We both face forward, trying to determine if our catch-up is now over. We remain stalled, and I suddenly realize that I didn’t take notice of where we were walking. My gaze lifts up to the street sign. My parents live a few streets away from mine.
Unintentionally, we are at Everhope Road. The place where I now live.
The street that our feet seem to gravitate to.
* * *
I blink my eyes open,and I feel kind of heavy, even though I hit the gym several times a week. The sheets feel loose and twisted, causing me to roll over and investigate, only to find the mattress sheet wrinkled due to someone having lain there.
That’s when I sit up, the sheet dropping to the waist of my naked body. As clear as day, I see her.
Rosie is at the end of my bed with her back to me, zipping up the side of her dress.
Oh, shit.
Last night.
“You’re running away,” I mumble and rub a hand across my groggy face.
Rosie sighs. “This shouldn’t have happened. Okay, so we went for a little walk with a bottle of whiskey. We somehow got carried away.”
I scoff a breath and appraise my room where clothes are scattered on the floor. “Something like that.”
Do we remember what happened? To be honest, it’s a little foggy. Only laying her on my bed seems to flash into my mind. We didn’t even bother with the lights, instead letting the streetlight peeking through my blinds show us enough. I do remember skating my hand up her thigh as she clawed my hair. Do I recall ripping her panties? Hmm. I swear I can taste her pussy on my lips. I wouldn’t have deprived myself of a lick before thrusting into her so hard that it might’ve caused her to question if it was punishment.
I do recollect that we definitely snapped in a second, moved fast, starving for each other. It was by no means slow. Maybe we were both releasing frustration.
“I’m leaving. No need to talk about this.”
I recall a similar conversation before we both signed divorce papers, except she added the sentence that I deserved to find someone that would make me happy.
She didn’t get the memo thatshemade me happy, apparently. Instead, she left a bitterness inside of me.
I slide out of bed to find my own clothes. I’m not in the mood to argue. She’s right.
“Agreed.”
She’s finished with getting dressed, and her hair is kind of a mess, but I’m not going to point that out.
We enter a face-off. The tension in the room is unexplainable, but after a stretch of quiet, she gives me one last once-over and leaves.
Growling, I want to scold myself and repeat in my head my original thought.
We’re supposed to be divorced, not end up with clothes on the floor next to my bed.
2
ROSIE
SIX WEEKS LATER
My arm hangs off the bed as I lie on my side. Nothing is going to cure this nausea that has made my life hell. Mumbling a sound, I slide my eyes to the floor where a pregnancy test fell out of my hand probably an hour ago when lying down won over the shock because the urge to purge is too strong.
Of course, nothing is going to cure my nausea. Because I have to wait for a baby to come out.
What kind of woman am I?
I broke a man’s heart, returned to his life, slept with him, and then got pregnant.
