9. Daire
9
DAIRE
The townhouse is pretty empty, save for a few odd pieces here and there, like a couch and one random dining room chair that was delivered without the rest of the set or even the table.
Rosie, carrying a set of freshly washed sheets up the stairs, peers over her shoulder. “You don’t think this place is haunted, do you?”
“No,” I scoff.
As if to contradict me, the lights flicker.
Rosie lets out a squeak and drops the sheets on the stairs. Hand over her heart, she asks, “Did you see that?”
There’s no sense in lying. “Yeah.”
“I think there are ghosts here. We come in peace. I promise.” She holds her hands together like she’s praying. “Or at least I do. I can’t speak for him.”
I roll my eyes from the bottom of the stairs. “They’re ghosts, not aliens.”
She screams again, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You said it wasn’t haunted!”
I put my hands up and take a step back. “I just meant if there was something here, it wouldn’t be aliens. You don’t need to say you come in peace.”
“Maybe we made a bad decision with this place.” She scoops up the sheets and continues up the stairs, her head on a swivel.
I reluctantly follow. I need to get my bed ready too, and by bed, I mean a blow-up mattress. Our furniture is being delivered in phases over the coming weeks, thanks to Rosie and her ordering frenzy. She really did a number on my card, but I was an asshole, so I was asking for it.
“You loved it when we toured it.”
She pauses in the hall that stretches in both directions—her room on one end, mine on the other.
“That was before it was dark and empty and creepy.”
I sigh. “I can’t help that. We’re lacking on furniture at the moment.”
“Speaking of furniture.” She holds up a finger, but it gets stuck in the folds of the sheets she’s holding. She flails until her hand is free and wags that finger at me. “I think we should paint before anything else arrives.”
“What’s wrong with the paint?”
She blinks at me, her mouth ajar. Clearly, she thinks my question is ridiculous. “It’s very formal.”
Sure, the colors are pretty dark and rich, but the paint looks fresh, and the colors aren’t hideous. “So?”
“Men,” she mutters with a shake of her head. “I’ll call around and find someone who can do it in the next week or two.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” I remind her.
Adjusting her hold on the sheets, she says, “The sooner you learn happy wife, happy life, the better.”
With a grunt, I turn toward my room at the end of the hall on my right.
“Go for it, then,” I mutter as I step across the threshold into my room.
I wrestle the sheets onto the blow-up mattress I bought when we stopped at Target on the way over. The furniture in the place I just moved out of belongs to Cree’s parents. His mom did all the decorating, hence the feminine touch, despite it predominately being a bachelor pad.
I’m dropping my pillow onto the mattress when Rosie comes into the room.
“I was thinking pizza for dinner. Are you good with that?”
“Yeah.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “You know, it is possible to reply with more than one word. What toppings do you like?”
“Supreme is fine with me.”
“Perfect.”
She stands in the doorway, watching me expectantly.
“What?” I ask when she makes no move to order the food.
With an evil little grin, she holds out her hand. “Card, please.”
Right. I dig in my back pocket for my wallet and pull out my black credit card.
She takes it with a wink. “Thanks, babe.”
“Don’t call me that.”
But she’s already gone, out of earshot of my griping.
Running my fingers through my hair, I eye the boxes in the corner. I could get started on unpacking my clothes, but I’ve had enough packing for one day. Downstairs, I find Rosie sitting on the marble island in the kitchen, kicking her legs lazily back and forth while she scrolls on her phone.
“What are you doing?”
Without looking up from the device, she smiles. “Looking at paint colors online.”
Of course.
I shuffle toward the refrigerator. The thing is giant. Inside one full-size door is the fridge, and inside the other is an enormous freezer. I’m sure it’s a chef’s dream—we have a similar setup at my dad’s house—but it’s a bit much for a townhouse outside of Nashville. Especially for two college-age kids.
“We need groceries,” I mutter, eyeing the empty shelves before me.
“Mhm,” she hums, legs still swinging. “I’m too tired to deal with it tonight. I’ll go tomorrow.”
“You won’t know what I like.”
She looks up from her phone, leveling me with a glare. “Then we’ll both go, crybaby.”
This woman. I can’t win with her.
“We should go tonight.”
She closes the app on her phone with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest.
Without my permission, my eyes drop to the swells of her breasts. Her position causes them to press against her sweater, emphasizing them. I shouldn’t be staring at her boobs, but I can’t seem to look away.
“Eyes up here,” she commands, using two fingers to point from her eyes to mine. “Did you not listen to what I said? I’m tired, and the pizza is already on the way. It won’t be the end of the world if we go in the morning.”
“Fine,” I say, because she’s right, even if it feels weird not having a single item in the fridge. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Thank you for seeing sense.” She hops off the counter and tucks her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.
Jeans that hug her ass like a second skin.
Stop staring!
Jaw clenched, I inhale through my nose, then hold the air in my lungs. It’s going to be a long… what? Year? Couple of years? Regardless, our time together will be painful if I keep checking out my wife.
