Did he believe that I loved him?
No, no, no. I’m not letting myself go down that path. That line of thinking is a crock of shit—the poor man cheated because he’s emotionally stunted and can’t accept love. It’s not his fault. He had terrible parents.
Everyone has terrible parents. Everyone is stunted.
But are they, though?
Adrian and I aren’t the only messed up people in the world . . . but wearemessed up, both of us.
What else would you call a man who’s nervous around his own children? Who buys a family? Who doesn’t give a shit about love and can’t say sorry and tries to control his home life with contracts and bribes? That’s not my particular brand of crazy, but it sure isn’t well-adjusted, either.
When I met Adrian, I thought he was the most evolved, sophisticated, fully actualized person on the face of the earth. Granted, I had pretty much no basis for comparison. He presents himself very well. He’d fool anyone—if they didn’t look carefully. If they were too satisfied with their own situation to notice.
Or too relieved.
I shove my legs into a pair of jeans and slide my feet into a pair of Crocs that Adrian hates. My head hurts too badly to be thinking this hard this early in the morning. I need a huge glass of orange juice, an even bigger cup of coffee, and a plate of bacon.
Pearl is ready before me for once, and she happily chats as we walk down to the dining room. She seems to have lost interest in where Daddy slept and is back on the subject of shrimp boats, which she’s been obsessed with since I discovered a new-to-us TV series for her to binge a few days ago. She sounds like Forrest Gump.Shrimp trawler. Shrimp captain. Shrimp beds.
When we arrive downstairs, Adrian is in his seat at the head of the table, freshly showered and dressed for work. My chest twinges with a strange excitement when I see him, which makes no sense. It’s not like I want him around the house.
Delicious smells waft from the kitchen. I sit, offering Winnie a bottle since I pump and dump the day after I drink, just to be safe. Pearl climbs into her own big girl chair. Our places are already set, and there is a basket of muffins and breads in the middle of the table. I don’t knowhow Adrian made all this happen. We took more than twenty minutes to get ready, but not that much longer.
The world does always smooth a path for him. I used to marvel over it. Now, it kind of pisses me off.
I snag the bread basket and pick through the muffins. Zucchini and walnut. Chia seed lemon poppy. Quinoa and cranberry.
“Can’t we ever have, like,blueberrymuffins?” I grumble, taking a mini croissant.
“I’ll tell Minh,” Adrian says.
“No. Don’t.” I don’t want to hassle Minh. He works hard enough. I’m just being grumpy because I’m doing something I don’t want to do. I take a bite of flaky goodness. “I don’t know why we can’t have full-sized croissants.”
Adrian catches my eye. His lips curve at the corners. My stomach dips.
He drags the bread basket toward him. What is he doing? Henevereats sweets for breakfast. Lean protein and fruit only. Pearl and I both watch him pick out all five mini croissants, put them on his plate, and slide them toward me.
Pearl is watching so I tug the plate the rest of the way until it sits in front of me. “Now you haveallthe croissants, Mommy,” she says, delighted.
I want to throw them at his head, but I also want to cram them in my mouth and watch while his brain blarescarbs, inflammation, macros, gluten, gut lining, glycemic loadinside his skull like Pearl smacking the buttons on her Talk and Learn Turtle when she was a toddler.
Since throwing food at a person is wrong, I hold Adrian’s gaze while I slowly lick a croissant from tip to tip and then shove it whole into my mouth. I expect his lips to flatten like they do when he’s holding in his disapproval, but instead, he smirks, and a light sparks in his glassy eyes. The asshole is turned on.
“Yum,” I moan. “These are so good. I love refined carbohydrates.” I eat another one.
Pearl rises to kneel on her chair and stretches across the table to help herself from my plate. “I can have one, Mommy?”
“Please,” I remind her.
“Please,” she says with a mouthful of croissant. “Yum. Thesearegood carbohydrates.”
I look at Adrian and arch an eyebrow. His smirk doesn’t falter. “If I have a basket of blueberry muffins and big croissants ready, will you come down for breakfast tomorrow, too?”
“Yes!” Pearl answers.
“We’ll see,” I say. “Mornings are hectic, and besides, you aren’t always here for breakfast.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow.”
