Shock - Marie Johnston Page 0,36
the helplessness of hanging around an empty house for Samuel when he was working late. The damn thing won’t stop conjuring old emotions. Like anger when I realized that he might not have been working, that his fling with his ex-wife wasn’t a one-time mistake.
To combat the surge of my past, I refuse to linger by my phone and do nothing tonight. I run through a list of movies I could watch by myself when I get home. What’s something fun I can do for dinner? Pizza and movie night? Ice cream and movie night? No, that resembles too many days post-Samuel-breakup. Pizza and a movie it is.
By the time I arrive home, I decide to make my own after I shower. I take my time in the bathroom, luxuriating in the steam and my vanilla body wash because nothing else pleasurable is happening tonight.
In the kitchen, I set my phone on the counter. It dings as soon as it drops out of my hand. Scrambling to pick it up, I prop my elbows on the countertop and peer at the message.
She still hasn’t come to pick up Jayden. Sorry.
Disappointment curls in my gut. I’d offer to help, but this is Ford’s bonding time with his son. It’s his chance to show Cass that a good father does more than make a lot of money.
No problem. Hope he’s feeling better. And I really do. My day didn’t turn out as planned, but neither did theirs.
Feeling moderately better, I rummage through the cupboards, gathering all the ingredients I need for a greasy, cheesy pizza.
My phone rings. Ford.
My arms are loaded but to keep from being that pathetic girl who hangs on every call waiting for her man, I take my time arranging them on the counter before answering. “Hello?”
“This wasn’t supposed to be how today went,” Ford says in a low voice.
“Is he sleeping?”
“After three hours of fussing, yes. No wonder Cass was so tired. It’s the only reason I haven’t called her yet.”
“Not the only reason. You’re still enjoying your time with him.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I really am. I’ve never gotten to experience this part of fatherhood before. I almost feel guilty. He’s miserable, but I’m wandering around the house with a dopey smile on my face.”
“I’m really glad you were able to help.” I’m also glad I didn’t sit at home, but I wish I could’ve done more than offer supportive messages.
“I wish we could’ve gone on the date, too.”
“We’ll have another chance. I’m just gonna make myself a pizza and find the most explosive action movie I can.” I keep my voice chipper. Ford needs support, not to feel like crap because he had to cancel.
“The way you watch those shows, I’m surprised you didn’t become a cop instead of a paramedic.”
“Less paperwork.”
“Agreed.” There’s a beat of silence where neither of us knows what else to say. We could talk for hours during the slow points of our shifts, but this whole kinda-sorta dating thing is new territory. “I better let you go.”
“Take care. And seriously, don’t worry about today. See you at work on Monday?” Sundays don’t really seem like a date day, so I don’t bring up getting together tomorrow. I’m sure we’re both thinking that tomorrow was supposed to have been spent lounging in bed together after a late night most definitely not sleeping.
“See you Monday.” He sounds as disappointed as I feel.
I busy myself with supper. Once my pizza’s ready and my house smells like tomato sauce, I settle on the couch and select a movie. I hit start on an old-time action flick that I’ve seen no less than ten times. I guess tonight is about comfort food, comfortable pajamas, and comforting entertainment.
The movie wraps up and my empty plate is abandoned on the coffee table. Do I watch another movie and stay up late for an entirely different reason than originally planned?
My doorbell rings. It’s already dark out. Who would be stopping by this late? In San Francisco, I had an active social life that included parties I didn’t care to go to, and Samuel’s luncheons, and my family’s fundraisers. But here in Sunnyville, my social life doesn’t exist.
I creep to my front door and peek out the peephole.
On the other side of the circle of warped glass is Ford, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, hair all rumpled like he’s run his hands through it a million times.
I’m in pajama boxer shorts and my cami Not exactly presentable, but at