Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Turning the corner to my street, I pass a handful of houses before realizing his truck is noticeably absent from the driveway, but my parents’ rental is still there.
Heading in a minute later, I’m hit with the scent of my mother’s famous goulash and the sound of her and my father singing some old Frank Sinatra tune from the kitchen.
“Hey,” I say when I catch them dancing.
Kitchen dances have always been their thing. It’s kind of their trademark.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says as my dad spins her. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” I say before adding a casual “Where’s Lachlan?”
“Hey, you should check out the bathroom,” Dad says.
No one’s answering me.
“Lachlan and I gutted the entire thing today,” he continues. “Tomorrow he’s going to install the new toilet and pedestal sink. Once fixtures are roughed in, all it’ll need is tile and paint. It’s going to look sharp by the end of the week.”
“Awesome,” I say, though I have to ask again. “Where is he, anyway? I saw his truck was gone?”
My parents stop dancing for a moment, exchanging a glance that makes my stomach plummet.
“I believe he said he was going to get dinner with an old friend,” Mom says, her words moving at a snail’s pace. “I can’t remember her name . . .”
Her.
Her name.
“I don’t think he gave a name,” Dad adds. “Just said she was a very special friend of his.”
I can feel the color draining from my face, and the room begins to tilt. I take a seat at the table to steady myself and catch my breath. I know we’re not anything, and I know I have no right to be jealous, but the other night he was devouring every inch of me and whispering about how sexy I was, and now he’s spending the evening with another woman? It’s not like he owes me anything—we aren’t together, and the plan was always for him to bounce eventually. But there’s no denying this burns . . . worse than I expected it to. And it serves as a reminder that the side of Lachlan I’ve come to know is merely one of his many facets.
The rest are question marks and blank spaces he refuses to fill in.
I think back to the text he sent earlier with the bathroom picture. Maybe instead of acting like things were back to normal between us, he was simply trying to act like nothing had happened?
Either way, I use this as an opportunity to remind myself not to get attached because I never want to feel the sick swirl in my middle and the hot burn of adrenaline in my veins and the storm of confusion in my head.
Mom fixes my plate, placing it in front of me.
“Mom, you didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“You look like you’ve had a long day, hon.” Her mouth presses flat, and her eyes hold sympathy.
Dad grabs his food and sits across from me, spreading his paper napkin over his lap and peering over the top of his glasses toward me.
“Your dinner’s getting cold,” he says.
Picking up my fork, I push the pasta mixture around my plate before taking a bite. I don’t taste a thing, though. And my mouth is so dry I have to wash it down with a mouthful of water. The oven timer beeps, and Mom slips on a couple of oven mitts before retrieving a loaf of garlic bread.
“These appliances are so efficient, Anneliese,” she says as she slices the bread. “I’ve never heard of this brand before.”
“It’s Italian,” I say, monotone.
“Rob, you’re going to have to get me some of these Italian appliances.”
“They look expensive . . . ,” he says.
“I got mine at the scratch-and-dent place,” I say. “Otherwise they’d have cost twice what I paid for them.”
“Well, they look amazing.” Mom inspects the microwave before moving to the fridge. “I don’t see anything wrong with them.”
My father goes on to explain that sometimes the dents are in the back or on the sides, but the more he talks, the farther away he sounds. Everything around me fades into background noise. All I can think about is Lachlan meeting up with another woman; I conjure up an image in my head of some mysterious brunette with legs to her neck and a sensual aura lapping up Lachlan’s worldly charms and addictive stories and laser-focused attention that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room.
“Anneliese, you’re extra quiet tonight,” Mom says, sitting beside me.
“I’m just . . . tired.” I manage a smile and force the rest of my goulash down before retiring to the living room with my laptop to catch up on some emails.
But while my eyes scan the words on the screen, nothing computes.
My thoughts are stuck on every worst-case scenario.
I can’t shut them off.