Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I’m in a damned no-win situation.
I want to tell him that we can tell the truth and just deal with the cards as they fall, but I know that telling them means I’ll lose him as well. It’s not a choice between him and his sister, and months ago that would’ve been an easy choice. Beth is my very best friend, but Kit—Jesus, he’s managed to become so much more to me.
I don’t know when he transitioned from the man who got me pregnant, to the man I wanted to wake up to, the man who makes me smile even though I try to hide it.
He’s just… more.
The decision has become harder, and it makes me doubt every choice I’ve made that lead me to where I am. I wanted to be closer to the Riggs family than I was originally, so close that I couldn’t imagine having a baby that wasn’t a part of that. I seduced a man into getting me pregnant, and although I know no one in the family would reject my child because he or she is a part of them, I know in my soul they’d sever as many ties with me as they could. Invitation to Sunday lunch would turn into custody drop off at a grocery store because they wouldn’t be able to stomach the idea of me stepping foot on their property ever again. Oh, I’m sure some of them would feel guilt over their actions, but not enough to choose differently.
He doesn’t know what he’s asking of me because he’s always had a circle of people who loved him unconditionally. He’s never had to cling to someone in order to feel loved. I feel crazed as tears start to flow down my cheeks. I’m a fucking psycho, more for knowing I would still do it all over again than doing it in the first place. I can’t regret it. I can’t picture another man being the father of this child even though that’s the lie I keep telling everyone.
I level my shoulders, using my anger over all of it as I pull up my text thread with Kit. The morning check-in text makes me see red. That fucking thumbs-up emoji just pisses me off right now, more than it ever has before, and that’s saying a lot because I almost threw my damn phone across the room this morning when he sent it.
Me: Be pissed like a petulant child. I’m fucking pissed, too.
I didn’t even hesitate to send the text to Kit, and I don’t have an ounce of guilt or regret when the tag under it turns from delivered to read.
My anger builds as those three dots show up, waiting for him to spit some bullshit back at me.
They disappear for so long, I have to tap my phone to keep the screen alive.
The dots reappear, and this goes on for several minutes, but a response never comes through, and I think that’s more painful than if he would’ve just told me to fuck off and never speak to him again.
Realizing I’ll drive myself crazy if I just sit here with my phone in my hands, I stuff it in the couch cushions and stand. I spend the next hour straightening my house. I’ve been feeling better this week as far as the morning sickness is concerned, but I have no illusions that it’s gone forever.
I run a million and one scenarios through my head about what he could’ve said in those texts he refused to send, and I formulate witty and scathing responses to each one as I shower.
Having won the argument in my head, I’m at least smiling a little when I climb out and dry off. I spend a few minutes staring at my naked body in the mirror before getting dressed.
I don’t know if I’m just bloated or if the tiny bump under my belly button is my actual pregnancy starting to show. There’s a sad smile on my face as I caress the skin there, somehow coming to terms with the fact that no matter the outcome of all of this, I’m going to have a baby. There’s going to be someone on the earth that will love me unconditionally because they will never doubt my love for them. They will forgive me when I make mistakes. They won’t cut me out of their lives for being selfish on occasion. That’s what unconditional love is.
Exhaling a long breath, I decide that there’s nothing better for a pity party than peach ice cream. I wrap my silk robe around me and head toward the kitchen, but passing my phone, knowing it’s shoved into the couch, without checking to see if Kit ever answered is impossible.
The tranquility I was trying to build disappears at the blank screen, and I decide I’d rather live in my anger than anything else right now. With determined strides, I head to my room. I’m fucking tired of being ignored. I’m tired of the silent treatment from him.