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“What’s so funny?” he asks, sounding offended.
“You’rechecking onme? Why?”
“Well, last night was heavy, and I’m afraid it got out of hand. I just want to see how you’re handling it.”
Okay, now I feel bad about laughing because that’s sort of sweet.
“I’m handling it by moving on with my life.”
Ouch, Madame.
I know that response must have stung because he’s not saying anything.
I squeeze my eyes closed and rest my face in my open hand. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so harsh. I’m sorry. I just meant…I was doing my job, Clay.”
“Okay,” he mutters in response. Fuck, he sounds bitter.
“Clay, I’m sorry, but—”
“Don’t bother, Eden. It’s clear nothing has changed. I’m a client. Last night was just a job. I get it. I’m sorry I called.”
The petty anger in his voice makes me want to scream. I keep doing this. I keep hurting him and then hate the sound of his pain. What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s for the best. Hurt him, so he leaves and moves on with Jade.
But I can’t leave it like that. I just can’t. Because, as it turns out, hurting people you care about isn’t so easy.
“I’m sorry, Clay. I didn’t mean to sound so cold. It’s just…been a stressful morning already. Jack is sick, and I haven’t even had my coffee—”
“Jack is sick?” he asks, interrupting me. The resentful tone in his voice is replaced with frantic concern.
“Yeah, it’s just a fever,” I reply nonchalantly as I move toward the coffeepot, pulling a cup from the cupboard.
“Did you take him to the doctor? What are his symptoms?”
My brow furrows as I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen in confusion. All of a sudden, I’m the one playing the calm role.
“He doesn’t need to go to the doctor every time he gets a little fever. And he has no other symptoms, so it’s probably just his body fighting off a virus. Kids get sick all the time, Clay.”
“Well, how is he feeling? Does he need anything? Doyouneed anything?”
“In about six hours, I’ll have to give him another dose of medicine, and I’m all out of Popsicles.”
“You need Popsicles? For a fever?” he asks, sounding confused. It’s laughable how little Clay knows about kids.
I’m chuckling as I pinch the phone between my shoulder and ear, pulling the coffee creamer from the fridge. “No. The Popsicles are what I bribe him with to get him to take his medicine. But I think they’re losing their luster because itbarelyworked this morning.”
As I pour coffee into my cup, talking so casually about Jack, I briefly realize how I’ve never really spoken to anyone about parenting like this. Well, no one except Ronan.
Why, all of a sudden, does it feel so natural talking to Clay about this?
“Let me talk to him,” he says flatly.
“What? No,” I snap.
“Do you want him to take his medicine or not?”
I let out a sigh. “Fine. Give it a shot if you want.”
