Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“What kind of cheese do you have?” she asked happily, crouching back down to look in the fridge.
“No clue,” I mumbled as I grabbed the bread. “Probably just cheddar, but I’m sure you can find a way to church it up.”
She’d always loved grilled cheese. We’d made hundreds of them as teenagers, mixing all the stinky cheeses my mom kept in the fridge, always trying to find the best formula.
I hadn’t had one since she’d left.
“This one time,” she said as she stood back up, holding half a block of cheddar and a bottle of sriracha in her hands. “I got this really good peach and jalapeño jam at a farmers’ market and put it on there.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
“It was so freaking good,” she said with a laugh.
“You’re really going to put sriracha on it?” I asked as I grabbed her a pan.
“I feel like something spicy,” she said with a shrug. “This will work.”
“That’s gnarly.”
“Hey, you never know until you try it,” she argued. “When I was pregnant with Rhett, I tried every combination imaginable.”
The familiar anger rose up inside me, but I tamped it down hard. This was how I’d learn things. This was how I’d know what I’d missed. Little comments here and there, random memories that didn’t mean anything to her, but that I was starved for. I leaned against the counter and forced a smile.
“Not surprisingly,” she said as she started assembling the sandwich. “Tomatoes are great on them. Jam, too.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. The kitchen was silent except for the sounds of her slicing the cheese. Eventually, my curiosity couldn’t be contained. “Was that your only craving?” I asked casually.
“Nope,” she said, tossing a piece of cheese into her mouth. “I also wanted watermelon all the time, actually any kind of melon I could get my hands on. Oh, and McDonald’s cheeseburgers.”
“Nice,” I murmured.
“Which is kind of hilarious,” she said, putting her sandwich in the pan. “Because Rhett won’t eat melons of any kind. He hates them.”
“Got too much of them when he was on the inside,” I joked.
“I guess so,” she murmured, smiling at me.
I stood there, unsure of what to say. She was moving around easily, putting things away like she was comfortable in the space, and I was staring at her wanting to ask a million questions while simultaneously remembering exactly how I’d stripped off the clothes she was wearing earlier that day.
Jesus, it was like any time Rhett wasn’t in the room, my mind went right back to getting her naked.
“What—”
“Do you think—”
We spoke at the same time and then both stopped.
“Go ahead,” I said with a nod.
“Do you think we should bring anything to your grandparents’ house tonight?” she asked, checking on her sandwich.
“Like a present?”
“No, like food,” she replied. “Should we bring an appetizer or something?”
I made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “No,” I said flatly. “We’re not that fancy.”
“It’s not fancy, it’s just polite.”
“Okay, then we’re not that polite,” I clarified. “We don’t need to bring anything. My grams won’t even let you help her clean up afterward.”
“It feels weird just showing up,” she said, grabbing a plate for her food. She slid it off the pan and set it on the counter to cool. “I feel like we should bring something. Flowers?”
“We’re bringin’ Rhett,” I replied. “That’s all they care about.”
“Right,” she mumbled.
“Why are you so worried about it all of a sudden? You’ve been over there before.”
“I wasn’t—” She flapped her hands around before clasping them together at her waist. “I wasn’t the whore of Babylon who stole their great-grandson then.”
“You’re not the whore of Babylon now.”
“Okay,” she snapped. “But I’m still the monster who didn’t tell them about their great-grandson.”
Chapter 7
Emilia
Mick let out a harsh laugh and shook his head, then reached up and smoothed his hair back with both hands.
“I’m not sure what you want me to tell you,” he said tiredly. “Everyone’s been more than nice to you since you showed up out of the blue. My guess? They’ll keep bein’ nice to you.”
“Sorry my nervousness is bothering you,” I replied, turning toward my sandwich. My stomach rolled, but I forced myself to take a bite anyway. I had a hard time eating when I was anxious or stressed. The physical manifestation was always nausea and lack of appetite, but I knew I had to force something down.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Emilia,” Mick said to my back. “You made decisions, and now you’re feelin’, what, embarrassed? Ashamed? I can’t help ya with that.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I replied, forcing another bite into my mouth.
“Seems like you’re tryin’ to get me to reassure you.”
“I’m not trying to get you to do anything,” I snapped, setting the sandwich back down.