Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Mom! Are you still up?” Maddie yells from the second floor.
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you good night and sweet dreams.”
I grin. “Want me to come tuck you in?”
“No,” she says, disgusted that I would assume her teenage self would need her mom to put her to bed. “I just wanted to say good night. Don’t make me regret it.”
I roll my eyes. “Good night, sweetheart. Good night, Michael. Love you guys.”
“Night, Mama,” he calls back. “Love you.”
I pause, giving our voices a moment to fade away. It also gives me an opportunity to peek down the hallway toward the bedroom I share with Jack. The light is still on.
I’m not ready. I need to kill more time.
A heaviness settles in my chest, grounding me firmly in the cabin. It’s anticipatory. I know what’s coming.
We managed to share the same space this evening without having to truly interact. There were questions here and answers there—a smile or a laugh at a joke at Harvey’s expense over burgers. And it was fine.
I hate fine.
So many times I’ve stood on the precipice of falling into old roles, of giving my husband a real smile when he saved Maddie from a mouse in the pantry and bursting with pride when he taught Michael how to grill a burger. Tonight was a reminder of the life we could have had. It was the life I dreamed of, the one I wanted so badly for so long.
The one I want now, even if it’s already fallen through my fingers.
I clear my throat, shoving down a rise of emotions. I’m tired and nervous . . . and hungry. I really wanted that last half of a burger that Michael grabbed just before I did.
Instead of going to bed, I peruse the list I started earlier. A straight line follows the length of the page and lists all the things we need if we’re going to make it here for fourteen days without dying of starvation.
Somehow, my heart thumps despite the tightness surrounding it. Each beat is harder than the one before it. Every pump of blood through my veins inches me closer to—
“Lo?”
I wheel around to find Jack standing in the mouth of the hallway. Hair damp from the shower and clad in only a pair of black boxer briefs, his puppy in his arms, he watches me expectantly.
“What?” I ask, taking in the way Snaps glares at me. I glare back at him. I’m not backing down, you little husband thief.
Jack moves confidently into the kitchen, his body putting on a show.
Seeing him in his skivvies should be routine. I’ve seen him that way a thousand times over the years—naked a thousand times more. So why is he suddenly catching my attention?
Because I haven’t seen him like this in months? Maybe it’s just that I haven’t had any action in what feels like forever . . .
“Just wondering what you’re doing out here,” he says. Our shoulders nearly touch when he breezes by me as if we pass in the kitchen half-clothed all the time. “The kids went to bed an hour ago.”
And there’s reality, smashing me in the face.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I had to wash the rest of the dishes. Get your cooler emptied so it doesn’t reek from stagnant water. Sweep all the dirt we tracked in today. Inventory the food. Wipe the counters. Change a light bulb in the laundry area because I almost face-planted over a stack of blankets the kids ripped off the beds and deposited in the middle of the floor.”
He doesn’t look at me. Instead, he focuses on offering his puppy a drink.
“Oh, your dog shit in the laundry room. I cleaned it up too,” I say.
He rubs his knuckles on the back of Snaps’s head. “You can’t shit in the house, Snapsy. Come on, boy.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Jack notices my reaction and sighs.
“He’s a puppy. Cut him some slack,” he says.
As if he understands English, Snaps barks one quick sound of agreement.
Really? “Snaps is another living thing that I don’t have the energy to maintain. Cut me some slack.”
“No one asked you to do anything for him.”
“What am I supposed to do when I nearly step in dog shit? Just leave it until you find yourself in the laundry room?” I snort, my frustration evident in the sound. “That would take a tornado ripping through Story Brook. The only way I can see you in there is if you’re running for cover and it’s the safest room in the house.”
We face each other head-on, waiting for the other to blink.
“I’m going to bed,” I say finally, heading down the hallway before Jack can respond.
My jaw clenches as a nasty exhale streams out of my nostrils. Of course he doesn’t understand. Why would he?