Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
What was my reasoning?
What the hell was I thinking?
What was it about this man that made me think he was worth sticking around for?
Another swipe reveals screenshot conversations that propose for even more internal contemplation.
Am I really afraid that no one out there wants me for more than my nurturing skills?
Was being with Marc part of my attempt to disprove that?
To show the world – or more likely myself – that I can indeed stop running?
That I don’t have to use my career as an excuse not to be in a committed relationship?
That I’m capable of putting down real roots?
That someday I can be the mommy and not the nanny?
That I’m worthy of love too?
Unhappy grumbles escape pushing me to shift pictures again.
Fuck. Me.
The picture of Igor’s arm adoringly wrapped around me as Bella and I look up at him with similar expressions has my stomach struggling to untangle my emotions that are knotted up like Christmas lights no one bothered putting away correctly.
Ohhh….can we say huge pet peeve?!
We’re talkin’ sit in the corner for a ten-minute timeout and think about the crime you’ve committed.
I straight up lost my shit before I left for lunch today when Ig had the chestnuts to try to tell me “it’s not a big deal” that the indoor lights and outdoor lights were all mixed together because “they’re just lights”. Bella scolded me about inside voices while I scolded her daddy about the importance of everything having its place and purpose which his daughter then backed me on by melting down over his inability to find her Russian snow globe due to his lack of an organizational system.
Justice was momentarily served.
And he promised he’d work on the lights right after he appeased the tiny terrorist that was making a snow angel tantrum in the middle of the kitchen floor.
It’s crazy, but the whole interaction didn’t feel like work.
It felt like life.
Like I wasn’t leaving behind the child I’m assisting to find stability and her father who is still struggling not to cave to every high-pitched whim so much as my daughter who hated that I was going to be gone for a few hours and my husband that still doesn’t understand the complicated innerworkings of raising a tiny human.
Which are insane thoughts to be having about two people whose lives I haven’t actually been in that long.
Lives that I don’t know how much I’m going to stay in once I get the answers I deserve.
And I fucking deserve to know the truth.
Exiting out of the sent photos puts me face to face with my screensaver of the three of us cuddled on the couch with rainbow popcorn singing along to Beauty & The Beast.
Gah, I’m not even sure who’s smile is bigger…his or mine.
We look genuinely happy.
We look like we’re together…like we’ll always be together.
Additional knots tangle themselves throughout my system pushing me to grab my purse, get out of my car, get inside, and rip off the wrapping paper covering only Martha May Whovier knows how many lies.
About two steps towards the front door, I abruptly stop, suddenly gob smacked by the thought.
KrisfuckingKringle, just how many lies has Ig told me?
And his team?!
And his parents?!
I glance in the direction of their SUV and lower my eyes to a small glare.
Has he been lying to everyone else or just me?!
Does everyone know everything and I’m just last to figure it the fuck out?!
New rushes of rage propel me to barge into the house, drop my purse near the front door, and continue straight on for the kitchen since it’s most likely where they are.
I swear it’s always snack time for someone.
The moment I stomp into the kitchen, I instantly come face to face with the man I desperately need to question. “What the fuck is going on?!”
Flaming Hot Cheetos unexpectedly fly through the air from him being startled at the same time he defensively barks, “It’s my cheat day!” Ig aggressively cradles the bag to his chest to save the few that remain. “I’m allowed to have extra carbskies!”
Confusion settling in my expression is accompanied by an airy, “Huh?”
“You’re pissed because it’s not a healthy snack, aye?” Ig uses the back of his hand to wipe away the red crumbs that are clumped together in the corner of his mouth. “But it doesn’t have to be ‘cause it’s my cheat day.” He sucks food out of his teeth prior to putting the bag on the counter. “Plus, I only had one slice of pie at Thanksgiving.”
“That was because your aunt Annette was in charge of desserts and a sugar free, glutten free, plum pie was basically an uncalled-for cross-check to your taste buds.”
He shakes his head slowly in disgust. “It was so disrespectful.”
Unlike him.
Who waited to throw his tantrum about it until we got home, Bella was in bed, and we could eat rocky road ice cream straight out of the carton while discussing my top ten must watch holiday movies for every Christmas season.