Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
‘Where’s the Jesse Ward we all know and love?’ Kate asks seriously, punching me lightly on the bicep.
‘Love?’ I ask on a slight hitch of an amused eyebrow.
‘Yes, love,’ she retorts adamantly, following up her previous light punch with a not so light one. ‘Defeated doesn’t suit you, Jesse. Ava didn’t marry a quitter. In fact, I think you’ll find she married you because you didn’t quit. A man who doesn’t give a shit what people think. A man who tramples anything in his sight to get what he wants. Do you want her back?’
I look at her, stunned. ‘What?’
‘Your wife. Do you want her back?’
‘Stupid fucking question,’ I mutter. ‘And ease off with the punching, will you?’
She ignores my scorn and points a finger in my face, forcing me to retreat or have it sinking into my eye socket. Kate’s one of those people in this world who you can’t help but respect, even if you don’t always agree with her. And now she’s pregnant, so I would be wise not to argue. ‘Then do what you do best and fight for her.’ Pulling her bag onto her shoulder, she battles to control her wobbling lip. ‘My best friend didn’t marry a fucking pussy.’
My eyes bug, and then I laugh a little. Call me what you like, but don’t ever call me a fucking pussy. ‘Watch your fucking mouth,’ I mutter, loud but sheepishly, attracting the attention of many people in the vicinity, not that I’m much bothered by it.
Kate marches past me. Or as well as a heavily pregnant woman can march, which is more of a wobble. ‘Save it for your wife,’ she yells over her shoulder.
‘I’m not a fucking pussy,’ I bark at an old man who’s stupid enough to come too close. He nearly jumps out of his skin and hotfoots it away from me. There’s no room for guilt. It was him or Kate, and Sam would skin me alive if I upset her.
I stalk to my car, yank the door open, and throw myself into the seat, looking into the rear-view mirror. Jesus, Lord, the state of me. I’m not exactly enhancing my chances of succeeding in making my wife fall in love with me when I look like this. I need to straighten myself out. Desperately. And I need to do it before I pick up the kids. They need to see me looking as normal as possible, so when I explain to them what is happening, they will know that I am 100 per cent together, and I need them to be, too.
Chapter 11
When I pull up outside my parents’ home, a small bungalow nestled in an idyllic suburb on the outskirts of the city, the kids are out the door before I’ve had a chance to shut off the engine. The smile that crosses my face isn’t forced. They’re the only respite I have at the moment, the only peace in my rocky world, and while holding it together in front of them is adding to my exhaustion, I’m feeding off their love and their need to be close to me right now.
Jumping out of my car, I remove my shades and brace myself for their attack. They reach me at the same time, each finding their places in my side.
‘Can we go now?’ Maddie asks, looking up at me.
It’s the question I was prepared for, yet the words I’ve practised all morning disappear on me. ‘Let’s head inside,’ I say, leading them towards the front door. ‘I need to talk to you guys.’
‘What is it?’ Jacob’s gone from my side in a heartbeat. ‘Is it Mum? Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine,’ I assure him, placing my hand on his mop of dirty-blond hair and pulling him back into me. ‘I’ve been thinking, and I want to share my thoughts with you two.’
‘What about?’ Maddie asks.
‘Are you going to stop us going to the hospital again?’ Jacob’s tone is defensive. ‘You are, aren’t you, Dad? Why? Doesn’t Mum want to see us?’
My heart bleeds, and I hold him tighter into my side. ‘She’s desperate to see you.’ I stretch the truth a little, if only for the sake of my kids. I’ve caught Ava a few times this week feeling her tummy, and I know every time she’s had a shower she’s been studying the small collection of stretch marks on her stomach, trying to get her head around the fact that she’s a mother of eleven-year-old twins.
When I asked her if she wanted to see her children, I could sense the mental battle she was having in her head, and the tears flowed quickly after. Listening to my wife tell me that she didn’t want to disappoint them tore my heart out. And when she begged me to help her remember them, getting herself in a state, crying and shouting, I decided what needed to be done. I need to tell her our story from the very beginning in the only way I know how. With actions. Where to start is the biggest question.