Yet it seemed unlikely that Gavin and I had gotten physical. Ever since our almost-kiss that night at Navy Pier, I’d made an effort to be extra clear about the boundaries of our relationship. And Gavin was a good guy—a great guy, actually. He wasn’t the kind of person who’d take advantage of me in the state I’d been in at the club. I was more sure than ever that he’d been the one to get me home safe last night. I hoped I’d taken my own pants off, though.
What would I say to my girlfriends when I saw them in class on Monday? I was pretty sure Lila had been there—she never missed a night out—but it was humiliating that I remembered absolutely nothing prior to my collapse. I’d have to just pretend it was a great time and hope I hadn’t done anything too mortifying or disgraceful.
I could smell bacon all of a sudden, faintly hear the sizzle from the pan. It made my stomach turn. But that must mean Gretna was here, cooking up one of her big Saturday breakfasts. Stefan had probably given her the night off yesterday, what with the Zoric family dinner on the calendar. At least I had one friend to comfort me today. And coffee was a must.
Putting my phone back down, I threw my robe on over my leggings and T-shirt and padded down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Gretna, I didn’t know you were here tod—” I stopped dead in my tracks as Stefan turned around, still pushing bacon around in a pan on the stove. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He stared at me, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he gave me a judgmental once-over. “What’s it look like?”
My husband never cooked. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how—the few times he’d actually whipped up a meal, it had been effortless and admittedly delicious—but that he wasn’t home often enough to bother, and we both took full advantage of our gourmet personal chef. Something weird was going on.
“You’re…making breakfast,” I said, still confused. “Why aren’t you at work?”
He didn’t answer, just handed me a cup of coffee. I sat in a chair at the table and took a deep inhale of the steam, letting it revive me a bit.
“I poached two eggs for you and there’s toast,” he told me, just in time for me to hear the slices pop up in the toaster. “Do you want it dry or with butter?”
I sipped the coffee, thankful it was piping hot and black, and tried to get my head to stop spinning. “I’m not hungry,” I said truthfully as he set a plate and fork down in front of me.
“You’ll eat,” he commanded, his voice going from neutral to vicious in a split second.
I pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat this.”
Stefan stood over me and folded his arms. “Then I’ll make you something else. What do you want?”
Why was he acting this way? “I don’t want anything,” I said.
He was barely able to contain his fury, I could tell by the way the muscles in his jaw were twitching. “I’m not going to let you sit there and starve yourself,” he said. “I’m making you a smoothie.”
He turned away and went to the counter, slamming cabinet doors and knocking things around in the refrigerator as he searched for protein powder and god knew what else.
Suddenly it hit me. This had to be his way of punishing me for not showing up to dinner last night. Did he seriously think I was on some kind of hunger strike? Rebelling against this marriage by not eating? As if I’d ever do that. He really must think I was a child.
“Look, about dinner last night—”
“Forget it,” he said. “It’s done.”
“I just—” But the roar of the blender cut me off before I could get another word out.
That made me feel even worse. Like I’d fully fucked up, ruined my one chance at getting our relationship back on track. My stomach rolled with nausea again. This hangover was brutal.
Stefan poured the unwanted smoothie into a tall glass and slammed it down in front of me. Then he sat down in the opposite chair and looked at me.
Did he know I was feeling like shit? Was he doing this on purpose to fuck with me?
I took another sip of my coffee.
“Your hands are shaking,” he observed.
He was right. I was visibly trembling. Clearly, I needed to rest more after what had happened last night. Whatever it had been.
I desperately wanted to crawl right back into bed. Wrapping my hands more tightly around the coffee mug, I held onto it as if it was my lifeline. As I drank it down, one careful sip at a time, I realized that Stefan was watching me. He’d been pushing his own eggs around his plate without hardly eating them, glancing up at me every few seconds as if I was a bomb about to explode. Finally, he held out his toast.
“One bite,” he said. “And then I’ll leave you alone.”
Leaning forward, I took the smallest bite possible and then chewed it up quickly, swallowing it down with a sip of coffee. My stomach seemed no worse for it. No better, either.
