Page 91 of Wild Side
And jealous because she’s holding his hand.
But I refuse to indulge that emotion. I’m not the jealous type, and I don’t want to start now. Plus, I truly have no reason to be jealous. What he’s doing in the arena is for show.Fake.
However, my budding feelings for him are not. Which is why I fire off a text message that even two weeks ago I would never have sent. Rhys and I are similar in a lot of ways, and I know what he needs to hear tonight.
Tabby:
I’m proud of you.
Then I go to bed without eating. My appetite is gone anyway.
CHAPTER 31
TABITHA
I booked myself today off.My plan was to unplug and relax, try to enjoy having a clean, quiet house all to myself. But I went into the restaurant anyway. My staff mocked me mercilessly and called me a workaholic, so I hid in my office. I did some paperwork—that was in no way pressing—and flipped them all the finger on the way out.
Then I came home and cleaned my house from top to bottom like I planned. Not having Milo here to make an instant mess in my wake seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up.
Then I went to Gwen’s yoga class—something Trixie thought might be good forstilling my mind.It was lovely, but I’m not so sure it worked, since I’m sitting in the cool backyard with my mind spinning.
The gas heater Rhys bought pumps out warm air as I watch the sunset wrapped in a blanket, having an early evening cup of coffee. I know it will keep me up later than necessary, but it doesn’t matter. Plus, I figure it’s better than wine, considering how blue I’ve felt for the past twenty-four hours.
I thought Milo being away was bringing me down. But I’m starting to think I might miss my big, broody wrestler too.
Either way, jittery is better than depressed.
And when I finish my coffee, the jitters kick in big time. I pad back into the house, wash my mug, and put it back in the cupboard, not wanting to make a mess after the cleaning I did earlier.
“I know, I know,” I mutter to Erika the plant. “I’m being weird and neurotic. Trust me, I know.”
I swear she continues to glare at me judgmentally. She’d have dropped her mug on the counter and sauntered into the living room, flopped down on the couch, and put her feet up on the edge. A smile tugs at my lips as memories flood me of her lying on the couch and putting her feet on me. They were usually stinky after volleyball, and I’d squeal and plug my nose as she locked me between her legs and tried to rub a foot in my face.
I’d hated it then.
And I’d give anything for her to do it to me now.
With that thought in mind, I decide not to sit in the living room. Feels too raw in there.
Instead, I find myself in front of the storage closet with the door swung open, staring at the box of her recovery journals. My fingers ache to reach for them.
And I do.
I take the box down and make my way back out to the patio—the spot where Rhys and I had been meeting every morning. A spot that makes me feel less alone, even though he’s not here.
Wrapped back up, I reach into the box and pull out the black, leather-bound books. All the same style—not fancy, but not your basic scribbler either.
Flicking through a couple, I force myself not to read ahead as I search for the one dated furthest back. And when I find it, I settle in and read.
Dear Universe,
Apparently, it will be good for me to get this journey down on paper. I’m not sure I buy it. But my parents have disowned me, and my fucking angel of a sister just emptied her bank account to put me through the best rehab program money can buy. So it seems like the least I can do is follow the professionals’ suggestions.
This is rock bottom. Well, I’m thirty days clean, so maybe that’s one step above rock bottom? But I’m also pregnant, so that might knock me back down… or move me up another notch? I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Especially since I can’t for the life of me remember who the dad might be.
I haven’t exactly been on my best behavior.
What I do know is that I’m not going to fuck up a human who didn’t ask for any of this. I can stay sober for nine months. For them.
