Page 170 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
Holden nods.
She beams under his praise. I wait for Holden to look at me, to give me his small nod of gratitude and show he appreciates me indulging his little girl.
Instead, his eyes flick back to his laptop.
The hole in my belly deepens and my palms go clammy.
I know we need to confront this, but I’m dreading it. I want to flip him off and run upstairs, press my face to the pillow, and cry.
For Kit’s sake, I keep it together.
She’s adorably oblivious, chattering on about some local poet who did a dramatic reading about lost seagulls. I can just see Holden hunkered next to her in a flimsy library chair too small for him, his arms folded, trying not to roll his eyes right out of his head.
There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Kit and it still makes me smile.
If only I could say the same about me.
That puts a hard lump in my throat.
But I choke it back down.
No point in throwing a pity party over a man who’s decided I’m chopped liver.
If Margot was here, she’d tell me to stop. Just tell him point-blank what I’m thinking and feeling.
Holden throws together a simple stir-fry dinner and I pretend I’ve eaten. Kit heads off to bed while I clear up art debris.
Seeing how well Kit’s gold complements the final version—like there’s a piece of her in this thing I made—makes me stupidly emotional.
Ughhh.
I haven’t made much progress organizing my paints by the time he plods back into the room. He halts in the doorway, and from the way he watches me, I know he’s debating turning around and leaving right now.
Putting off the honesty we desperately need. But there’s no point delaying the inevitable, and I think we both know it.
“Sit down,” I say. “I won’t be long.”
“You didn’t eat with us, Clee. You sure you’re not hungry?” His eyes flash skeptically when I shake my head. “Want a drink of anything?”
“I’ll have some tea, if you have any.”
“Got peppermint. Kit likes to have a cup every so often to settle her stomach.”
“Peppermint works. You owe me a settled belly, too.”
He doesn’t smile, and I regret the joke.
Lovely.
I brush the bigger plaster fragments into paper bags and pile them up in a small beer box by the door. I might be able to reuse this stuff for future projects.
At least I’ll keep their living space clean until I leave.
My chest aches again, but I shove the feeling away.
By the time Holden returns with my peppermint tea and a strong-smelling black tea for him, the living room is almost tidy.
“Once I get this stuff out of here, you’ll have your space back,” I say.
