Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
The sound of Macy’s car driving past allows me to move.
I lift one of the paint cans out of the trunk of my car and feel a sharp ache in my back.
“Ouch!” I press my free hand to my back, against the ache.
“Carrie, are you okay?”
I turn, startled, to see River moving quickly toward me.
He takes the paint can from my hand, allowing me to press both hands to my back to stretch it out. He puts the paint can back in the trunk of my car.
“Let’s get you inside. You need to sit down.”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “It’s just a bit of a backache. It’s to be expected with pregnancy.”
“Sure. And carrying paint cans isn’t exactly going to help.”
“Just exactly what business is it of yours?” I bite, finally looking up at him.
He blanches, but his expression quickly recovers. “It’s not.” His voice is low. “But I, uh …” He shifts on his feet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was nervous. “You just … you have to think of the baby.”
“Are you saying I’m not thinking of my baby? That I’m somehow putting my baby’s health at risk?”
His brows draw together. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
My hands go to my hips. Then, I remember that they don’t fit there anymore, so I cross them over my expanding chest. “Then, what are you saying?”
“Just …” He takes a measured breath and then blows it out, equally as controlled. “Just that you shouldn’t be carrying around cans of paint.”
“Well, I don’t have anyone else to do it.” I shrug. “So, my options are limited to … well, me.”
“I can help you.”
“Huh?” I stop and give him a confused look. “Why would you? We’re not friends.”
“We’re, um, neighbors. Neighbors help each other.”
“True.” I nod. “But you made it perfectly clear that you wanted nothing to do with me, period. So, why would you want to be neighborly and help me?”
“Because you’re pregnant?” It sounds more like a question than an answer.
“I’ve been pregnant for five months now, and I’ve managed just fine on my own for all that time.”
“Not all the time.”
“No?” My eyes widen with annoyance.
He shakes his head. “Your Christmas tree. You needed help with that.”
“I didn’t need help. You offered it, and I accepted, thinking we were friends. But, the next day, I learned that wasn’t the case. You just fudging tolerated me, right?”
He winces.
“I brought you a tomato.” He shoves his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a large tomato, holding it in his outstretched palm to me.
“A tomato?” I slowly say the words to make sure I got that right.
I see the tips of his ears redden.
“An heirloom tomato. That’s how big the fruit baby is now, right? The size of an heirloom tomato.”
Oh.
An ache flickers in my chest. “How do you know that?” I say quietly.
He lifts his shoulders, giving an awkward shrug. “I saw it on the fruit baby website.”
“Why were you looking at that?” I lift my eyes to his.
Another shrug, one shoulder this time.
“I didn’t know you knew how far along I was.”
“I don’t exactly.” His words are quieter. “I just remembered the olive conversation and figured it out from there.”
I remember the olive conversation, too. That was the night that you threw our friendship away.
The tomato is just sitting there in his outstretched hand. I think this is his way of extending an apology—an olive branch so to say, no pun intended. But it’s just not enough.
He hurt my feelings.
“Well, you miscalculated. I’m a little further along. The baby’s the size of a small banana now.”
His expression falls. “Oh,” he murmurs in a voice even quieter than before.
Guilt clogs my throat even though I have nothing to feel guilty for.
“Guess it was stupid to bring you a tomato anyway,” he mumbles.
Not stupid. Actually sweet. But it doesn’t change anything.
“Why did you bring me the tomato?”
Expressionless eyes flicker to mine. “Because the baby …” He stops, sighs, and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” I’m surprised by my assertiveness.
I shouldn’t have to give him a push, but I know River is the type of person who needs one.
“I … um …” He shifts on his feet. Thrusts a hand through his hair. Sighs. Stops and looks at me. “I’m sorry.” The words rush out of him. “I was a fucking asshole that night. I was angry with Brad. I took it out on you, and I shouldn’t have. These last few months have been …” He looks up to the sky like he’s searching for the words there. “Dull.”
“Dull?”
He looks down at me, eyes guarded. “Yes. Dull. I’ve missed, uh … disagreeing with you. When you aren’t around, life is just … dull.”
Oh.
I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.