Page 18 of My Rules

“The Notebook.”

“Why are you watching sad love stories? Isn’t it time you start watching Breaking Bad or something?”

“What’s Breaking Bad about?” she asks, distracted.

“Well, there’s this science teacher who’s diagnosed with terminal cancer, so he thinks fuck it and begins to make methamphetamines in a lab.”

“That sounds terrible.” She screws up her face. “Why would I want to watch a show about someone dying and making drugs?”

“It’s badass and a lot better than watching fuckwits in love.”

She smirks as her eyes hold mine.

Is she going to tell me what happened today?

She stays silent.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” I sit down beside her and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.

Her eyes hold mine.

“You’re going to go take a shower and wash that green shit off your face.” I tap her on her nose. “And I’m going to pull out the sofa bed from the couch and make you a pillow fort with the snuggliest blanket of all time.”

She smiles softly.

“We’ll eat dinner, and then we’re going to have a Breaking Bad marathon,” I continue.

“Thank you, Blake.” Her eyes well with tears as she stares at me. “I’ve just had a bad day, you know?”

“I know.” I smile. “It’s okay, baby.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ve got you.”

She stays in my arms for a beat longer than usual, and damn it, I fucking hate that guy for how hard he broke her.

If I ever see him on a dark street, he may not survive.

“You want to talk about it?” I mumble into her hair.

“Not really.”

Her inability to talk to me stings more than it should, and I pull out of her arms and stand. “Shower.”

Rebecca’s regulated breathing is quite possibly the most comforting sound in the world. We are on the trundle bed in her living room, wrapped up in our snuggly blanket. Lying flat on her back and wearing her flannelette pajamas, she is fast asleep. I lie on my side facing her. It’s late, and I have to work tomorrow. I know I should tiptoe out of here and quietly leave, lock up her house and let her sleep in peace.

But how can I ... when watching her sleep is like a dream come true?

If only . . .

Chapter 3

Rebecca

“Well, what are you going to do?” Chloe flops onto the couch and rests her face on her hand.

“I don’t know.” I fill our glasses of wine. “Maybe I shouldn’t even go for the house. I mean, what’s the point if I can’t afford it anyway.”

“You can’t let him have it out of principle,” Chloe huffs. “Get it, and then if you have to, you can sell it, but no way in hell is that dickhead living here when you can’t.”

“He wouldn’t even want to live here anymore,” I reply. “He and Blake would kill each other.”

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