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)
A pregnant pause fills the space between us. We look at one another as if we’re both afraid to proceed.
He did ask me to go. But I assumed the worst.
Is this progress or a slippery slope back to the way it was before?
He’s trying, and that makes my heart swell. But this conversation proves we are far from fixing our problems. And the solution feels so out of reach.
The past few days with Jack and the kids, and Harvey, have reminded me of just how wonderful things can be when we’re together. But the problem is, and has always been, that we aren’t together—that I’m alone. And as I look at my husband and the wariness in his eyes, the real question is sitting right in front of me: Is being alone better than being with him?
Jack rolls his head around his neck and blows out a breath. The sound breaks the silence. “I won’t go.”
“Why?”
He sighs. “Because you’re obviously slammed, and I want to stay and help you.”
If I thought he meant it, I’d be touched. But the way his eyes narrow and the edge to his tone make me think otherwise. He’s saying what he thinks I want to hear.
That isn’t at all what I want. I don’t want to be made to think that this is all my fault, that these issues are mine alone. That my needs in this relationship take a back seat to practically everything and everyone else.
I steel myself to him. “Don’t make me feel guilty.”
“I’m not. But I don’t know what you want me to do, Lo. I’m in between a rock and a hard place here.”
We both are.
I study him—the lines on his face and the trepidation in his eyes. As much as I want to get up and walk out of the room, which is what I would’ve done before this trip, I don’t. He’s willing to talk this through. I will too.
“I want you to talk to me about things, Jack. About whatever’s going on with you today that you won’t share with me.” I hold his gaze. “Tell me about trips to the other side of the country. About . . . getting dogs.”
He shakes his head. “I’m telling you—I told you about the trip.”
“Fine. But what about the rest of it?” What’s wrong with you right now?
He watches me for a long moment before he gets to his feet. His jaw pulses as frustration rises from his chest and colors his face a fiery shade of red.
“You can’t just blame this on me,” he says, ignoring my question. “You’re out here making plans without talking to me too.”
I jump to my feet. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come here for Labor Day. Hell, I didn’t even know you came here last year for Labor Day.”
“I wonder why,” I say, standing my ground. “Or maybe I mentioned it at a wholly inopportune time, and you didn’t hear me.”
Air moves around us in a hasty swirl. My body is tense, prepping for a battle with my husband.
“But I think going to our cabin is a little different than going across the country,” I say. “You could easily come up here with us on a holiday.”
“If you don’t bring your best friend, Billie.”
I throw up my hands, the swell of emotions from the day finally starting to tip over the edge. “My best friend, Billie. Right. You want to be pissed about that? Am I not allowed to have friends now? I’m not allowed to bring a friend to shoulder some of the single parenting that, although I’ve become quite adept at, I didn’t want for yet another fucking weekend? Is that it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what did you say, Jack?”
He takes a step toward me. “I’m just saying that you’re accusing me of living my life without you when you have clearly been living one without me—”
The door slams shut.
“Because I’ve had to, Jack.”
“Dad?” We whirl on our heels to see Maddie holding Snaps. She looks at me and then her father. “Where’s Pops?”
Jack’s face turns white. “What did you say?”
“Where’s Pops? He’s not home.”
He starts toward the door. “I’ll be back, Lo.”
Okay . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JACK
This fucking day can just be over,” I mutter, marching to my dad’s cabin.
His truck is gone, but that’s not wholly unusual. He’s been known to loan it out in exchange for firewood and baked goods. He likes to portray this as him getting one over on everyone else. In reality, he likes being nice. He just doesn’t want that label.
I take the steps two at a time and rap my knuckle against the door. As expected, no one answers. So I walk on in and call for him.
“Dad?” I yell, wandering through the rooms. “Are you here?”