Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I couldn’t decide if I was mad about what I’d done or so fucking sad about the entire thing that I wanted to weep.
I didn’t want a child with her. God, I didn’t want any more children period.
I could barely keep up with shit as it was, even with Kate to take care of the kids while I worked. How the hell could I add another kid into that mix? When Rachel was alive, I’d teased her that I wanted a houseful of kids. I knew that it was a lot to place on her shoulders when I was away so much, but she’d agreed wholeheartedly with my dream, and she’d never once complained about the life we’d made.
If she hadn’t died, I had a feeling that she’d probably already be pregnant by now, and I’d be ecstatic about adding to our brood.
But Rachel was dead, and Kate was the one who was pregnant. I couldn’t find it in myself to be excited about that.
And as I turned to my belly and shut my eyes tightly, I finally gave in to the fear that had been niggling in the back of my mind for close to a week.
The fear that I wouldn’t love Kate’s child the way I loved the others.
The fear that I’d feel nothing.
* * *
“Are you sure you’re okay with them?” I asked for the third time as I screwed the lid on my coffee mug.
“I’m fine, Shane. I promise. Sage doesn’t have school today so I’m going to let them sleep as late as they want and then make them snuggle on the couch for a movie day.”
“Are you still puking every five minutes?” I asked, taking in her pale face and hastily tied-up hair. She still didn’t look good.
“Nope. The anti-nausea stuff they gave me is like magic. I haven’t puked in like—” She looked past me to the clock on the stove. “—four hours.”
“You were up at two in the morning vomiting? Why the fuck would you even take that medicine if you’re still puking? That’s fucking bullshit. Call the doctor and see if they have anything else—another brand maybe. Did you buy generic? They say that stuff is the same as the name brand, but—”
“Whoa! Slow down there, turbo.” She cut me off, raising her hands in the air between us. “It’s not foolproof, okay? It helps, but it’s not a cure-all. I’d much rather puke every six to eight hours than every fifteen minutes. It’s doing its job. I’m keeping my food down and can actually drink water again. It’s all good.”
“You’re still throwing up,” I replied stubbornly.
“Let’s see how many different names we can think of to describe vomiting. We’ve used like three already. Why don’t I go next?” She pursed her lips and squinted for a minute before stating, “Blowing chunks. Now you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m changing the subject from something you seem intent on arguing about even though it’s a fruitless endeavor. Harfing. Upchucking. Hurling.”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” I replied, annoyed. If she didn’t want to take care of herself, that wasn’t my business. She seemed completely okay with looking and feeling like crap all the time, and who was I to argue with that?
“Yakking,” she announced, following me around the kitchen as I grabbed my wallet and my keys. “Ralphing.”
“Knock it off, Kate.”
“Praying to the porcelain god,” she retorted, with a pleased smile.
Even with her gaunt cheeks and messy hair, I wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt, and that made my frustration rise. “Does being annoying usually get you what you want?”
“If you’re going to work annoyed instead of worried, then it worked.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’ve been pacing.”
“You’re sick, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m telling you, I’m fine. I’m excited to finally have a day off from school—just me and my monsters,” she replied with a sweet, contented smile.
“They’re not yours.” I couldn’t stop the words before they came rushing out of my mouth, but I regretted them the same second the smile fell off her face.
“I’ve been calling them my monsters since they were born, Shane,” she said flatly. “I’m not going to stop because you’ve got a stick up your ass for some reason I can’t quite comprehend.”
“You’re—”
“No,” she cut in. “You don’t get to be a dick to me. You don’t. I haven’t done anything to you, and I’m tired of feeling like I’m walking on eggshells. I’ve helped take care of the kids since they were born. You can’t change that—it’s just fact. I’m sorry that you think this is some sort of competition or whatever the fuck you think it is. They’re yours. I get it. But that doesn’t mean that I’m nothing, and you can’t try and act like it does.”
“I don’t think you’re nothing.”
“Look, I know that you don’t like me.”