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Now, that did not mean he was forgiven. Not by a long shot. And I wasn’t overcome with unrealistic fantasies about us being a big happy family. But I was glimpsing something other than ships passing in the night, each leeching resentment onto the other. Maybe a different kind of life than that of a single mother and an absent father.
I grappled for my phone, finding it was only six in the morning. For once, I didn’t want to curl under my duvet and sleep for a thousand years. I felt awake. Aware. Ready for the day.
That wasn’t entirely because of Kip.
It was because I’d purged a lot last night. A whole bunch of shit I’d been holding in. Tears that had gone unshed for fucking years.
Sometimes a long and messy cry was enough to feel refreshed anew. That and chocolate brownies.
And perhaps a guy rubbing your feet.
The sounds of Kip moving through the kitchen filtered through the house. He wasn’t being noisy, but the house was small, and he likely wasn’t going out of his way to be quiet either. I slept like the dead. Something he’d teased me about relentlessly—after he’d woken me up with his mouth between my legs.
My toes curled at the mere memory, and my libido fired up with need.
Maybe, just maybe, if he decided to stop being an asshole, I could get his mouth between my legs again. I wouldn’t have to forgive him to get an orgasm out of him. It was the least he could do, really.
With renewed vigor, I got out of bed, changed out of the ratty sweatpants I’d been wearing, and opted for a light, semi-see-through slip dress that I usually wore over bikinis. I slung a kimono over it but left it untied. Then I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth.
My eyes were still slightly red, and my face was a little swollen, but I looked okay. I hadn’t had my highlights done since I peed on the stick, so my dirty-blonde roots were showing amongst the artificial streaks of golden and white-blonde. I’d let it grow a little longer, past my shoulders.
My tits were excellent. Except for the veins and the fact that they were one-third nipple now. My cheeks were fuller now that I was on solids again, and my eyes seemed brighter, more awake. Even my lips seemed fuller.
When I walked into the kitchen, it was clear Kip was not expecting me to be up. He almost jumped when I walked in.
I held up my hands. “Down, soldier,” I teased. “I’m not armed.”
I hadn’t intended on teasing him. I’d intended on keeping my guard somewhat up. Scowling at him and such. Scowling, even before this whole fiasco, was not out of the question at this hour of the morning.
But for whatever reason, I went with the tease. I even grinned at him. Not a full smile but an olive branch.
Kip blinked once at me, then did a quick once-over before his face shuttered. Completely and utterly. Gone was the warmth and softness from last night. Gone was themanfrom last night. This was a completely different person.
No, this was a familiar person. This was Kip from the past few months.
My heart sank in my stomach.
He didn’t say anything to me. He literally just nodded once and went back to the toast he was making.
I could’ve vomited right then and there. I also could’ve hurled a coffee mug at his head. My first instinct was to turn tail, run back into my room, hide under my covers, and cry for a thousand years.
Instead, I strolled forward to snatch a mug from the cabinet, not moving out of his way, in so much as I almost shoulder-checked him if he hadn’t squeezed himself against the counter at the last minute.
I felt a small victory in that. Making him uncomfortable, forcing him to move for me. I’d enjoyed doing that on the street in my younger days. If I saw a man coming in my direction, on a collision course with me, I’d resolve myself not to move. Why was it that women always had to move out of the way of men? Why did men think they could just stroll down the fucking street like they owned it, never changing course to accommodate someone else?
Of course, it wasn’t all men. There were plenty of polite, decent guys out there. I just never happened to encounter them on the street.
And multiple times, those fuckers had engaged in a game of chicken with me and ended up slamming into my shoulder, hard.
Kip was not engaging in a game of chicken. He didn’t want to collide.
Problem was the fucking crash had already happened.
kip
I was in a bad mood.
That was not unusual these days.
