Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Back to casseroles and meatloaf it was.
Once I was free of Waylon, I ate whatever was cheapest and quickest since I was bogged down with studying. And though the family I nannied for part-time didn’t require a whole lot of cooking, I’d eat whatever and whenever the kids did.
Just the thought of having to cook for Clara made me incredibly intimidated, made me feel poor, uncouth, and nervous. The food she was eating—now that she had her appetite back—was so vibrant and complicated, I doubted I could prepare it. So far, that had not been an issue. Beau prepped all the meals he wouldn’t be around to cook, labeling them neatly in glass containers in the fridge. One for me, one for Hannah. Same with her snacks.
The organization of the fridge was something to behold; it looked like it could’ve been in a magazine or displayed on some rich woman’s social media videos. I was afraid to put any of my own food in there. Not that there was really an occasion for me to buy my own food since Beau fed me so well. I’d never eaten so many fresh, healthy foods. I felt it in my body, I had more energy. Even though my skin wasn’t prone to acne beyond hormonal breakouts, I generally looked better. My eyes were brighter. My body regained its natural curves.
Which made it more difficult to hate Beau. Well, not really since it was the only nice thing he did for me and he likely only did it so it didn’t incite questions from Clara. He was never even remotely rude to me around her; he didn’t set that example. He didn’t model that it was normal for men to be assholes to women. In front of his daughter, he was painfully polite.
Though the bar for Beau and all men was set in hell, being so coldly polite in front of a child was not something to celebrate.
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice, looking down at the pancakes while taking them to perch with Clara on the breakfast bar.
Beau didn’t respond to my thanks. He rarely did. And if he did, it was a grunt or a nod. I told myself not to let it make me angry. But it still hurt. I didn’t have the energy to feel anger; I didn’t let myself after seeing what happened to women who let men make them enraged and bitter. Let men wear them down. That wouldn’t be me.
If I kept feeling the pain, I wouldn’t become jaded, hardened. One day, there would be a man who deserved my softness and treasured it. No way would I let Beau stain any future relationships for me.
It was the secret I nurtured—that although I was an independent woman who strived to never need anyone to save me, I dreamed of romance, of true love. A happy ending.
“Where’s your pancakes, Daddy?” Clara asked as I sat down, showing exactly why her father made the effort to feed me. Because Clara noticed everything, and he didn’t want her thinking her father was an asshole.
Which he was.
But he wasn’t modeling that to her so she’d subconsciously search for an asshole in a partner. I liked that.
Even if I hated him.
Which I did.
Hate him.
Even if his pancakes were orgasmic. Even if he had impressive biceps. And smelled good. And had a riveting, intense gaze that did things to my insides.
“I already ate.” Beau spoke from the sink where he was doing the last of the dishes. Something he didn’t let me do either. “I pay you to look after Clara, not clean.” He’d snapped when he came home to Clara quietly coloring while I vacuumed.
He’d been mad about me cleaning.
I could do nothing right.
But I could never sit still either. Visions of my mother, then Waylon glued to the sofa, the television blaring some sitcom, made it so I couldn’t sit and watch for even five minutes without feeling vaguely sick.
All of my friends had thought I was mildly insane because I didn’t have knowledge of the latest show or movie or social media trend. They’d teased me about it.
Not that I had any friends to tease me anymore. Waylon made sure I cut them all off after we got married. Slowly, subtly he did it. I almost didn’t notice until I had no one to call the night it was raining, broken glass embedded in my skin and my marriage in tatters.
No one had tried to contact me since I’d left him, since the move to Maine. Well, Cole—my childhood best friend—had. But I was too full of shame over the way I’d treated him to reply. He hadn’t stopped trying. Still texted once a week. And my brother sporadically checked in when his wife wasn’t around.
Two people. That’s all I had. And I didn’t even really have them. Cole was living his life in New York, still sending me random texts but less frequently. My brother was married to a woman who wanted to distance him from his upbringing and me as much as possible.