Page 79 of Six Month Wife
“Adair. It's not--”
“No,” I snap, grabbing my shirt off the floor. “Save it.”
I’m off the sofa before he can say another word. My heart pounds in my ears as I shove my arms through the sleeves of my shirt. I fight back tears, but they aren't from hurt.
I'm pissed. I let it go before, figuring I was overreacting. Turns out, my gut was right.
Behind me, I hear her voice again, tinny and amused through the speaker. “What are you doing, silly? Are you okay?”
Yeah. He's fantastic.
Parker finally finds the phone in the pillows and clicks to end the call without speaking.
“Adair....”
“Go,” I say, my voice firm. "Just go."
I head down the hallway before he can say anything else, disappearing into my bedroom and shutting the door behind me. Not slamming it. Just… shutting.
“Fine. I’ll go. But this isn’t over,” he shouts after me.
I don’t respond and stand inside my room out of eyeshot with my arms crossed, waiting until he leaves to breathe.
A few seconds pass. Then footsteps and the sound of the front door opening. Closing.
Silence.
I wait a few seconds more, not breathing or moving. Listening.
He’s gone.
At least he heard me earlier about knowing when to push and when to back off. Because trying to smooth this over right now wouldn’t have ended well.
I walk back out, cross the room, and sink onto the couch.
The first time, I let it slide. Told myself I was overreacting, that he had a life outside of this, and he didn’t owe me a damn thing.
But this isn’t right. It’s confirmation that I’m a sucker. I mean, really? She had to callin at that exact moment? If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
He doesn’t owe me loyalty. That was never part of it. But I don’t owe him sex, either. That’s what’s messing with my head. It blurs the lines, makes me forget this whole thing’s fake.
I reach for my wine glass, take a long sip, and set it down.
I did the thing. We got married, and I played the part for his dad and the estate guy. That’s what I agreed to.
It's time to go back to our lives and grind through the next five or however many months.
Because I’m done with this shit.
Less than an hour ago,I was in his lap. His lips were on mine, his voice in my ear, saying I drove him crazy. Now I’m crazy.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, my laptop balanced on a pillow in front of me. The empty wine glass sits on thecoffee table, mocking me with its hollow echo of a night gone wrong.
I drag the cursor across the screen, switching colors, tweaking fonts, trying to bring some life into the new branding design for my café product line.
But no matter what I try, everything looks wrong.
The pale pink and sage green I thought would exude elegance now seem bland. I switch to bold navy and gold, hoping for a more luxurious feel, but it feels pretentious and off-brand. Frustrated, I try bright, cheerful colors like coral and turquoise. They clash horribly with the minimalist vibe I was going for.
