That doesn’t sound good. I shouldn’t ask the question, but I can’t help myself. “So now you have new expectations?”
“Yes. I won’t expect you home at a decent hour after a game, which means I won’t bother making you enchiladas and flan next time.”
Damn. Her flan is fucking orgasmic. “You cooked for me?”
“You made a ninety-five-yard return after an interception. You were the defensive player of the game. You made ESPN. Soyes, I cooked. I thought we could celebrate. It’s in the fridge. You can eat it whenever.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. You should’ve told me you were making dinner.”
“That’s not really the point, Billy.” Her voice is thick, and I hate myself for making her emotional.
“Come here, biscuit.”
“No. I’m really tired, and I just want to go to sleep.”
Of course it’s at this moment that Marley lets out a loud cry. Roxy huffs and kicks off the covers.
I’m exhausted, but I’m sure Roxy is too. “I can feed her. Let me warm up a bottle.”
She shakes her head and reaches for the baby. “I can’t use the stash in the freezer at night or I might not have enough to cover next week when I’m at class. I need to pump more, but I haven’t had the time.”
And she spent all evening cooking for me.
I feel like an asshole.
The next morning,I yawn. I must’ve slept like the dead because it’s almost noon. I stretch, marveling at how good it feels to sleep in this late.
My eyes snap open.
There’s a reason I never sleep in anymore. I bound out of bed, worried. Usually, I get up around five-thirty or six for conditioning, so I change and feed Marley before I go. And since I’m used to getting up that early, I try to do that on the weekends to help Roxy get a little sleep.
When I peer over the edge of the bassinet, it’s empty.
I dart out to the living room, but no one’s here.
There’s a Post-it in the kitchen with a note from Roxy. All it says is, “Going to my parents’. See you later.”
She usually invites me over for things like that, but I’m guessing she’s still pissed about last night. I hope she doesn’t tell her dad. He’s just beginning to not hate me, and it would suck if he got another bug up his ass.
I open the fridge. There’s a huge casserole dish of enchiladas. They’re untouched. Like she baked them and didn’t want to eat without me.
Feeling like shit, I grab my phone and text her.
Thanks for the food, babe. Looks amazing. Want to hang out tonight?
Sundays are literally my only night free, and so far, something has always come up.
My heart sinks when I read her response.
I can’t. I have that segment I’m recording, remember? I told you about it last week.
I groan. Now it’s all coming back to me. Her mom is gonna babysit Marley so Roxy can do something for broadcast this evening.
That’s probably why she wanted to hang out last night.
“Nice job, Babcock. Way to blow off your girlfriend.”
46
