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)
He texted me just before I closed the shop earlier and told me Emmy was tired, so he was taking her to my place to put her to bed. The frequency he’s been using the key lately is making me wonder if Emmy is the only one he’s trying to spend more time with.
My front door is unlocked when I finally make it to my apartment. Ryle is in the kitchen. He glances up at me when he hears the front door shut.
“I grabbed dinner,” he says, holding up a bag from my favorite Thai place. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
I don’t like this. He’s been making himself more and more comfortable here. But I’m emotionally drained from the day already, so I shake my head and decide to confront the issue at a different time. “I haven’t. Thank you.” I set my purse on the table and pass the kitchen, heading for Emmy’s room.
“I just laid her down,” he warns.
I pause right outside her door and press my ear to it. It’s quiet, so I back away from the door and head into the kitchen without waking her.
I feel awful about my short response to Atlas earlier, but this interaction with Ryle is confirming all my concerns. How am I supposed to start something with someone new when my ex still brings me dinner and has a key to my apartment?
I need to set firm boundaries with Ryle before I can even begin to entertain the idea of Atlas.
Ryle chooses a bottle of red wine from my tabletop wine rack. “Mind if I open this?”
I shrug as I spoon pad thai onto my plate. “Go ahead, but I don’t want any.”
Ryle puts the bottle back and opts for a glass of tea. I grab a water out of the fridge, and we both take a seat at the table.
“How was she today?” I ask him.
“A little cranky, but I had a lot of errands to run. I think she just got tired of going in and out of the car seat. She was better when we went over to Allysa’s.”
“When’s your next day off?” I ask him.
“Not sure. I’ll let you know.” He reaches forward and uses his thumb to wipe something off my cheek. I flinch a little, but he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he pretends not to. I’m not sure if he realizes the reaction I have anytime his hand comes near me is a negative one. Knowing Ryle, he probably thinks I flinched because I felt a spark.
After Emmy was born, there were moments here and there when I would feel a spark between us. He’d do or say something sweet, or he’d be holding Emmy while he sang to her, and I would feel that familiar desire for him bubbling up inside of me. But I somehow found it within me to pull myself out of the moment every time. It only takes one bad memory to immediately dull any fleeting feelings I have in his presence.
It’s been a long, bumpy road, but those feelings are finally nonexistent.
I attribute that to the list I wrote of all the reasons why I chose to divorce him. Sometimes, after he leaves, I go to my bedroom and read it to reiterate that this arrangement is the best one for all of us.
Well. Maybe not this exact arrangement. I’d still like my key returned to me.
I’m about to take another bite of noodles when I hear a muffled ping come from my purse across the table. I drop my fork and quickly reach for my phone before Ryle does. Not that he would read my texts, but the last thing I want right now is for him to even try to be polite by handing me my phone. He might see that the text is from Atlas, and I’m not prepared for the storm that would bring.
The text isn’t from Atlas, though. It’s from my mother. She’s sending pics of Emmy she took earlier this week. I set the phone down and pick up my fork, but Ryle is staring at me.
“It was my mother,” I say. I don’t know why I even say that. I don’t owe him an explanation, but I don’t like the way he’s staring at me.
“Who were you hoping it would be? You practically lunged across the table for your phone.”
“No one.” I take a drink. He’s still staring. I have no idea how well Ryle can read me, but it looks like he knows I’m lying.
He spins his fork in his noodles and looks down at his plate with a hardened jaw. “Are you seeing someone?” There’s an edge to his voice now.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Not saying it is my business. Just having a casual conversation.”
I don’t respond to that because it’s a lie. Any recently divorced husband asking his ex-wife if she’s seeing someone is making anything but casual conversation.