Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm tonight,” she snaps impatiently. “What is it, Blake?”
“Lasagna, I’m hoping.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “That’s right, I invited you for dinner, didn’t I?”
“You forgot?” My mouth falls open in horror. I’ve been looking forward to this all day, and she just forgets.
“Sorry.” She sighs as she steps to the side to let me in. “I’ve had a . . . day. Come in.”
I walk in through the foyer and into the living room to see the television is paused. There’s a packet of chocolate cookies and the empty wrappers of two blocks of chocolate on the coffee table in front of the couch. My eyes rise to her and notice that she has a defeated demeanor. I know this look anywhere.
She saw John today.
“So . . .” I shrug. “I’m guessing there’s no lasagna.”
She shakes her head and flops onto the couch. “Sorry. I just . . .”
I wait for her reply.
“I can’t seem to do anything right today.” She shrugs sadly.
“Well, that’s not true.” I sit down next to her and pull her into a hug. “You are totally nailing the cute housewife look.” I feel her smile against my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make us dinner.”
“You will?”
“Not really.” I stand. “We’re getting takeout.” I take my phone out of my pocket. “What do you feel like?”
“Carbohydrates,” she says as she holds the remote up to the television and presses play.
“Romanes Italian?” I ask.
“I guess.”
“Well, I can’t order the lasagna because it will only highlight how bad it is in comparison to yours.” I curl my lip. “You owe me lasagna, woman.”
“Okay.” She forces a smile. “I’ll have garlic bread. A large size. Actually, make it a family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, and then I’ll have a Nutella pizza for dessert with a double serving of strawberries on the side. And I’ll have a Coca-Cola, in a glass bottle if possible.”
Eww . . .
“Sounds”—my eyebrows flick up in surprise—“healthy.”
“Don’t even . . . ,” she growls.
I hold my two hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.” I dial the number of the restaurant.
“Hello, Romanes.”
“Can I order some takeout, please?” I ask.
“What will it be?” the bored receptionist asks.
“Family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, spaghetti marinara with extra chili, and a Nutella pizza with extra strawberries on the side.”
“Is that it?”
“A Coke.” My eyes float over to Rebecca as she watches me. “In a glass bottle.”
I tell them the address and hang up; my eyes rise to the television. “What are you watching?”
“The Notebook.”
“Why are you watching sad love stories? Isn’t it time you start watching Breaking Bad or something?”
“What’s Breaking Bad about?” she asks, distracted.
“Well, there’s this science teacher who’s diagnosed with terminal cancer, so he thinks fuck it and begins to make methamphetamines in a lab.”
“That sounds terrible.” She screws up her face. “Why would I want to watch a show about someone dying and making drugs?”
“It’s badass and a lot better than watching fuckwits in love.”
She smirks as her eyes hold mine.
Is she going to tell me what happened today?
She stays silent.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” I sit down beside her and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.
Her eyes hold mine.
“You’re going to go take a shower and wash that green shit off your face.” I tap her on her nose. “And I’m going to pull out the sofa bed from the couch and make you a pillow fort with the snuggliest blanket of all time.”
She smiles softly.
“We’ll eat dinner, and then we’re going to have a Breaking Bad marathon,” I continue.
“Thank you, Blake.” Her eyes well with tears as she stares at me. “I’ve just had a bad day, you know?”
“I know.” I smile. “It’s okay, baby.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ve got you.”
She stays in my arms for a beat longer than usual, and damn it, I fucking hate that guy for how hard he broke her.
If I ever see him on a dark street, he may not survive.
“You want to talk about it?” I mumble into her hair.
“Not really.”
Her inability to talk to me stings more than it should, and I pull out of her arms and stand. “Shower.”
Rebecca’s regulated breathing is quite possibly the most comforting sound in the world. We are on the trundle bed in her living room, wrapped up in our snuggly blanket. Lying flat on her back and wearing her flannelette pajamas, she is fast asleep. I lie on my side facing her. It’s late, and I have to work tomorrow. I know I should tiptoe out of here and quietly leave, lock up her house and let her sleep in peace.
But how can I . . . when watching her sleep is like a dream come true?