Page 59 of Armor
He looked at me and said, “Her man. Does that make any sense to you?”
I frowned.
And then I growled.
“That motherfucker,” I snapped.
The man’s eyes went wide, and he even took a step back.
I turned on my heel and stalked out of the pharmacy.
“How fucking dare he?” I snapped as I yanked open my car door.
“Twelve fucking years and he calls himself my man?” I put the key into the ignition and started it.
“Twelve fucking years of sleeping alone, and he calls himself my man?” I buckled up.
“Twelve fucking years and not a single fucking word out of him?” I put the car into reverse.
“That... asshole,” I growled as I headed to my apartment.
“When I get my hands on him,” I seethed.
Then proceeded to sneeze no less than thirty-one times on the way home.
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into my apartment and smelled it.
Chicken fucking noodle soup. Not the store-bought kind. No, the good kind from Chick-fil-A. “That motherfucking ass,” I growled.
I knew it was him.
He was the only one I told about my love for it when I was sick.
He was the one I smelled in my apartment.
And it was his black bag that was in my bedroom.
I walked to my island and looked into the white bag. There it was. A bowl of the good stuff.
I looked in two plastic bags sitting next to it.
And then I looked at the note that was scribbled in his all too familiar slanted handwriting,“I’m sorry you're sick. R.”
In the plastic bags was my pickup order from the pharmacy.
Kleenexes. Throat lozenges. Ice cream Sandwiches. A book.
In the next bag, I felt a tear trail down my cheek.
A black pair of fuzzy socks. A soft black blanket. A box of chocolates.
I closed my eyes and swallowed.
Then I pulled my phone out of my bag, scrolled to his name, and texted him.
Me – You're such a fucking asshole.
Ripper – I know.
