Icare.
I drop silverware, a napkin, and the beautifully plated poached eggs atop breakfast potatoes drizzled with hollandaise sauce onto the end table next to where his head is, and I don’t wait for him to acknowledge me.
I’m sure he’s in pain.
I’m sure something happened to his phone.
I’m also sure I don’t have to tolerate his bad attitude.
Have sympathy for his situation, yes.
Let him take it out on me, no.
I stalk back out of the room, grab my own plate, and take Jessica into the sunroom with me while I eat at the small bistro table beneath the ceiling fan.
No eggs for me.
Just potatoes. Breakfast potatoes with a side of tater tots.
Oh my god, do I love potatoes.
It’s a new obsession. Before pregnancy, they were a nice side dish. After pregnancy, I’ll likely never eat another potato in any form. Now, though, as I approach the end of my first trimester, they’re the only food I eat that both tastes good and settles well.
Morning sickness is for?—
Well.
I wish it could be for people who are unprovoked shitheads to other people.
While I eat, I take a break from studying houses that went on the market overnight to look up the laws about how to take a man’s dog from him without getting in trouble.
It doesn’t look good.
I eyeball Jessica. “Are you worth going to jail for?”
She’s splayed on the thin carpet beside me, back legs sticking out, head tilted up to gaze at me while she pants happily.
I nod. “Agreed. Definitely worth it. Want to go with me when I leave?”
She barks happily.
Just one little bark.
It’s adorable.
This dog has my whole heart.
This dog and my baby. And hopefully soon a new house.
But not last week’s house, because last week’s chosen house failed the inspection badly enough that I had to withdraw my offer. I might’ve tackled it if I weren’t pregnant, but I need a home that’s ready for baby and me, not a fixer-upper with a leaky roof and a flood-prone basement.
I finish eating, trade a few texts with Francesca, catching up on what’s going on with my friends from the ship. Then I clean up in the kitchen, including picking up a banana peel that Holt apparently left on the counter, then head for the stairs. He’s lying on the couch with the boot propped up, one arm flung over his face.
But he’s eaten the entire plate of food I took him.
Jessica scratches the floor with her back legs at him like he’s her poop and she’s covering him up.
I snort softly in amusement and head up the stairs.
