Page 154 of From Best Friend to Bride
If tonight was the last night we lived as a married couple, how was I going to cope with that? How was I going to cope when he moved on and met someone else? How many times would I have to see him wrap his arms around someone else knowing exactly how it felt? How many times would I have to imagine him lying in bed with someone else, laughing with someone else, living with someone else? How many times would I have to see someone else experiencing the sides of him only I had known until now?
How would I cope knowing they were seeing sides of him I didn’t know?
How could I possibly survive without Fred being mine?
“Are you cooking?”
The sound of his voice made me jolt, and I sat up, quickly glancing over my shoulder. “Shit!” I scrambled off the stool and grabbed my wooden spoon to stir the spaghetti I’d started boiling before I’d gone into my sixtieth spiral of the day. “Thank God.”
Fred audibly sniffed. “Are you making spaghetti Bolognese?”
“Maybe,” I replied, giving the pasta a mix.
“Hmm. What are you apologising for?”
I pressed my lips together.
Did I really only ever make him this when I was apologising for something?
“Just because I’m cooking this doesn’t mean I’m apologising,” I said, checking on the sauce that was happily simmering away in the pot. “This is… just spaghetti.”
“Really? Didn’t you once tell me you could serve a fake boyfriend a killer spaghetti with a side of regret?”
“Yes, but you aren’t my boyfriend.”
“You’re right. I’m your husband. And not a fake one, either.” He leant against the island and folded his arms across his chest, smirking.
I met his teasing gaze with a firm one of my own. “You’re not exactly a real one, either.”
His smirk dropped slightly. “Tell that to the registrar’s office.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to paying attention to the spaghetti before I overdid it. He was right, but still.
“Is this really not an apology for something? You never cook.”
“I never usually have to,” I pointed out. “But, fine. Yes. It’s my apology for my drunk self last night. Happy now?”
“You do make a mean spaghetti,” Fred replied, stepping up next to me. “I suppose it’ll suffice. Especially for the little mouse under the bed performance.”
“Once again, I was correct. There was technically a mouse under the bed.” I sniffed, leaning over to stir the sauce and nudging him out of the way.
He took the spoon from my hand and removed the pot’s lid, taking over stirring duty. “That’s beside the point. You had me going for a moment—I thought there was an actual live, squeaking mouse under there for a bit.”
I scratched my chin. “In my defense, I thought that, too.”
He peered down at me, and the moment our eyes met, his lips cracked into a smile. “I figured that much out myself. You were far too surprised that it was your slipper for me to think anything else.”
I pouted and turned away to dig the colander out of the cupboard so I could drain the pasta. He tried to take over, but I smacked his hands away and grabbed the pan before he could do it.
“Just sit down,” I ordered. “It’s not much of an apology if you do half of it, is it?”
“All right, all right.”
He did as he was told, and I served us the spaghetti. He was sitting at the end of the island, and I took the seat around the corner, leaving an empty one between us.
Fred glanced at it, but he said nothing but a, “Thank you,” after I’d put his plate in front of him. I’d already rummaged in the wine cellar and put a bottle in an ice bucket earlier today, and he took a moment to pour us both a glass.
“I’m a bit wary about giving you this.” He slid one along the countertop towards me.
