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She woke around six and felt wretched, but she wasn’t sure if her condition was physical or emotional. Probably both.
She showered, washed her hair and changed clothes. By the time she finished, she was so weak she needed to sit down. Her knees shook and she pushed the wet hair away from her face, hoping she could resume her everyday life soon.
Around eight, she managed to eat a piece of dry toast and drink a glass of water. She propped herself against the end of the sofa with a couple of pillows and picked up the remote control. She settled in to watch a morning talk show, something she virtually never did.
Just when she was comfortable, the doorbell chimed. A glance at the wall clock told her it was barely nine o’clock. Seconds later, the doorbell rang again. And again.
It had to be Jordan. No one else rang a doorbell quite like he did. He was always in a hurry, always impatient.
“I know you’re in there,” Jordan shouted. “Open up!”
“Go away,” she called back. “I’ve got the flu.”
“I’m not leaving until I’ve talked to you, so either let me in or call the police right now, because I’ll bash in your door if that’s what it takes.”
Groaning, Molly threw aside the comforter and stumbled toward the door. Her back ached and she wasn’t up to a showdown with Jordan, but she had few options. It was face him now or do it later. She preferred to have this scene over with as quickly as possible.
She unlocked the door. “It’d serve you right if I did call the police,” she muttered.
He marched in and was halfway into the living room, when he whirled around. His teeth were clenched, his eyes as angry as she’d ever seen them.
“I assume you’ve talked to Michael,” she said.
“Not yet. I decided to have this out with you first.”
“I suggest you talk to him.”
The anger left his eyes as if he were seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time. His fists relaxed and fell slack at his sides.
Molly knew she looked dreadful. It wasn’t as if she’d spent the past week at a spa, receiving beauty treatments.
“How are you?” he asked quietly.
She closed the front door and leaned against it. “I’ve never felt better,” she lied.
“Sit down,” he urged. He moved to help her back to the sofa, but she pulled away from him, avoiding his touch.
“You wanted to say something,” she pressed, willing him to get this over with.
He waited until she’d seated herself and pulled the comforter over her legs. For having threatened to break down her door, now he didn’t seem to know what to say.
“I had a long talk with Doug Anderson last night,” he finally told her.
Of all the things he might have said, this wasn’t one she’d expected. She didn’t respond, just waited for him to continue.
“They had me over for dinner,” he elaborated. “I saw their three boys.”
Molly looked up at him, wondering exactly where this conversation was going.
He thrust his hands inside his pockets. “I talked to your father, too.”
“You certainly made the social rounds.”
He smiled briefly at that.
“Doug and Mary lost a daughter to SIDS over twenty years ago,” Jordan said next, his voice low. “I wasn’t sure if you knew that or not.”
“We’ve talked about it several times.” She didn’t dare look at him. She didn’t want to be reminded how much the divorce was going to hurt. Even one glance was too risky.
