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)
“Maybe if you didn’t act like you didn’t want me around, I’d put more emphasis on coming around,” he says. “It’s really hard to initiate sex when you know you’re going to get turned down, Lo.”
I look at the deck.
“And it hurts a lot fucking worse when you’re getting turned down by the love of your life,” he says. “That’s why I haven’t tried since Thanksgiving weekend.”
I can’t deny the pain in his voice, and I can’t pretend that it’s not warranted. If I’m being honest with myself, he’s not wrong. And that makes me feel shitty.
The whole thing is complicated and screwed up and awful—and I just want it to end.
Jack stands, causing the boat to rock. “I’m going to hop in the lake and grab the rope. I’ll swim over to that tree over there and get the boat secured. Then we can hike back to the cabin.”
I nod, pulling my gaze to his.
Energy crackles between us. I hold my breath, unsure what’s about to happen.
Will he grab me and kiss me senselessly? Maybe. Is he going to tell me that I’m right and we need to divorce? Possibly. He could tell me he’s equally sick of this and to fuck off—I don’t know.
My heart pounds, and my breathing quickens. A frantic blast of panic races up my spine.
“Jack—”
Splash! He dives into the water, grabs the rope, and swims toward shore.
He doesn’t look back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LAUREN
You have to get your kids under control—ouch!” I yelp, jerking my arm away from a thornbush. My flip-flops, the absolute worst footwear decision I might’ve ever made, slip on the dirt, and I slide. “They went too far with this.”
Jack stands a few feet up the trail, grinning. “Come on. You’re doing great.”
“Stop.” I check out the scratches on my arm. “Don’t pander to me.”
“Fine. We could’ve been back half an hour ago if you would stop getting into every prickly piece of vegetation you can find. So can you just stay on the trail and move it?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Pander to me.”
He laughs, offering me a hand. I slap my palm in his begrudgingly and let him help me up the slope.
The air is thicker in the forest. Somehow, it’s more humid. Bugs are everywhere, swooping toward my face and landing on my bare legs. I’m not sure if they’re drawn more to my dripping sweat or the specks of blood pricked by the plants. Either way, they love me.
I do not love them.
“Maybe one of our kids can be an insectologist and figure out how to rid the world of gnats,” I say, batting my hand in front of my face and blowing. “We can go to Mars, but we are still battling gnats. Make it make sense.”
Jack stops and lets go of my hand. I plant my palms on my knees and draw in a long breath, praying I don’t inhale any winged protein.
“Bugs have a place in the ecosystem,” he says, looking amused.
“Then I don’t. We’re mutually exclusive.” I stand tall and peer up the hill. “How far are we away?”
His gaze follows mine. “Farther than you want it to be. I don’t know why they rerouted that trail, but it probably added an extra mile back to the cabins.”
“You’re telling me we have a mile to go?”
He laughs and smacks me on the ass. “Get moving.”
I groan and follow him.
We’ve been walking for what feels like forever, and although my legs are lead, my heart is heavier.
“And it hurts a lot fucking worse when you’re getting turned down by the love of your life.”
Jack slows and I walk beside him, sneaking a peek at his profile. I notice the downturn of his lips and take in the lines around his eyes. He’s in thought too. I wonder if he’s thinking about me.
I hate that I made him feel that way, because I know how much it stings. That’s how he’s made me feel.
Is it possible that Jack didn’t mean to hurt me, just like I didn’t mean to hurt him? Are we both victims, in a sense, of our situation? Did one wrong turn into two, and before we knew it, we’d made so many wrong turns that we were now on different streets?
The possibility makes my chest burn. What do I do with that? Does it change anything? Aren’t we still in the same place we were before—now we just have a better idea of how we got here?
“When did you start sleeping in my shirts?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Around Christmas, maybe. I started getting hot flashes and couldn’t stand wearing much to bed. But you know I have that fear of the house burning in the middle of the night, so I have to wear something to bed in case firefighters bust into my room.”