Page 21 of The Opposite of Romance
I know exactly what she means. I was a shell the last few years. At first, every little rejection from David sliced into me. I’ve spent countless mornings crying after the kids left for school and he left for work. I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about, but I felt like I was losing something, like I lost someone. After a while, the tears dried out, and I became numb.
To prevent disappointment, I’ve stopped expecting anything from him. I became bitter and resentful, and the things that used to make me happy made me indifferent.
I just never knew it was visible to others. If Sandy noticed, my kids noticed, too. They saw me being miserable and doing nothing about it.
“Don’t do that,” Sandy whispers. “I can hear your wheels spinning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t feel guilty about it. You did it. You left. You grabbed life by the balls and now you’ll be rewarded by an age gap billionaire’s balls.”
A snot bubble bursts from my nose when my half-crying face breaks out into a laugh.
“I love you.”
She hums in response. The Uber driver drops me off first. I say goodbye to Sandy and enter my dark and cold house. The light in the backyard is on with Logan’s neatly arranged tools on display. I’ve gotten used to him. My mornings feel less lonely with the buzz of his tools. It gives me comfort, knowing he’s here.
We barely even talk, and he still calls me Ms. Summers, making me feel ancient, but his presence is calming. And the flirty banter isn’t too bad, either.
Chapter Nine
The next morning,Logan knocks at my door, even though he typically goes straight to the back.
“Morning, Ms. Summers,” he says, smirking, and I suppress a groan. “Sorry I didn’t let you know sooner, but a job I had fell through, so I thought I’d put a few hours in on your deck. If that’s ok with you.”
“Yeah, sure. Just don’t feel you need to overwork yourself for me. Even though I really want it done soon,” I joke, making him chuckle. “And please, for the love of God, don’t call me Ms. Summers. It’s Sadie.”
“Sadie. OK.” He slips his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels.
“Want a cup of coffee? I was about to make some.”
“Sure, thanks. If I’m not interrupting anything.” His eyes travel to the staircase, as if he’s checking to see if someone is here.
“No, no. It’s just me today. The kids are at their father’s. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” I leave him in the living room and start for the kitchen, happy I got dressed this morning. It’s a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s better than a bathrobe.
The coffee machine hisses as the dark liquidbrews, so I grab two cups and pour us both a generous amount. I also grab a pack of cookies which somehow survived my last PMS.
Entering the living room, I almost drop the tray with cookies and coffee. Logan, in his worn-out white t-shirt and snug jeans, is standing in front of the bookshelf,mybookshelf, skimming through one of my books.
“Did you write all these?” He doesn’t lift his head.
“Yes.”
“Wow. I knew you’re a writer, but this … this is impressive.” He shoots me a blinding smile.
“Thank you.” My ears burn.
I write spicy, spicy stuff. Like stuff you have to be heavily trained to be able to read in public. The funny thing is, I’ve had next to none of the spicy experiences I write about. One could read my book and assume I’m experienced in it, while the kinkiest thing I’ve engaged in was some light spanking I’ve tried to interest David in.
Surprise, he wasn’t into it. It was another thing he thought I had unrealistic expectations about because of fiction.
“Sex doesn’t happen that way in real life,” he would say with a pitiful expression, making me feel silly for wanting to try it.
Luckily, Logan puts the book back and my breath returns.
“Here’s your coffee,” I say, grabbing a cup and sitting down.
He does the same, and I busy myself blowing on the steaming liquid so that the silence doesn’t become uncomfortable. This is the first time we’re drinking coffee together. Usually, I bring him a cup outside.
