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But I ignore it.
Ignore him.
And pretty soon fatigue is sinking its claws into me, pulling me down, down, down into oblivion, until when Stefan finally speaks—his voice almost hushed—I barely hear it.
“This is pretty bad,” he murmurs. “Are you going to take a couple of days off?”
My lids flash open.
I turn my head, eyes catching his.
“No.”
I’d intended for it to come out of my mouth, but he’s beaten me to it.
“No,” he says again, voice hardening. “Of course you’re not going to take any time off. Of course you’re not going to stop?—”
He jerks his hand away, and the loss of his touch…well, goddamn, it’s just another punch to the ribs. And then he’s tugging my tank top down, my hoodie, pushing up to his feet.
The jar of cream hits the nightstand, sending the lid toppling to the floor, my vegetables rattling softly in their glass container.
A sigh. “Broccoli,” I swear he whispers. “Jesus Christ.”
But before I get a chance to respond to that, get the chance to make that make sense, he’s turning for the door.
Before I get a chance to respond…
He’s gone.
And I’m still exhausted and hurting and more than ready for sleep.
But…
That blissful oblivion doesn’t come.
Seven
Stefan
I thumb a text to Tiffany as I walk into Roxie’s school, running a few minutes behind and all the more annoyed for it.
I hate being late, and especially hate being late for important shit.
And Roxie’s parent-teacher conference is really important shit.
I wave at the receptionists—getting a scowl from the grumpy one and a smile from the other one (who partook in my baked-goods-from-Molly’s bribe at the beginning of the school year)—and hurry across the blacktop to Roxie’s classroom.
But what I see outside the closed metal door has rage splintering through me.
It shouldn’t.
But it does.
Brit is standing next to a man who’s objectively good-looking—something I want to gouge my eyes out for noticing. But I do notice. That he’s tall and built and in good shape. That he’s looking at my wife with far too much concentration, far too much focus, far too much…need. My hands ball into fists, and I take a step toward them, intending on knocking the motherfucker through that cinderblock wall they’re leaning back against.
I stop.
I freeze.