“Have you heard anything from your lawyer?”
“Nothing except her chewing me out over the video.” Stomach twisting, I scrub a hand over my face. Dammit, I’m such a fuck-up. Getting drunk that night was the worst decision I’ve probably ever made, behind letting myself have such a public meltdown. Everything came to a head for me in that moment—the battle for my son, Rosie, my friends being nonexistent in my time of need—and I just lost it.
But I can’t afford to lose it when I’m facing what looks to be a brutal court battle.
We haven’t addressed the video much, Rosie and me, except for my apology. Since then, she hasn’t brought it up. Regardless of our lack of conversation about it, I hurt her. Rosie might be a strong girl, but words can cut the deepest, and I know mine did just that when I said I hated her. The feeling is mutual, but that doesn’t make my tirade okay. Especially when I’m the one who begged her to marry me.
I haven’t talked to my lawyer about how she’s going to play that whole thing off, but she’ll figure something out. If I even consider an alternative, I’ll spiral into an even more stressed-out and anxious version of myself, and that’s saying a lot, because for the last couple of months, I’ve been nothing but a ball of nerves and anger. Every time I get a call lately, the urge to puke hits me. When my phone rings, my natural response is to freak out, sure that the video is finally coming back to haunt me even more than it already does. Nina has done her best to scrub it from the internet, but there’s no way to erase every last trace of it.
Idiot that I am, I basically handed Danielle and her husband all the evidence they need to prove I’m not fit for any sort of custody on a silver platter.
That video paints a picture of a kid who isn’t ready to be a parent. And if I were watching similar footage of someone else, I’d agree.
But that night, fear took over. I ran away and got drunk in order to avoid my feelings.
I can’t do that anymore.
Silence stretches between us.
“The pizza should be here any minute,” she says softly, passing by me on her way out of the kitchen.
Eyes closed, I focus on steadying my breathing. I need to get my shit together. I asked Rosie for her help because even though our friendship fell apart, I’ve always known I can trust her. Now it’s time to show her that. Regardless of how hard it might be. I’ve been fighting this battle on my own for months. I wanted to confess to Cree, but he’s been too busy chasing after his girlfriend, Ophelia, to care. My meltdown nearly fucked up their relationship, but they’ve since made up. Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty for being an asshole, though.
At the sound of the front door opening, I peek around the corner to see Rosie accepting the pizza and a bag with a smile. When she turns, I quickly duck my way back into the kitchen.
“Spying on me?” she quips, setting the food on the counter.
My stomach sinks. “No.”
“Seemed like it to me.” She takes out a liter of Coke from the bag. “We don’t have plates, so you’ll have to eat over here with me instead of sulking in the corner like a creeper.” Flipping the lid of the pizza box back, she groans and inhales the smell of the peppers. “Get over here. I’m starving.”
She hops up onto the counter again and picks up a slice. I close the distance between us and snag one of my own. Closing the box so the pizza stays warm, I lean against the wall across from her.
“What would your mom say if she could see us right now?”
Chewing, she holds a finger up. “Number one, this,” she wags that same finger between us, “would probably have her spontaneously combusting with excitement, but you already know that. As for the pizza…” She shrugs, surveying the slice in her hand. “She’d probably go into cardiac arrest. She might be able to stomach a chef-prepared, fully fresh pizza. But Pizza Hut? No way in hell.” She wipes the corner of her mouth with her finger. It comes away with a drop of sauce that she quickly licks away.
And now my dick is hard.
I send up a prayer that Rosie doesn’t notice my current predicament. The last thing I need is her thinking I’m attracted to her.
“You know,” she begins, lowering her focus to her lap, “Thanksgiving is next week. I’m expected at home, and I assume you are too. There’s no way we can avoid telling them about this.”
Them.
Our parents.
My brothers.
Her sister.
Keeping this from them has made it easy to ignore our reality. That’s all about to change.
“I know.”
“How should we go about telling them?”
I press my lips together and rack my brain but come up empty. “I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters how we tell them. They’re not going to be happy that we didn’t include them.”
She huffs, probably annoyed I’m not offering a legitimate idea, and opens the lid, then drops a piece of crust into the box. “I’m going to shower, and then I’m crashing.”
“All right.” I reach for a second slice, leaving it at that. I’d rather avoid the conversation for as long as I can.
Maybe we should have called and broken the news. I’m suddenly regretting the idea of telling Rosie’s father we’re married while he’s holding a carving knife. There’s a good chance I’ll be carved up right along with the turkey. But it’s too late to change our plans now.
Within minutes of her departure, the room is too quiet, and I find myself missing her presence.
Not that I’d ever tell her that.
I finish up the pizza, stuff the box in the refrigerator, and wash my hands. Drying them on my T-shirt—since we don’t have a single dish towel—I head upstairs for a shower.
I’m ready to crash. Once I get a few solid hours of sleep, this feeling for Rosie will go away.
It has to.