Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I mentally scold myself for losing it. Ruthie is right. My house is in shambles, I don’t remember the last time I shopped for groceries, and Rafail will kick my ass for letting my phone die. I don’t like feeling this out of control. I’m never like this.
I’ll stare into space when something triggers a memory, then blink and come to hours later. Time passes weirdly when you’re grieving, I guess.
How long does grief last? I would’ve thought I’d feel better by now. And Luka barely seemed to register the loss of his mama. He’s asked for her a few times and cried when she didn’t come home, but he’s too young to really understand that she’s gone forever.
And I know how this will go. He’ll grow up with only vague memories of her. And then, eventually, he might even forget her. I lean my head against the wall as a fresh sob rips from my chest. It’s safer to cry in the shower. I can hide the signs, and it’s harder for anyone to hear.
The grief hits me like a tidal wave. The fact that she’s gone, that I’ll never hold her again, never talk to her again, never see her witness all my son’s firsts ever again, feels like a reality that’s too hard for me to swallow. My shoulders shake, and something loosens in my chest. The grief feels wrenched from me, raw and so painful it kills.
I cry until relief finally comes. My father used to beat the shit out of me for crying. Ironic. Maybe it’s why I feel the need to hide when I do. But goddamn, a man’s got to let some of this out.
I let the water splash on my face and wash away my tears, wipe my eyes, and peek through the curtain to see Luka still sleeping soundly.
Fuck. I’m all stuffed up and snotty, and my head aches. I hate this. I can’t let myself fall apart every time I step in the fucking shower.
I turn the water off and reach for a towel when I realize I didn’t bring one in with me. I grit my teeth and look at the gross clothes I tossed on the floor and the tiny hand towel that’s askew, probably needs to be changed, and wouldn’t even dry my shoulder.
Gah-reat.
I don’t want to wake up Luka, but—
“Ruthie,” I hiss, pulling the shower curtain around me for some privacy. I can hear her in the kitchen, but it isn’t that far away. “Ruthie.”
Luka stirs. I freeze. The kid needs his sleep.
Shit.
I could jump out of the shower naked, run to the hallway where the clean towels are, and risk letting my sister-in-law see me streak through my house soaking wet.
Or not.
I roll my eyes and let out a low, sharp whistle. Luka doesn’t move, and the sound in the kitchen ceases. I whistle again. A few seconds later, I hear the telltale sound of her footsteps heading this way. I look over to see Luka rolling over but still snoring softly.
“Did you whistle at me?” Ruthie hisses from the doorway.
“I forgot a towel.”
She snorts at me, the little brat. “And?”
“Ruthie. Get me a towel.”
“Say please.”
I grit my teeth. After her ass is out of here, I’m changing the locks. “Please.”
“And give me your credit card.”
“Are you blackmailing me for a towel?” I hiss. Jesus.
“No, you need groceries,” she says, smug as sin. “Hang on.”
I hear her footsteps retreat, slow and unhurried, like she wants me to freeze to death or suffer. Probably both.
But she doesn’t hand me a towel. She fucking drapes it, deliberately, on the hook by the curtain, just out of reach.
She knows what she’s doing.
“Here you go,” she says, tilting her head at me. “Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”
I glare through the steam, water still streaming down my body. “You could’ve passed it to me.”
“I suppose I could have. And you could’ve acted like a grown-up and remembered your towel. Seriously, Vadka. You had one job.”
That smile. That wicked, sweet smirk of hers, that’s all Ruthie.
“You really want to play this game?” I growl. I wrap the towel around my waist and shove the curtain aside. Her eyes grow wide, and in a second, she quickly sweeps her eyes down the length of my bare chest, over my inked shoulders and torso, before she realizes what she’s doing. Her cheeks flame red.
I see the moment she realizes I was crying—her own eyes well with tears, and she looks away.
“Come on,” she whispers. “Get dressed. I made breakfast.”
We both look over to the sleeping form of my baby boy.
“He always sleep in your bed?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Just a lot since Mariah’s been gone though.”
She nods, eying my dirty clothes strewn on the floor. My eyes linger on a pair of socks. I wasn’t this sloppy before she died. I’m a grown-ass man who likes his shit clean. And Mariah would lose her mind over the fucking socks. Every time I left them on the floor, she’d act like I dropped a live grenade in the living room.