the house tomorrow and give us a hand.”
“Oh, nice.”
“I figure we can get the kitchen torn out with the extra muscle.”
She nodded. “Sounds good. I’m hoping to get all that wallpaper in the front hall removed over the next few days. I’m afraid to see how many layers there are.”
I reached over and rubbed her leg through the blankets. “Don’t do anything too strenuous.”
“Why not?”
“Because you need to take care of yourself.”
“For what?”
I frowned. “What do you mean, for what? For the baby.”
She laughed, but it was an empty sound. “There’s no baby, Enzo. Remember?”
“Well, not yet. But there will be.” I sipped my awful wine. “What’s the target shooting schedule like for next week?”
She looked away. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” I was totally taken aback. “How is that possible? Last month, you were like, ‘We must bang on Wednesday evening at precisely ten-twenty-two p.m. Eastern Standard Time when the moon is full.”
She took a drink. “Sorry.”
Immediately I regretted trying to be funny. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make jokes. I was just wondering what day would be best.”
“Wednesday, I guess. If you still want to try.”
“Huh?” I picked my head up off my hand. “Why wouldn’t I still want to try?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking maybe you were getting tired of all this.”
“All this what?”
“All this . . . me.” She shrugged, and when she lifted her eyes, they were glassy with tears. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”
“What the hell are you talking about? This is exactly what I signed up for, Bianca. You asked me for three months and I said yes, right? Along with some really ridiculous shit?” I set my wine glass on the nightstand. “Where is that contract? Let’s look at it.”
“Why?”
“For fun. Come on, it will make you laugh. Remember how much fun we had making it up?” I was hoping seeing it would take her back to that moment in time, when she was full of hope and light and firecracker spirit. Even if it only reminded her how much she’d disliked me back then, she’d at least feel something other than sad.
She looked into her wine again. “Things were different back then.”
“I know, but it will still be funny. I can’t even remember some of the things we put on it.” I slid off the bed and stood up. “I know you still have it somewhere.”
“It’s in the bathroom,” she said. “Top drawer on the right. The one you gave me to use.”
I raised my eyebrows and headed for the bathroom. “You keep our marriage contract in the can? That says a lot right there.”
Switching on the light, I opened the top right drawer and moved some shit around—makeup wipes, cotton balls, Q-tips, toothpaste, dental floss, moisturizer, a box of pills—until I found a small square of folded paper. Unwrapping it, I tried to read what we’d written but could hardly make it out because it had gotten wet. Frowning, I looked at the drawer again. Had there been a fucking plumbing leak somehow?
I felt around and looked at the bottom of the drawer, but saw no evidence of moisture. The cotton balls and Q-tips were dry, and the white Clomid box showed no signs it had gotten wet.
It also showed no signs of having been opened.
What the fuck?
I picked it up and shook it—definitely full. I stared at the box in my hand, wondering if maybe she’d had a different pack. Otherwise, why else wouldn’t she have taken them? If I remembered correctly, she should have started them on Monday, which meant she should have taken the last one today. I shook the box again, but it still wasn’t empty.
I looked at the contract again, the blue ink diluted and smeared like the watercolor hue of her eyes.
With the page in one hand and the box of pills in the other, I went back into the bedroom. “What’s this?” I asked, holding up the Clomid. “You haven’t been taking them?”