Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
His and Allysa’s eyes meet the bowl at the same time. Allysa pulls it to her, cradling it. “I cooked lunch for me and Lily,” she lies.
Ryle raises an eyebrow. “You cooked?” He reaches for the bowl. “I have to see this. What is it?”
Allysa hesitates before handing him the bowl. “Yeah, it’s chicken… baraba doula… meat.” She looks at me and her eyes are wide. She is such a horrible liar.
“Chicken what?” Ryle opens the bowl and inspects it. “It looks like shrimp pasta.”
Allysa clears her throat. “Yeah, I cooked the shrimp in… chicken stock. That’s why it’s called chicken barabadoulameat.”
Ryle puts the lid back on and looks at me with concern as he slides the bowl across the counter back to Allysa. “I’d order pizza if I were you.”
I force a laugh, but so does Allysa. Both of us laughing makes our reaction seem way too compulsory for a joke that wasn’t even funny.
Ryle’s expression narrows. He takes a couple of steps back, a suspicious look in his eye. He must be used to the two of us having inside jokes that he isn’t a part of, because he doesn’t even question us. He spins and walks out of the flower shop in a rush to get the keys to Marshall. Allysa and I both stand as still as statues until we’re sure he’s left the building and is way out of earshot. Then I look at her incredulously.
“Chicken barbawhat? Did you just completely make up a new language?”
“I had to say something,” she says defensively. “You stood there like a lump! You’re welcome.”
I wait a couple of minutes to make sure Ryle has had time to leave. I walk out front to ensure Ryle’s car is gone. Then I regretfully walk into my office and head to the supply closet to inform Atlas he’s in the clear. I exhale before opening the door.
Atlas is waiting patiently, his arms crossed as he leans against a shelf, as if being hidden in a closet doesn’t bother him in the least.
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t know how many apologies it will take to make up for what I just asked Atlas to do, but I’m prepared to say it a thousand more times.
“Is he gone?”
I nod, but rather than exit the closet, Atlas grabs my hand, pulls me in and closes the door.
Now we’re both in the closet.
The dark closet. But not so dark that I can’t see the flicker in his eyes that indicates he’s holding back a smile. Maybe he doesn’t absolutely hate me for this.
He releases my hand, but it’s so cramped in here for the two of us, parts of him are grazing parts of me. My stomach knots, so I press my back into the shelf behind me in an attempt not to press into him, but it feels like he’s draped over me like a warm blanket. He’s so close, I can smell his shampoo. I very calmly try to breathe through my nerves.
“Well? Can I?” he asks, his voice a whisper.
I have no idea what he’s asking me, but I want to answer with a confident yes. Rather than blurt out my consent to a question I don’t even know, I silently count to three. Then I say, “Can you what?”
“Call you tonight.”
Oh. He jumped right back into the conversation we were having out front, as if Ryle never even interrupted us.
I pull in my bottom lip and bite down on it. I want to say okay because I want Atlas to call me, but I also want Atlas to know that me hiding him from Ryle inside of this closet is probably on par with how the rest of our interactions will go since Ryle is always going to be in the picture, considering we share a child.
“Atlas…” I say his name like something awful is about to follow it up, but he interrupts me.
“Lily.” He says my name with a smile, like nothing I could possibly add to his name would be awful.
“My life is complicated.” I don’t intend for it to come out like a warning, but it does.
“I want to help you uncomplicate it.”
“I’m scared your presence is going to complicate it even more.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’ll complicate your life or Ryle’s life?”
“His complications become my complications. He’s the father of my child.”
Atlas dips his head ever so slightly. “Exactly. He’s her father. He’s not your husband, so you shouldn’t allow your concern for his feelings to persuade you to give up what could be the second-best thing to ever happen to you.”
He says that with such conviction, my heart feels like it’s tumbling down my rib cage like a Plinko chip. The second-best thing to ever happen to me? I wish his confidence in us were contagious. “What’s the first-best thing to ever happen to me?”