AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He’s being too nice?” She snorts. “If you’re actually complaining about that, I might have to come over there just so that I can whack you over the back of the head.”
How to explain without actually explaining? “He’s being, like, really wonderful lately. I’m talking extra nice, extra thoughtful, extra?—”
“Extra dreamy,” Syrah drawls, cutting me off. “I get it. Woe is you. I’m struggling to see the problem here.”
“Sometimes, I feel like we don’t talk,” I stammer. “Like we can’t… We, um, don’t have real conversations. It feels like he’s holding things back. I know I definitely am. I just don’t want all the other stuff—the massages and gifts and home-cooked meals—to distract from the fact that we’re having a baby together and we don’t really know where we stand with one another.”
I let out a low breath while Syrah’s tongue clicks softly. “Hon, I am still failing to see the problem. You want to have a real conversation with the man? Then do it. Sit him down and talk to him. You’re having his baby; it’s justified. What’s he gonna do? Run from you?”
“If he does, I certainly won’t be able to chase after him.”
Syrah laughs for a moment before she gets serious again. “My point is, have you really even tried to talk to him?”
I sigh. “I guess not.”
“Then try. I say try now.”
I cringe at the very thought of even attempting this conversation. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Start simple,” Syrah says confidently. “He’s been taking care of you, right?”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously, unsure where she’s going with this.
“Well, then, how about you return the favor? Cook him a meal for a change,” she suggests. “Surprise him with that pesto pasta you used to make for me on Bridgerton nights. I could bathe in that shit. Start with something light, warm him up, and then pivot into what you really want to talk about.”
I nod slowly. “That’s a good plan.”
“Duh, of course it is. I came up with it.”
A tired chuckle escapes my lips. “Thanks, Sy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably just complain about all your champagne problems.”
Laughing, I let that one slide off my back. I can’t expect her to understand when I haven’t told her even half of the real story. Hell, I may never tell her the whole story. She doesn’t need to know how and why Rose died; I’m happy to carry that burden on my own.
But it does make me miss Bee all the more. She was the one person I didn’t have to hide a damn thing from.
Although, to be fair, I’m pretty sure she would have given me the same advice that Syrah just had. Stop being a wimp and talk to the man.
“Okay, Wren,” I tell myself softly. “You’ve got yourself a game plan. Now, it’s time to act on it.”
20
WREN
No one dresses up for pesto pasta at home.
And yet here I am, trying to pick out a slimming dress that will make me feel both comfortable and pretty. Not that feeling pretty should be a priority tonight. But still, I find myself swapping out dress after dress because none of them are perfect.
In the end, I opt for a shimmery, periwinkle blue wraparound that stops juuust short of being too much. I leave my walk-in confidently…
Then stride back in two minutes later and snatch up some lip gloss like it’s the secret weapon I need to make this night a success.
My second walk-out sticks. I make it all the way to the kitchen, where my pesto pasta sits patiently on the stove, waiting for a last minute heat-up before serving.
It’s almost seven and the city is losing light slowly. Dmitri texted earlier to let me know that he was going to be home by 7:15. That’s another one of the thoughtful gestures he started recently—letting me know when he was leaving the apartment and what time he would return.
Strangely considerate of him.
