Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Well, he was at my house.”
“What?” I frown.
“He came back to my house to get the kids and ended up falling asleep on the sofa, so he decided to stay the night.”
“Oh.”
She frowns. “You didn’t think…”
I shrug.
“No, Brelly.” She taps my arm and pulls me closer. “He was with us.”
I shake my head in disgust. “It doesn’t matter. We’re just friends, so...” I shrug. “That’s it.”
“That’s it?” She frowns. “That can’t be it.”
I look at her deadpan. “That’s totally it.”
“Talk to him this afternoon. Maybe you can go out and work it out tonight.”
I pull from her grip. “I’m not working it out with him. He’s weird, he’s a weird person…” I hesitate, because that sounded so rude. “No offence, he’s a lovely man, but—”
“None taken. He is weird.” She laughs. “And this is exactly why I like you. You are so refreshingly honest. Julian needs someone like you in his life.”
I pat her arm and link it back through mine. “I don’t like Julian. He’s not the man for me.” I sigh. “But do you want to have coffee and cake on Tuesday?”
She smiles broadly. “I’d love to.”
The drive back to Julian’s house is made in complete silence. The children have gone back to his mother’s so we can talk about last night.
Too bad for him, I’ve got nothing to talk about. I’m going inside, I’m packing my things, and I’m going to Emerson’s for the weekend. I don’t even care if she’s not home and I have to sit out on the curb waiting for her. Anything is better than being with Julian right now.
I’m still so mad that it’s not even funny. He parks the car and I get out, marching up to the house.
“Can we talk, please?” he asks.
“I have nothing to talk about, Julian,” I call over my shoulder.
“I do.”
“Call somebody then, because I’m not talking.”
I walk through the house, into my room, and I take out my overnight bag.
What shall I wear out tonight? Hmm, something insanely hot. I begin to go through my wardrobe and lay things out on the bed. I take out some cute black, lacy underwear and lay it on top of a black dress.
He walks into my room.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Packing my stuff.”
His eyes roam over the underwear on the bed. “You have a date tonight?”
“Yes.” I continue looking through my drawers.
“Where did you meet him?”
“None of your business. Get out.”
He exhales heavily. “Can we talk about last night, please?”
“No.” I bend and begin to look through my shoes in the bottom of my walk in wardrobe.
“I didn’t want anyone to know that we were together.”
I throw my high heels onto the bed with force. “We’re not together.”
“She’s just a girl that I work with,” he adds.
“I don’t care who she is. This isn’t about her.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “What is it about then?”
My eyes rise up to him. “You can’t be that fucking stupid.”
“Try me.”
“This is about you and your inability to communicate.”
“I communicate,” he hits back, outraged. “I communicate very well.”
“You have no idea how to communicate with anybody, not even your children.”
“That is not true.”
“Okay then, smartass. You found out what that girl said to Willow last week about her mother at the soccer game. Did you bring it up and talk to her?”
He frowns. “I don’t want to upset her.”
“Ignoring her is upsetting her!” I yell. “Tell me. Tell me the last time you talked about anything with either of your children that was about them.” “What? I talk to them every day. What are you on about?”
“You talk to them about what’s on television, world events, what they are eating, homework, school related things. You have trivial conversations, nothing more, nothing less.”
He frowns harder.
“When was the last time that you asked them about something personal? Willow played golf last week and she was really, really good, but you didn’t even discuss it with her. Why? Why are you like this?”
“Because I don’t have the pleasure of being the fun parent. I have to be the disciplinarian.”
My face creases. “They are good kids. They don’t need a disciplinarian. They need a father to show them how to love.”
He drops his head and then his eyes flash up to me angrily. “This is none of your business. I will not discuss my children with you.”
“You wanted to talk. This is me talking.” I fold my arms over my chest. “While we are at it, why are there no photos of their mother anywhere in this house?” I add.
His eyes flare with anger. “Don’t go there.”
“No. I want to know. Why is there no evidence that she ever existed? Her kids deserve to remember her. They are a part of her but they’re being brought up as if she never existed.”
“Fucking get out!” he roars.