Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
She’s quiet for a little while. “I bet your mom really appreciated that.”
I nod. A tight, uncomfortable ball is forming in my throat. “We eventually found out my dad was cheating with a girl from work,” I say, even though I’m not sure why I’m feeling the need to share. There’s still a bitterness in me from when I told her about my mom cutting me off to go back to be with my dad two years ago. She never even responded to the text.
But she did just open up back at Jesse’s. And I did just admit I was trying not to be such a dick to her all the time. “My mom left him, and he pretty much never tried to stay in touch with either of us after that.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
I laugh, giving her a look. “You lost your parents. I’m pretty sure having a shitty dad doesn’t compare.”
“Grief isn’t a competition,” she says, squeezing my leg to take a little of the sting out of repeating my own words from earlier back to me.
I blow out a breath, smiling a little. “It’s easier to say the right thing when it’s not your own shit, huh?”
“It is,” she agrees.
“We never really talked about this kind of stuff…” She trails off without saying the word “before,” as if it has some kind of dangerous power over us–like admitting we did date and we did enjoy each other's company is some sort of door neither of us wants to be the first to open. “My parents, your parents…”
“It’s personal,” I say, as if that’s an appropriate explanation.
“Usually, when people start dating, they tend to share personal things about themselves.”
I squeeze the wheel. I didn’t mean to open up or get into rehashing the past. I didn’t want to open an examination of what didn’t work between us.
I relax my grip, nodding instead of biting back with a comment. I know she’s probably uncomfortable right now, physically and emotionally.
She sinks deeper into the seat and clutches her stomach, wincing a little.
“Need anything right now?” I ask, as if I’ve got anything to give her. Stupid.
“I’m fine,” she says.
I eye her, then nod. She’s clearly uncomfortable. The least I can do is help her get set up with whatever she needs once we’re back.
We don’t talk much for the rest of the drive. I get out and open her door, ignoring the way she rolls her eyes at me as she gets out and heads inside.
“Do you have Midol or anything?” I ask once we’re inside and we’ve hung up our jackets.
“No,” she sighs. “I was stupid and forgot to pack any of that stuff. My period isn’t due for a few days. I was planning to pick all that crap up from the grocery store in the next couple days. I do have an emergency tampon and pad in my suitcase.”
“Where’s your suitcase?”
“I appreciate it, but really, I’m fine.”
“I believe you,” I say. “But I seriously grew up doing this for my mom all the time. I’m going to feel weird if you don’t let me help out. So it’ll be easier for both of us if you just accept it. I want to help, so let me. Okay?”
She’s clearly deciding if she wants to argue. Instead, she lets her arms drop to her sides and smiles slightly, pointing to the bedroom. “My suitcase is right beside the bed. Should I lay down, put my hand to my forehead, and sigh dramatically while you heroically dig out a tampon and pad for me?”
Eventually, I break through her sarcasm and resistance. I get her what she needs, then bring her a heating pad once she’s in bed. I write down a quick list of what she was planning to get from the store and head out to pick it up for her, despite her continued protests that she can handle it herself.
By the time I get back half an hour later, she’s sound asleep, but her forehead is scrunched and she’s obviously sleeping through some pain.
I set the medicine beside her with a glass of water. I decide it’s probably better to let her keep sleeping.
I’m about to head out for the couch, but decide it won’t hurt anything to hang out on the sofa chair in the bedroom.
I make myself comfortable in my spot by the wall, cross my arms and lean my head back. My thoughts drift as I watch over her. I think about how confusing my actions must seem to her now.
I show up like a raging asshole who proudly claims I’m going to use her as a plaything. Then I get jealous of the attention my head chef shows her at Taste and make no secret of it. Now I’m babying her over some period cramps?