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“Oh, I know, I just brought myself one.”
“You aren’t going back to the spare room.” I’m sure his brows are pinched as he holds back his anger.
“Yes, I know. It’s for when we divorce. I’ll see you later dear.” I hang up the phone and call Emma to let her know two mattresses will be delivered today, one for her and me. She sends me back ten smiley faces.
Whiskey isn’t home when I arrive, but my dress has already been delivered and is on the bed in the room, and Emma messaged me the mattress got there safe. Going into the kitchen, I start preparing a meal. We haven’t actually eaten together. No, the only thing we have shared is sex and drinks.
He calls me Bunny, and he probably thinks I don’t know how to cook and that I probably just eat lettuce. Granted, I don’t know a lot, as we always had cooks. But Emma’s mother is a chef, and on the weekends that I spent with her family, we cooked in the kitchen and her mother would always help me to learn. It was a nice change to being totally ignored.
Making a simple mac and cheese with grilled chicken doesn’t take me long. I don’t know exactly when he’s due home, but it’s an easy meal to reheat and it’s why I chose it. Just as I sit at his dining room table, I hear his footsteps. When he reaches me, he stops, looks to my plate with scrunched brows, then at me. “You order in?” he asks. I glance at him, and when I do, my eyes narrow. On the white of his dress shirt is red, just droplets, like blood.
“No, I cooked. Yours is still warm in the oven.” Going back to my book at the table, I don’t wait for his reaction. Not long after his footsteps wander away, I hear the door to the oven open.
“You cooked for me,” he says, returning and sitting down next to me. Whiskey places a hand on my book, not the one with red on it though, stopping me from reading. I can’t read it anyway with him sitting next to me, I’d be reading the same line over and over again, he’s that type of distraction.
“I was hungry. Wasn’t sure if you’ve eaten already, so I cooked.” I shrug.
“No one has ever cooked for me before,” he says, making me look up as he starts eating. “Not someone who wasn’t getting paid for it, that is.”
“Not your parents?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Your wife?” I ask him not believing him.
“Nope, just you.”
“Well, then I would suggest you say thank you,” I say, taking a mouthful.
“Thank you, Bunny.” He moans as he takes a second bite.
He eats it without one complaint, and we don’t talk until he’s finished. He slides a wedding invite over, and I look at it, trying to hide my smile. It’s beautiful. Did I expect anything less though?
We, Whiskey and Lottie, wish to invite you to our celebration of love.
“Do you always sleep naked?” he asks, eyeing me. I look away from the invite and slide it into my book for later, his eyes never leave mine making me feel uncomfortable. His hands are on the table next to his empty plate, and I can’t help but look to those hands—just above one is a splotch of red. It has to be tomato sauce, right?
“Do you sleep naked?” I ask, looking up.
He leans over. “Yes. And you would have known if you removed the mountain of pillows when you slept and stopped snoring the house down.”
“I don’t snore,” I argue back.
I like to think I don’t, but I know I do.
“Keep telling yourself that. Maybe next time I’ll record you and show you.”
His words make my spine straighten.
Does he do that often?
Is this some sort of a thing for him?
Whiskey notices my reaction. “It was a joke. I’ll never record you again without your permission. I swear,” he says.
“I find that hard to believe,” I say, trying my hardest to keep the venom from my voice, but it shines through anyway.
“Is there something you want to say to me, Bunny?” he asks, egging me on.
