Page 62 of Wylder Ranch
Ilie in bed and listen to the rain.
On one hand, I’d like it to stop so I can go to sleep, but on the other, it’s so loud that it’s drowning out the sound of my thoughts.
Thoughts that sound a lot like—you kissed Alex, you dumbass. Because now what?
Oh my God, IkissedAlex.
All the tension massaged out of me yesterday has returned ten times over. It’s coiling up my spine, digging into my thighs and wrapping around my chest so hard it’s difficult to breathe.
Nothing has helped.
Not counting sheep. Not making myself come to memories of Alex’s tongue in my mouth, and what else he can do with it. Not smothering my face with a pillow and screaming into it until I’m hoarse.
Nothing.
Admitting defeat, I toss back the covers, and as quietly as I can, I open my bedroom door. I stare for too long at Alex’s room, wondering whether he’s sleeping soundly next to Everly or lying awake thinking about me.
I’m not sure I want to knowthe answer.
In the end, I dart downstairs because I have a crazy temptation to turn his doorknob and find out for myself.
Doing my best to avoid the floorboards that creak, I make my way to the kitchen. The lights are far too bright for the middle of the night, so I stick to the soft downlighters underneath the cabinets and switch on the kettle.
Rain lashes against the window. It’s hypnotizing and calming almost. But it doesn’t make me feel sleepy, and it doesn’t help me stop thinking about Alex.
So I stare into the inky darkness of a cold, wet backyard and think, nonetheless.
Because I have fucked up. There’s no other way to put it.
After I returned from changing Everly’s diaper, Alex barely spoke to me, which was fine because I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, and by the time I’d plucked up the courage, I was hit with the full weight of his glower.
Boy, was he pissed.
After that, every time my eyes found him, there he wasglowering. I wasn’t even doing it on purpose, but it’s like I could sense where he was and still had to check for myself.
He became nothing more than a walking Danger, High Voltage sign that I desperately wanted to reach out and touch.
For the rest of the evening.
Not that anyone else noticed, because he joked along with all of them, while I just got the death stare. Even when we sang “Happy Birthday” to Everly, he stood apart from us, using Max as a human shield, holding him over the cake to blow out the candles while everyone cheered him on.
A grown man using a five-year-old for protection. It would be funny if I hadn’t been doing the same with Everly, until he took her up for a bath and stayed up there.
What kind of mother doesn’t kiss her child good night because she’s avoiding a guy she has the hots for?
Me, that’s who.
And now I have to hide from him until Christmas, because he asked us to stay. Although maybe he’ll change his mind and send us packing back to Aspen as planned. The thought triggers a whirl of anxiety behind my belly button.
Yep, I’ve really fucked up.
Instead of letting it take hold, I practice the breathing exercises my OB/GYN taught me during labor, though they’re as helpful now as they were then. Which is to say they’re useless because I’m no calmer or less tense.
The second option is to make pancakes.
It takes me no time to whip up the batter, pour it onto a hot skillet and wait for it to bubble. It’s when I go to flip it that I catch a movement in the corner of my eye.
Sweet baby Jesus.
