Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
“Jonathan’s not really father material, anyway. He’s more of a fun uncle. If she’s pregnant, you should be the father. I’ll help with babysitting if she still wants to go to college. I can teach him or her about science. I think I’d prefer a girl, we have enough boys in the house.”
“Jet, please.”
“I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he says. “It can be easy to see all the problems in the way, but I tend to see solutions. You have enough of the same physical characteristics, the baby would even look like yours. I’m sure it’s not your preference, but I’m just saying. If he got her pregnant, it’s not the end of the world.”
I scrub my hands down my face. “I don’t even know if the baby would be his. That’s the least horrifying of the two terrible possibilities.”
“Oh.”
I probably shouldn’t have said that.
“I’m sure she isn’t pregnant, and I really don’t want to talk about this.” It probably goes without saying, but I never know with Jet, so I add, “Do not mention any of this in front of her when she comes down.”
“I won’t.”
I hear footsteps on the stairs again, and this time, it’s Jonathan and Kennedy.
My heart stalls at the sight of her.
She’s wearing a pair of black leggings and a sweater that’s at least two sizes too big for her. It hangs off her slight frame and completely swallows her. Her hair is down, her face clean of makeup. She looks pale and sad and in desperate need of a meal.
I close my laptop and set it aside so I can get dinner started.
“Hey, Kennedy,” Jet says.
“Hey, Jet,” she says softly.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m… I’m okay,” she answers.
I clear my throat, gathering ingredients on the counter. “Someone can chop up the onion and bell peppers,” I say to no one in particular as I grab the meat and haul it to the other side of the counter to prep it.
“I will,” Kennedy says, also to no one in particular as she comes over to the counter.
I don’t look over at her, but I can feel her awkwardly hovering as she sets aside the ingredients she won’t need and grabs a cutting board out of the cupboard. She grabs a knife out of the block and wordlessly chops up the onion first.
Before she starts on the peppers, she walks to the sink to rinse the blade of her knife. I glance over at the sink, then frown when I see a skillet and two plates and forks in the basin.
“Why are there dishes in the sink?” I ask without thought since I wasn’t home for breakfast and neither of the boys ever cook when left to their own devices. If I’m not here, they usually have cereal for breakfast.
Kennedy freezes in the act of turning off the water.
She doesn’t speak or move. Her horror compels my gaze to move over the dishes again.
Two place settings.
Jonathan doesn’t cook.
She made Jonathan breakfast this morning.
How fucking thoughtful.
I season the steak a little more aggressively, but I feel sick to my fucking stomach picturing it in my head.
Morning-after breakfast.
Why does that feel worse than everything I’ve already heard?
Maybe it’s just the straw on top of a shitty fucking stack.
Maybe because he specifically told me there was nothing romantic about what happened between them, and the idea of her making him breakfast after feels… romantic.
What else am I imagining wrong?
In my head, Kennedy was curled up by herself realizing she’d made a horrible fucking mistake after sleeping with Jonathan, but now thoughts surface of Jonathan mentioning there was a second time without a condom, and Jet positing that sex between them would be fucking incredible.
Was it?
Did she enjoy it? Did she want more?
Is she interested in my fucking son now?
My heart races as my brain barrels down this track I very much did not want to go down. I feel sick without answers, but sicker at the thought of getting the wrong ones.
Without answering me, Kennedy goes back to the chopping board and resumes silently cutting the bell peppers. I can feel her distress even though she doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she can feel mine.
I try to shake off my feelings about it. Whatever he was wrong about, Jonathan was right that she doesn’t need any relationship drama right now.
I still feel fucking sick, but I have to suck it up.
I’m a little noisier than I probably need to be as I grab the skillet out of the cupboard and pour in some olive oil to heat. Kennedy jumps a little as the skillet hits the stovetop. I look over and see her face pale, her grip on the knife so tight her knuckles are white.
“Am I cutting these right?” she asks, her voice a little shaky.