Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
While he once said he can cook—back in October, when I admitted I couldn’t—I have yet to see evidence of this. Instead, he has a private chef called Mary. Mary is a grandma of three and an absolute darling. I know this because we’ve chatted as she’s prepped dinner.
In fact, I love how chatty Mary is. Almost as much as I loved hearing how Matt pays her full time but tells her not to bother coming in every day, but just to keep him stocked up in meals instead. She also let me in on the secret that Matt has a bit of a sweet tooth, not that you’d know it from looking at that body of his. But she showed me where his stash of candy is. By the sheer amount, I can tell the man loves strawberry licorice. Think Twizzlers.
But his condom stash I found all on my own. In his bathroom vanity. Left-hand top drawer. At the back. I might’ve counted how many were in the box. I might also know that number hasn’t altered since I moved in.
It seems Matt is also a bit of a slob, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t be too if I just dropped stuff and a team of (paid) fairies relocated those items to their rightful spots. I guess that’s why he’s teased me about my own habits. He said it’s like I think I’m being graded on my tidiness.
Old habits, I guess. Except for the hair ties he teases me endlessly about.
These and others are the little nuggets of Matt I stash away like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Facts, knowledge, thoughts, and feelings that I’ll save for future reflection. Some day when it’s too late to cave, because every day I’m fighting my growing feelings. It’s hard not to be seduced by the idea of a man who’d give up his world to follow me. Me and his baby.
And that’s what I tell myself is at the heart of our connection. That Matt is a good man, a decent man who’s doing the best he can after finding himself in this situation. While I battle the idea of him and me, he’s given in to the temptation of family. No matter how less than ideal, less than pristine, our origin story is.
Coming clean would be a disservice to him. Worse, maybe even a repeat of history. And I will do everything in my power to avoid passing on my own traumas to this innocent. Every time I rest my hands on my stomach, I swear to the life inside me I’ll be the best mom I can.
Which includes my very careful response to his accusation.
Me: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.
Matt: Unfolding the pages that I’ve folded feels like a judgment . . .
Me: It is. Only heathens don’t use a bookmark.
I thank the Lord and all the stars above that this is what he chooses to call me out on. Instead of the fact I’ve been lurking in his bedroom. Lying on his bed.
Matt: I’m pretty sure the definition of heathen is a person (or persons) who makes another lose their place in a book they’re currently very avidly reading.
Me: Fine. I’ll order my own copy.
Matt: Don’t. I like that we’re reading the same copy. I wouldn’t even complain if you read it over my shoulder.
Me: Now *that* is the behavior of a heathen
How is it he seems to know when I need to smile? I ask myself as my phone vibrates almost immediately again. Sliding the message open, I pad across to the kitchen to fill my water glass. The apartment is modern, neat, if not a little institutionally sparse. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a through-lounge diner, plus a tiny galley kitchen, which I barely use. Because I can’t cook. Currently. Maybe I should use my current free time to hone my culinary skills. Can’t feed a toddler on takeout leftovers.
Matt: Harry Potter or Twilight?
He has his ways of learning about me. And I have mine. Snooping and grilling Mary.
Me: HP. Ravenclaw all the way!
Matt: I had you down as Gryffindor.
Me: What’s wrong with RC, Hufflepuff boy?
Matt: I’m probably more Slytherin in a Hufflepuff cloak. And just so you know, my wand is at the ready ;)
The danger in that offer isn’t getting pregnant twice.
Chapter 26
Ryan
Seventeen weeks, and my pants no longer fit.
Just last week—three days ago—they were fine. Then, bam! I seemed to wake up and find my external world matched my inner. Like, Hello! Pregnant lady here!
Thankfully, I can still get into a couple of pairs of my casual pants, mostly with the aid of a hair tie looped through the buttonhole, then twisted around the button. Classy, right? But I can forget wearing the black Reiss cigarette pants I bought in the January sales. And the wide-legged cream wool ones. For now.