Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I paused my show, not wanting to miss a moment of the catfight in a restaurant. “Okay, well, I’ll think about it.”
“The good ones are going to be booked up if we don’t move soon,” he said. “I’ll set up some meetings.” He looked down at his phone, tapping at the screen.
“You will do no such thing,” I told him, pulling my feet back from his lap.
“It’s only some meetings. After that, you can make a choice.”
I placed my almonds on the coffee table, sitting up. “I will make the choice,” I said, caressing my stomach. “Me. I get that you’re making strides and reading the books and generally trying to be better, but a few weeks of you acting decent doesn’t mean you get to make all the decisions,” I snapped, rubbing the back of my neck, suddenly feeling hot.
“I get to make some of the decisions,” Kip shot back. “That’s my baby. You’re my wife.”
I pushed myself off the couch so I could pace the room. “Oh, you need to fucking stop with the whole ‘you’re mine’ bullshit. I am not yours because you decide it.”
“No, the state of Maine and the baby inside you decided it,” he replied.
I glowered at him. “Fuck you,” I hissed. This time, I said the two words as an insult, not in the semi-playful tone I normally used.
“You have to forgive me sometime,” Kip said, quite obviously catching my tone and serious expression. Although I was tolerating him being nice, letting him rub my feet and give me orgasms, I had made it clear that I hadn’t forgiven him.
I stared at him, stopping mid-pace. “Do I have to?”
He caught the aggression in my tone because it was impossible not to.
Nevertheless, he didn’t back down. “Yes,” he said. “We’re going to have a daughter, and I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t want her growing up confused about her parents’ lifestyle. I don’t want this to be a fake marriage. It isn’t a fake marriage. It’s real.”
I chewed my lip, fury simmering in every ounce of my blood. “I’m glad you're getting the opportunity to tell me all the things you don’t want out of this. Let me get a pen and paper so I can make a list, so I’m sure not to forget all the things I must do for my husband, all the ways I must bend to give him all that he wants.”
I stayed in place, glaring at him, my body damn near vibrating with anger. I didn’t have a great hold over my emotions these days, but I was pretty sure, pregnant or not, I’d be the same level of pissed off as I was right now.
“Fiona—”
“Nope,” I said, holding up my hand. “I appreciate that my car accident made you reevaluate things. Your past gave you a reason to bail out,” I told him. “An excuse for you to use to live with yourself. Something you could use to explain yourself to me, so I have to forgive you. Feel empathy for you. And I do.”
I felt it coming. Like a bubble in the back of my throat. All the things I’d been holding in. More anger I’d been nursing but hadn’t let out because I felt like an asshole for still being mad at Kip despite what he’d told me about his wife and daughter.
“But I am also haunted by my fucking past, Kip,” I snapped at him. “Not just the wino mother, the asshole father, the abusive husband, the babies that died inside me, the feeling of being utterly alone.”
I kept pacing. “I’ve worked through… most of that. Or repressed it enough that I’ve managed to be a somewhat adult person. But it’s this.” I pointed at my stomach. “The catalyst that brought it all crashing down.”
I placed my hand there, gentler now, worrying that my little girl was getting my fury fed to her through the placenta or whatever. That couldn’t be healthy.
I stopped pacing and took a deep breath. Then another. Then I looked at Kip, who was sitting on the sofa, watching me, his elbows resting on his knees. “I get that you’re tortured,” I said quietly. “But you don’t get to walk around like you’re the only one who is. Do you know I wear these earrings every day?” I pointed at my earrings. “Not because I like them overly much. Or that they’re expensive. In fact, the gold plating leaves black marks and makes my earlobes itch. But I have to wear these. Because these were what I was wearing when I first peed on the stick. When I first went to the doctor and didn’t get bad news. So, I thought they were some kind of moderately priced, gold-plated good luck charm. So now I have to wear them every day. Because if I don’t and something bad happens, it’s because I didn’t wear the earrings. It’s because of me.” I jabbed myself in the chest, already forgetting that I was supposed to be regulating my fury to protect the baby.