Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I heave in a breath.
“Your mom has a lot going on,” Jack says. “Don’t pressure her.”
“What if I have a lot going on and I need her here?” Maddie says, lifting her brows.
“Madeline . . . ,” I say, my tone warning her to tread lightly.
“What? Can’t you and Dad get over yourselves long enough to spend a weekend together? You used to do it all the time, you know? Besides, if you guys are going to end up divorced, can’t you give me and Michael one last family vacation? Will it kill you?”
“If you guys are going to end up divorced . . .” My head spins, causing whatever Jack says to turn into white noise.
My hand goes to my stomach, trying to help it stop sloshing around. They know. Of course they know. They’re not oblivious. A lump settles in my throat as three sets of eyes are on me.
To my surprise, Jack places a hand on my shoulder. I jump at the contact and attempt to hide the lightning bolt that shoots through my body. My body temperature spikes, and it has nothing to do with the sun.
I hate that he can still do this to me.
“Madeline, that’s enough,” Jack says, his voice stern.
Her eyes go wide at the sound of her government name coming out of her dad’s mouth.
He gently squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”
Maddie’s face falls.
“After you apologize to her, the two of you can go back in the cabin while we talk,” Jack says, sweeping his attention briefly to Michael. “Then we’ll deal with that little mouth of yours, Mads.”
What the hell?
I don’t dare look at Jack. I’m too confused at this sudden solid front to attempt to add more dubiety in the mix.
Maddie frowns. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Michael nods. “We love you. We just want one last summer together. That’s all.” He watches the ground as he guides his sister into the cabin.
I exhale loudly as soon as the door closes.
“Thanks for that,” I say, letting my head roll around my shoulders.
“Yeah, well, no matter what’s going on between us,” he says, “our kids won’t talk to you like that.”
His hand slips off my shoulders. The side of his finger brushes down my arm, and I can’t help but wonder if it was an accident . . . or purposeful.
“I appreciate it,” I say.
“Can I ask you something?”
“I suppose.”
He rocks back on his heels. “Do you not want to stay? Or do you not want to stay because you think I don’t want you here?”
Both.
I study the scar above his right eye that he got when he was a child. He slipped and fell in the rain, bashing his face off a metal step. Somehow, since the last time I really looked at him, it’s deepened. The edges are sharper. The skin is lighter.
It’s easier to think about his accident than the answer to his questions. I don’t want to stay because leaving, knowing that next year we’ll be divorced and I’ll never get to come back, might kill me.
He shifts. “I don’t know how we would work it. I mean, I can take the couch.”
“Is that what you really want, though? Or are you just throwing it into my lap and making me be the bad guy?”
He rolls his eyes.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I say earnestly. “Not about this.”
Jack squares his body to mine. He towers over me a good eight inches. He’s close enough to reach out and touch me . . . but he doesn’t.
I don’t reach out to touch him either.
And I don’t know how I feel about that.
“What do you want, then?” he asks. “Do you want me to tell you what to do? Because I know you, and you hate being told what to do.”
“There’s a difference between being told what to do and having someone cooperate in a decision, Jack.”
He nods as if he’s biting back a curt reply.
This isn’t getting us anywhere.
“Fine,” he says, his jaw flexed. “Here’s what I think—you made an appointment with an attorney, according to the kids, so it looks like you want to be divorced.”
What the hell? My blood pressure rises. I let that bit of information go so we don’t become focused on my actions. “You got a fucking puppy that you keep at the shop. So that really seems like it’s your home now, doesn’t it?”
His eyes narrow. “Yeah. You’re right. I did.”
Fuck you, Jack.
“Since we’re about to burn the last two decades to the ground, and we’re already here, let’s give them their vacation,” he says, warily. “Let’s make it not about us. Surely to God, we can be civil for fourteen fucking days.”
My chest closes up as I stuff my emotions into the little box where I keep them.