Page 8

Not a good sign for this relationship.

I park my Jeep in its usual spot and hop out, a little less pep in my step as I take the stairs to our second-floor apartment. As soon as I’m standing in front of the door, I stop and close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Find your zen, girl.

When I left this morning, the place was messy since I haven’t had a day off in close to a week and I’ve been too damn exhausted to tidy it up when I got home from my shift at the hotel.

Maybe Owen decided to pitch in today.

I scoff.

Fat chance.

Not once in the two years we’ve been together has Owen ever taken the initiative to clean our place without prompting and then begging from me. Today won’t be any different.

But there is still that tiny little bit of hope inside me.

Opening my eyes, I take one more deep breath and then open the door.

As I suspected, Owen is in his recliner, a can of beer in his hand as he watches a baseball game on TV. The side table next to his chair has beer cans covering every inch of the top. I glance to my left, wrinkling my nose at the full trash can that looks like one misplaced soup can away from overflowing.

Shit.

Maybe I should have gotten up early this morning…

I let out a huff.

Or earlier, I should say.

Maybe I should have gotten up earlier and cleaned before I left for the bakery.

But I’m just so damn tired.

“Hey, babe,” I say, glancing over at Owen, who has yet to acknowledge my existence. He lifts two fingers in greeting, not even turning his head to look at me.

Seriously?

That’s all I fucking get?

Two measly fingers in greeting to the woman who buys all his groceries, cooks his meals for him, cleans his apartment, washes his clothes and works eighty hours a week to make sure he doesn’t run out of his beloved Bud Light?

Jesus Christ.

I sound like his mother.

I sound like my damn mother.

The thought makes me shudder.

I continue to stare at him, the weight of everything I do around here crashing down on me.

It’s too damn much.

Needing a distraction so I don’t do something drastic, like murder him, I step into the kitchen and eye the sink. Both sides of it are overflowing with dirty dishes that I haven’t gotten around to washing yet and empty food boxes are littered all over the counters.

How in the fuck did I end up here?

You know what’s worse than being the only person responsible for cleaning this place? The fact that I’m not even home enough to enjoy it when it is clean. Hell, I’m not even home enough to make a goddamn mess. Most days, I’m here only long enough to grab something to eat, shower, change my clothes or grab a few hours of sleep before I’m running off to work again.