Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
What else had Alfie lied about?
The tattoos were just ridiculous. I didn’t understand why he’d felt the need to hide them. When we’d started dating, he’d said he wanted to get at least one sleeve, and I’d admitted I found them sexy.
Too sexy, in his case. I’d almost swallowed my tongue earlier today.
Jesus Christ. And with the basketball shorts riding low, his physique…
Regardless, it proved he put on a show every week when we did drop-offs and pickups. Alfie hated dressing up. And yet, he’d begun doing it more and more when we’d moved back east.
He’d cleaned up his language. He’d become less animated when he spoke. A light had died in his eyes. He’d started buying high-end name-brand clothes for Trip and Ellie. As if they didn’t get as dirty on the playground as clothes from Target.
That was what’d killed me the most. He’d turned into the people I’d left. If I’d wanted a man from my old circle of friends and acquaintances, I would’ve asked one of them out.
Not that I rejected all the so-called finer things in life. My membership at the country club where I played golf was…not cheap. But I found much of the day-to-day routines I’d grown up with too stilted and boring. More than that, I didn’t want it for my son and daughter.
I remembered growing up in a structure where kids weren’t meant to be seen or heard. My sisters and I had been sent upstairs when Mom and Dad hosted their dinners. I couldn’t fucking imagine doing that. I couldn’t imagine a life where Ellie wasn’t clowning off when we had people over. I was sure some of our family friends believed Ellie was out of control. And they were wrong. It was their own children who were suppressed.
My mother wasn’t heartless, but she was all about convenience and image. She’d saved my childhood drawings in an album, meant to be taken out when it was appropriate. I wanted Ellie’s doodles and glitter-bombed artwork all over the house. I wanted Trip’s swimming trophies on the mantel and his matchstick crafts on the shelves. He built the most incredible little structures out of matches. Why wouldn’t I want the world to see?
I was so fucking proud of their creativity.
Alfie and I had been on the same page there, thankfully, but he’d asked me once if I wanted him to tidy up on the fridge before my parents came over. I hadn’t understood what he meant, so he’d gestured vaguely and said, “You know, straighten the drawings and maybe put some of the older ones in an album.”
I knew he’d only tried to be accommodating, but it’d triggered something in me. Logically speaking, of course albums were eventually necessary. Ellie had at least seven at this point—several boxes too. It added up. But Alfie’s suggestion had come from the wrong place. He hadn’t asked because the fridge had become too full. It’d been because of image and how my folks would react to an untidy fridge door.
Tiny step by tiny step, these little changes in Alfie’s behavior had made me panic and feel suffocated.
The problem was, weeks would go by, and I couldn’t always put my finger on the issue, until I’d remember a specific event. And by then, Alfie had forgotten and grown defensive. Why was I hashing up old stuff? Why was this insignificant bullshit causing fights?
Just thinking about all these small problems eventually growing and turning into our demise strengthened my resolve. I may be pathetically in love with him for the rest of my life, but he wasn’t that man anymore, and we weren’t going to find our way back to each other.
I was not canceling my date tonight.
“…and remember, Ellie can’t have white bread if you’re serving that with dinner,” I said, walking over to the kitchen island. I opened the bread box and pulled out the loaf I’d made her yesterday. “This is hers. Alfie’s mother gave me the recipe. Ellie likes it a lot.”
I assumed Giulia baked the bread for Alfie’s weeks with the kids. As far as I knew, he could still burn water.
On that note, I was going to text Giulia next week and thank her for the recipe. I barely got to talk to her these days.
“That poor girl.” Mom commiserated. “Do you think she’s allergic to gluten?”
I shook my head. “We think she’s sensitive to overprocessed shit. She doesn’t react when we go to bakeries that sell sourdough bread and things like that.”
“I understand. I’ll see if I can find better options, though.” She eyed the loaf as I returned it to the box. “I don’t see a reason why you must bake it yourself.”
I felt my forehead crease. “I don’t mind—and she loves Giulia’s bread. It’s good for her.” I didn’t mention that she loved everything her nonna made. My mother would be offended.