With his permission, I go absolutely, unequivocallynuts.
?
Laptop, notebook, guest bedroom.
I’ve never had a laptop or been in a room so big before…
Fresh and clean in brand new clothes after a shower, I search through recipes online, jotting down some of my favorites using sparkly gel pens. Chocolate muffins tomorrow, fresh pasta for lunch, cheese bread with dinner. I’ll need to wake up early enough to have the muffins ready for breakfast. I’m not sure how long it will take to make the pasta, but I’ll need to know when theother meals usually are, so I can time the rest periods, and the rise period for the bread, of course.
Looks like the pasta dough needs to rest for thirty minutes…
I switch out the color of my pen to add the times, then once I’ve finished the recipe, I add a few little rabbit stickers to the page. Because Lukas got me little rabbit stickers. For reasons I cannot begin to know.
They do look cute, though.
Pushing back my damp hair, I manage a labored breath, tuck my nightgown beneath my breasts to make sure the moisture gathering there from my shower doesn’t destroy my life later, and glance toward the piles…and piles…andpilesof…stuff.
It’s astuffoceanon the other side of the vast expanse of this room. Somewhere in the chaos is a Dyson hair dryer, palettes upon palettes of makeup when I barely remember to do a basic skin care routine, and nail polish—even though I trim my nails constantly to keep up to health code.
Finding another labored breath, I turn back to my plans. I’ve always wanted to try crème brûlée. And, whaddya know? Lukas got me a tiny flamethrower.
This simply cannot be mentally stable behavior.
My muscles tense when my phone—set on the nightstand attached to a long sparkly pink charge cord—begins to ring.
Mom.
Crap.Crap, crap, crap.
So much has happened today I forgot to try and get an update to Mom. She didn’t believe me last night. As far as she knows, I’ve disappeared off the face of the planet.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I reach for my phone, bring it to my ear, and whisper, “Hello?”
“Clara,” she snaps.
My throat closes.
“Where in the world are you? If that insanity you were rambling off last night is true, you couldn’t take five seconds to let your poor mother know you were okay?” She sucks her teeth. “This is what I get for raising you. Absolutelynothing.”
It hurts to swallow. “I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s been…a really long day.”
Ire fills her chuckle. Suggestion and saccharine drip into her voice. “Oh, I’msureit has been. How are you holding up, sweetie?”
I peer down at the sleeping lamb on my cotton nightgown. Not very intimate or suggestive, is it? I thought it was cute while I was mad dashing through Amare, looking for things I’d need so Lukas wouldn’t buy out the store on me and blame me for it later. I’m still not certain how I’m going to avoid being accused of wasting all his money on stuff I’m not using. I better learn makeup and start painting my toenails.
Also, to answer my mother’s question: poorly. I am holding uppoorly. I’ve been both so relieved that nothing’s happened and so anxious over the nonsense of what has been happening, I completely forgot that my mother would like me to get pregnant.
“Everything’s going well,” I lie.
“Well?” she prompts. “What doeswellmean?”
I have not yet died—from shame, fear, or assault. That’s my definition of well. I have a feeling that isn’t what Mom wants to hear, though.
“Details,” she snaps. “How was it? King is a broad, ripped giant. Was he rough? Surprisingly gentle? Let me live vicariously through your celebrity fling, Clara.”
I grimace in response to the whining, utterly unsure how to sayyou’re making me hysterically uncomfortablein a way that won’t upset her.
“Don’t be selfish,” she mutters.
