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I was in the kitchen, so I walked to the fridge, opening it and wincing at the idea of any of the food in there. Everything made me want to gag. Instead of food, I grabbed a can of Sprite—the only thing I could reliably keep down.
“You’ve lost weight,” he repeated when I closed the fridge. He was leaning against the other end of the counter, careful to keep distance between us.
As if pregnancy was catching or some shit.
“Well, I’ve been spewing up almost everything I’ve tried to force into my body, so that makes sense,” I told him, cracking open the Sprite.
“You’re not supposed to be losing fuckin’ weight. You’re meant to be gaining it,” Kip clipped, sounding pissed.
I glared at him. His posture was tense, and his eyes were narrowed on the can in my hands. “And you’re not my fucking doctor,” I informed him. “You’re my fake husband and very reluctant and soon-to-be estranged baby daddy. None of those titles really give you any rights to comment about my weight.” I slammed the can down on the counter. I’d been such a miserable bitch lately. Anger felt really fucking good.
“Well, you’re meant to be growing a fuckin’ child, and it can’t survive on fuckin’ Sprite,” Kip shot back.
I raised my brow at him. “Are you serious?” I asked quietly. “You’re really here, commenting on the one thing I can put in my body without disastrous consequences, acting like you give a shit after a month of the cold shoulder? No. Fuck that and fuck off. You have no idea what I’m going through, and it’s none of your business!”
I was yelling at the end now. Yelling felt good. I really wanted to get in his face to scream at him, but I didn’t have the energy, and I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t vomit in his face. Not that he didn’t deserve some vomit in his face.
Kip stared at me expressionless, seemingly digesting what I just said. “You’re right,” he said finally. “It is none of my business.” Then he turned and walked out of the room.
kip
I was a piece of shit.
My reflection glared at me with the hatred and judgment I deserved. And then some.
I’d promised myself I’d never be my father’s son. I’d never make my wife feel small, wounded, and weak. I’d never take out my own shit on a woman who did nothing wrong except find herself married to me.
Yet here I was, doing it. Repeating the fucking pattern.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” I told my reflection.
Except now I wasn’t seeing myself. I was seeing Fiona, the bones of her hips jutting out in those leggings, her full face now gaunt, her lips pale.
I was seeing her expression when I spoke to her, watching the way she shrank in on herself in my presence. She was nothing like the vibrant, fiery woman I married, ready to go toe-to-toe with me and win.
Well, I’d seen a glimpse of her at the end. Her fury lit up her face and reminded me that she was okay. That I wasn’t ruining her beyond repair.
She didn’t look good, though.
Of course, she looked fucking beautiful. She always would, no matter what.
But she looked sick.
Weren’t you meant to put on weight when you were pregnant?
I should know this shit. I’d been married before. My wife had been pregnant before. Except I wasn’t there for it. I was across the world, fighting a war that wasn’t mine to fight, fighting it for all the wrong fucking reasons, thinking I was being noble or brave or some fucking shit.
I was in the battlefield trying to find my manhood while my wife had been at home growing our baby and doing it alone.
And now I was here, in the same house as her, and the second time around, my wife was growing our baby and doing it alone.
It was fucking torture.
I should leave.
I had a duffel packed in my truck. Had driven out of town countless times over these past few weeks with the intention of leaving. Disappearing.
It was the one noble thing left I had to do.
