The book ended with a picture of newborn Winnie with the caption, Daddy’s girl.
My bath was still warm, yet I exited and did a naked run to my bedroom, leaving wet steps in my wake. I wanted the next book. What looked like a lot of reading didn’t take much time with the looping large writing and pictures. It took only a second of sorting to find the next few years in the series.
Before I started reading, I added more hot water to my bath. I planned to be a wrinkled prune by the time I got out.
The first book, I skimmed. Happy Martin. Happy. Happy. I found it when Winnie, around the age of five, had her tonsils removed.
She’s the wrong blood type.
What did he mean?
It had been too long since I’d done biology. My phone came in handy for a search.
I read it over a few times, but the statement remained the same. I was O. Winnie was O. No idea about Geoff since he never had any major accidents. But I knew Martin was AB.
Shit.
Martin wasn’t Winnie’s dad.
6
I slammed shut the journal. No way was Winnie reading this. Hell, I was fucking shaken. I’d just cemented my decision to set the damned lot of journals on fire and roast some Halloumi cheese over it since marshmallows weren’t allowed on my diet.
Was Martin’s behavior seriously because he thought I’d cheated on him and had someone else’s child? That was insane. Why not confront me and deal with it head-on?
We could have done some genetic testing. Proven she belonged to us. I had no doubt she was mine. After all, I’d pushed her out, and as added proof, she looked a lot like I did at her age.
Martin, though, let his suspicion ferment rather than confront. Chose to hate us rather than leave. Which made me think of things he’d said over the years. “Too expensive to divorce you.” “I ain’t giving you half.” “I’ll kill you before I let you walk with a single red cent.”
In the end he’d tried to get rid of me and failed at it. It was pathetic and sad really that instead of being honest so we could work through it, he’d let jealousy turn him ugly.
If I wanted to take some of the blame, maybe instead of ignoring his obvious discontent, I should have tackled it head-on. I could have asked him what was wrong and pushed back when the verbal attitude and abuse started.
Could have. Should have.
The past was done. I lived in the now. And in the now, I wouldn’t let anyone treat me like crap ever again.
The water in the tub sloshed as I shifted in agitation. My phone rang. I eyed it and leaned to see the screen.
Unknown number.
Don’t answer. Probably a telemarketer. Who else would hide their identity?
I knew of one person who’d tried calling me three times since the store incident. He went to voicemail each time. Had he clued in I wasn’t going to answer and hidden his identity?
The call ended. A moment later my phone vibrated.
I peeked. The symbol for a message appeared. And then a box with a text message, also from Unknown.
I didn’t take you for a coward.
Had he met me? Biggest pussy around.
I frowned. I wasn’t that person anymore.
You going to answer me, or are you too busy masturbating while picturing me between your legs.
My mouth rounded. You’re disgusting. I couldn’t help but reply.
Don’t tell me you’ve never touched yourself.
Admit it? Never. Go away, Kane.
I knew you were thinking of me. How else would you know who this is?
I bit my lower lip before typing, Only you ever disrespect me like this.
Disrespect you by acknowledging you’re an attractive woman?
I don’t like it.
Liar.
How did he know his words gave me a cheap thrill? I was supposed to be strong. I didn’t need a man. I didn’t need validation. And yet, the fact he treated me as a desirable creature melted all kinds of inhibitions. I tingled between the legs. I wanted to touch myself, and it was his fault.
I furiously typed, I told you to leave me alone.
I can’t.
Why? I paused before hitting Send. He wanted me to ask. Would probably reply with something filthy. And sexy.
I deleted my text and chose not to send a reply.
Naomi, my luscious witch, is your lack of reply because you’re touching yourself in that big bathtub of yours?
How? I didn’t realize I’d typed until I hit Send. I blinked.
How do I know where you are