Page 13 of Tan Lines & Trouble
I sniffle. "Romance is alive and well here, folks."
"I really don't have time for this."
"Sorry," I whisper.
"Are you still going to lunch with your friend?"
"With Thea, yes." I hate that even after two years, he won't call her by name.
"Great. See you tonight."
"Love you," I say, but he's already ended the call.
A sense of melancholy crashes over me. Blake used to be so different—warm, passionate, and funny. But, now it's like I hardly know him.
"You all ready?" Thea asks.
I finish changing and step out of the dressing room. "Sure." I shake my head and then say, "No."
"What's up?"
I shrug. "I think I'll just go home."
"Dream guy still not acting so dreamy?" she asks, her voice tinged with sadness.
Another shrug. She's right though. When Blake and I first met, he was everything I wanted in a guy. Smart, witty, good looking, and a great sense of humor to boot.
But recently, he's become more like a stranger than my future husband. Literally, we haven’t had any physical contact in almost a month. He says it’s so our wedding night can be extra special, but what’s the point of that when we’ve spent the last two years fucking like rabbits?
I conceded though, because marriage is about compromise, right? About both sides bending a little to meet in the middle,but here lately, I'm the only one bending and I'm pretty sure I'm about to freaking break.
"I don't know what his deal is. Stress, maybe?"
"Have you tried talking to him?" she asks as we exit the bridal boutique.
I take a deep breath, knowing what I'm about to say is going to sting. "Every time I try talking to him about it, he makes me feel like I'm crazy. Like I'm just imagining things and making problems where they don't exist. He says it's just pre-wedding jitters."
Wetness gathers along my lashes, but the tears don't fall until Thea wraps me in a hug. She's shockingly strong for her small stature. "Go home. Take a nap. Drink some wine. I'll text and check on you later, okay?"
I nod and we head our separate ways, with me walking back to my apartment and her to her old yellow Jeep.
I'm halfway up the stairs to my unit when inspiration strikes.
Maybe it really is stress that has him acting so cold.
I know when I'm stressed, a little pampering and coddling go a long way.
With that in mind, I run upstairs and into my apartment to grab a change of clothes and some cleaning supplies, shoving them all into an overnight bag
Maybe coming home to a clean house and a nice, hot meal will make him happy.
I toss my bag into my backseat and make a quick detour into the grocery store for a few things.
I'm immediately on high alert when I pull up to his place. I double check the clock on my dash; it's only two o'clock... He shouldn't be home.
And yet there’s his car—in the driveway.
A sense of dread fills me as I grab my bag and approach the door.
