Page 196 of My Ruthless Husband

Still, I clear my throat. “Um, Mrs. Marcel?”

She stops, slowly turning around, her face screwed up like she’s already sick of me. “What? You need something else?”

I force myself to look at her, even though everything in me is screaming not to. “Could I maybe get a glass of water?” My voice sounds small, weaker than I’d like.

She stares at me, eyebrows raised, her lips pulling into a thin, scornful line. “You want water? I don’t recall including refreshments in the pay.”

“I… I just need a little.” I can feel the heat pooling in my face from embarrassment, sweat running down my temples.

She sighs, loudly, rolling her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Fine. Wait here. And don’t go tracking dirt on my porch.”

I nod and move several steps back. With the sleeve of my already damp t-shirt, I wipe my face while I wait.

She’s gone for a while and I feel dizzy. My legs are begging me to sit on the step but I don’t.

After what feels like forever, she finally returns, holding a small half-empty bottle of water. The water is barely enough to wet my throat, but right now, it’s like gold.

She tosses it to me. “There. Don’t drink it all at once. And make sure to finish the job properly next time.”

I nod, unscrewing the cap as I mumble, “Yes, ma’am.” The water’s lukewarm, and there’s hardly any of it, but as it slides down my throat, it’s like the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I take a few tiny sips, forcing myself to save half for later, then screw the cap back on and shove the bottle in my backpack.

“Thank you, Mrs. Marcel,” I manage, even though she’s already turned and disappeared inside.

I head over to my bike, which is leaning against the side of the house. It’s old, the seat’s torn, and the handlebars are worn smooth from use. But it’s all I’ve got to get me anywhere. Swinging a leg over, I start pedaling, feeling every sore muscle.

The road stretches out in front of me, the sun still beating down, hot as ever.

Halfway down the block, I see a pregnant woman. She’s got grocery bags hanging off both arms, heavy enough that her shoulders are sagging. She’s struggling with every step, her face pinched.

Without thinking, my hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike. I skid to a stop, dropping my bike to the curb. I walk toward her, unsure if I should speak or if it’s right for me to ask. But the words come out anyway.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I start. “Do you, uh…need some help with those?”

She stops in her tracks and turns, her eyebrows lifting, and glances down at the bags, then at me. I must look like a mess—sweaty, tired. She hesitates, almost like she’s about to refuse, but I speak up before she can.

“Really, I can carry them. It’s no problem,” I say, keeping my voice polite. I stand there, waiting.

After a moment, she sighs, her eyes soften. “Well… if you’re sure. They’re just… a little heavy today.”

I nod, not saying anything more, and gently take the bags from her. They’re heavy, the handles biting into my hands and my muscles protest but I ignore it and start walking alongside her, adjusting my grip so they won’t slip.

For a while, we walk in silence, and she watches me with a curious look.

“I’m a little surprised,” she says, her tone kind. “You don’t see kids offering help like this so often.”

I shrug, keeping my eyes ahead. “You looked like you needed it. That’s all.”

She smiles. “Well, thank you,” she says softly. “It means a lot, really.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just nod and keep walking.

When we finally reach her house, she turns to me, a warm smile on her face. “You’re a kind boy,” she says. She reaches into her bag, pulling out a few bills. “Here,” she says, holding them out.

I shake my head, hands buried in my pockets. “No, I don’t need that. I’m just glad to help.”

She lets out a gentle laugh, pressing the money toward me. “I know, but you didn’t have to help me with all those heavy bags. Please, take it. Get yourself something, okay?”

For a second, I just stare at her hand, feeling a lump in my throat. Finally, I reach out and take the bills. “Thank you.”

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