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CHAPTERTWELVE
KIT
Foot bouncing, I chew on the side of my thumbnail, impatiently waiting for a reply. It’s been hours and not a peep from the father of my son. No explanation for the flowers. No middle finger emojis. Silence. It’s eerie. Something doesn’t feel right.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as a diesel truck revs its engine nearby. An unusual sickness roils in my gut.
Staring blankly at the computer screen resting on the cushion beside me, I toss a purple throw over my thighs.
Call it Mom Intuition or crazy town. Either way, the world isn’t normal.
The longer I sit in limbo… waiting… waiting… waiting… the urge to call the jail and check on Adam grows.
I check my phone for the hundredth time.
No Gunz.
The clock on the screen reads just past ten p.m.
Streetlights and a bright evening sky casts a low glow across my gauzy curtains. I watch the shadow of a spider spinning a web on the opposite side of the windowpane. Too antsy to sit still, I pick a flower from the funeral arrangement on the coffee table—a rose. One by one, I pluck silky pedals from their home and discard them onto the floor to clean up later. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Work eludes me, even if I have papers to grade.
The white noise of the refrigerator does little to calm my rising… whatever this is.
What if the texts I sent threw Gunz off? Were they too brash? Did I push him away? Will Adam ever forgive me if I did?
Dammit.
Why isn’t he texting back?
He sent flowers.
Flowers. For. Me.
The stupid card stares at me in infamy from the bouquet.
I glower at the scrawl of his words. I’ve already memorized the poem. It wasn’t difficult.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking, I’m thinking it too… Pathetic. What kind of grown-ass woman acts this way? Me. Apparently.
A muffler backfires close by, sending my nerves into a tizzy.
Maybe I need a drink. Something to calm me—tea. The sleepy kind. Something with chamomile. Yes. Tea. That should do it. No more of this waiting. Tea, then sleep. Tea… then sleep. Brilliant!
Not bothered by the current, not-so-clean state of my apartment, I dump the throw onto the floor with the petals. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
In the kitchen, I pull out my favorite mom mug and a random chamomile-flavored tea from the cupboard. I don’t bother reading the labels, as they all taste good to me. I’m not picky. As I heat tap water in the microwave, I resist the urge to grab my phone and check it… again.
Lame.
Beyond lame.
Why do we women do this to ourselves? Obsessing over something dumb. Logically, I get I shouldn’t care. If he wants to be in our lives, he will be. It’s that simple. Yet, I can’t shake this feeling, no matter how hard I try.
The microwave dings its completion just as a series of knocks rattle my door.
One. Two. Three.
“Hello?” I call as I retrieve my mug, set it on the counter, and drop a tea bag into the steaming liquid.
