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“No, I’m serious. It’s good. I need the recipe.”
“What are we, chicks? Google it,” he says.
“Why are you so grumpy?” I ask.
He gives me a wry smile. “Pregnancy hormones. She’s wearing me out, if you know what I mean. I need my sleep.”
It’s my turn to drop the fork. I make a face. “Ew, TMI.”
He shrugs and goes back to eating. “You fucking asked.”
“Touche.”
On the drive back to my place, I decide they’re right... I suck and need to do better. Instead of a text, I decide to call Christa.
It rings five times.
“What?” she snaps for an answer.
I purse my lips. Ooh, she’s pissed.
“Come over. Please,” I beg. “Or I can come to you.”
She pauses for so long that I wonder if we’re still connected. I hear her breathing—likely fuming—but I wait, putting on my blinker to get onto the freeway.
“Come to me and bring food.” Then, she hangs up.
That, I can do.
Twenty-Six
Christa
Ithrow my cell downon my bed and race to the bathroom for a shower. My depressed ass has been moping around the house all damn day, still gross from my sexcapade last night, but not wanting his scent washed off, as mad as I was at him.
I shower quickly, wash my hair, and dress into black short-shorts and a pink tank top with no bra. I quickly dry my hair and forgo the makeup because it’s not worth the effort.
