“Oh, I have unresolved feelings, alright,” I murmured. What I gave up for this man…for this idea of a happy family. He was acting like he had sacrificed. I tore my heart out of my chest to marry him and put my whole self into our family.
I bit down, burying those feelings like I always had. “James, I’m fine. It was a mistake. I explained the situation to Grace and Aliya, and they reacted to the news. The car speakers kicked in. I didn’t intentionally set out to do it.”
“Oh, I can only imagine what your friends had to say.”
“Like you’ve ever cared what my friends thought of you.”
He opened his mouth to respond, and my phone rang. I held my hand up and leaned into the kitchen to grab it off the counter.
Shaw—as if summoned at the exact time it would hit the hardest. Dawson Shawfield. My former BFF and the most popular tight end in professional football. One of the sacrifices—the sacrifice—I made when I married James.
I closed my eyes. If he was calling, it meant one thing: one of our big-mouth friends had told him. And I couldn’t handle hearing his voice. Not now.
I sent the call to voicemail. I’d rather deal with the appliance-creeping James.
I continued holding my hand up to James and, with a steady voice, said, “Listen. You’ve dropped a bomb on our home, on our family. Just back off. I deserve a moment to digest this. Give me that without pillaging our home.”
He closed his mouth, put his hands on his hips, and nodded once. In utter silence, we stood in the foyer of our home—the one we’d shared—and I ran my hand over my still-disheveled hair.
Damn, I needed a shower.
A text came through.
Grace
Shaw heard. He’s going to call you. Please talk to him.
Me
How did that happen exactly?
I did not need my friends circling the wagons and having Shaw come riding in on a white horse. I’m sure James and I could settle this, with Aaron’s best interests in mind, if I could have a moment to get my bearings. But if my friends got involved, and Shaw stepped in, things would…escalate.
Grace
It wasn’t me. I swear. It was Wyatt.
Me
Yeah. And how did he?—
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the kitchen again. James was on his knees in the pantry, pulling out the KitchenAid mixer.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice was on the verge of maniacal laughter, and James jumped like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. The KitchenAid mixer crashed to the floor and narrowly escaped his foot.
“Son of a bitch, Kelcie,” he growled at me.
I threw an accusing arm out at him. “You don’t even cook, let alone bake. Put it back.”
“You only use it for?—”
“Put. It. Back.”
My phone chimed again with another text message, and I held the phone to my forehead, praying for patience. “So help me, James. Enough with pinching the appliances.”
Another message came in. And another.
I checked my phone. Multiple messages from the group chat—Wyatt, Gracie, Aliya, and Shaw—coordinated how they were each going to eviscerate James and explained why I wasn’t responding.
