Chapter 85 #85
Chapter 85
~ Shailyn ~
The kitchen smells like butter and cinnamon, warm and comforting, the kind of scent that’s supposed to make everything feel normal. Safe. I stand at the stove, whisking eggs in a bowl, telling myself to focus on the simple things, the rhythm of my wrist, the soft clink of metal against glass instead of where my thoughts keep drifting.
To Dwayne. To his hands on my waist two nights ago. To the way my body had betrayed me, responding too quickly, too eagerly.
I tip the eggs into the hot pan. They sizzle immediately, steam rising.
“Just hormones,” I mutter to myself. “That’s all.”
Behind me, footsteps approach.
“Something smells amazing.”
I stiffen before I turn, already knowing who it is. Dante stands in the doorway, dressed for work, dark slacks, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. He smiles when he sees me, the same smile that used to settle everything inside me.
“Morning,” he says, crossing the kitchen to kiss my cheek.
“Morning,” I reply, forcing my lips into a smile. “Scrambled eggs and French toast. I felt ambitious.”
“Ambitious?” He chuckles. “You’re spoiling me.”
“I won’t make a habit of it,” I say lightly, flipping the eggs.
He pulls out a chair and sits, watching me like he always does when I cook, like it’s something impressive instead of basic survival.
I plate the food and bring it over, setting his down first before sitting across from him with my own plate. I’ve made enough food for five people, but suddenly the sight of it turns my stomach.
Dante takes a bite and hums approvingly. “Okay. Wow. This is really good, Shay.”
“Thank you.”
“You barely touched yours.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just tired.”
“Growing a human will do that to you.”
I smile faintly and push my eggs around my plate. We eat in silence for a moment, the comfortable kind we’ve shared for years. Then Dante wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his chair.
“So,” he says, casual. “Christmas is in a few days.”
I glance up. “Already?”
“Time flies when you’re stressed and overworked.” He grins. “Have you thought about what you want?”
“What I want?”
“For Christmas. I can’t just not get you anything.”
“You don’t have to get me a gift, Dante.”
“That is not an option.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Think.”
I hesitate, then shrug. “Honestly? Maternity clothes. The nice kind. The ones that don’t make you look like you’re wearing a curtain.”
He bursts out laughing. “That’s what you want?”
“I’m practical.”
“You’re unbelievable.” He squeezes my hand affectionately. “But noted. Stylish maternity clothes.”
I relax a little, the tension easing just enough to breathe.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you want?”
Dante doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, eyes soft, steady.
“I already have everything I need.”
My stomach twists.
“You’re being cheesy,” I say, pulling my hand back gently.
“I’m being honest.”
He finishes his food and glances at his watch. “I have to head out soon. Meeting with the contractors about the community center.”
“Today? This close to Christmas?”
“You know how it is. Deadlines don’t care about holidays.”
He stands, carries his plate to the sink, and rinses it before turning back to me. “I’ll be back by dinner. Movie night?”
“Sure.”
He leans down and kisses me, quick at first, then lingering just long enough to feel familiar. Comfortable.
“Love you, Shay.”
“Love you too,” I say.
The words come out easily. The certainty behind them does not.
I watch him leave, listening to the front door close. The house immediately feels too quiet, too large. I stare down at my half-eaten breakfast like it might offer answers.
Footsteps approach again.
“Mrs. Shailyn?”
Rosa, the assistant maid, stands near the doorway, hands clasped.
“Yes?”
“Should I clear the table?”
“Yes, please.”
I push my chair back and stand, restless energy buzzing under my skin. “Has Dwayne come down yet?”
Rosa pauses. “No, ma’am. He’s still in his room.”
I frown. “It’s almost ten.”
She nods. “Would you like me to check on him?”
“No. No, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “He’s probably just tired.”
I move to the counter, my eyes drifting to the leftover food. Without really deciding to, I start pulling things out, cream, parmesan, pasta.
“Actually, Rosa,” I say, already filling a pot with water. “I’m going to make something else. Can you give me a few minutes?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Of course, ma’am.”
She leaves. The kitchen is quiet again, except for the sound of boiling water and my own breathing.
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring down at a bowl of creamy pasta.
“I’m just using leftovers,” I say aloud, like someone might argue with me.
I grab a notecard and pen, then stop.
This is ridiculous.
I write the first thing that comes to mind.
Just thought of you. Enjoy your meal.
I grimace and scratch it out.
Too much.
Made extra. Didn’t want it to go to waste.
I sigh.
Too cold.
After a long pause, I finally settled on something in between.
Just thought of keeping this for you. Enjoy your meal.
I stare at it, then fold the card and place it on top of the covered bowl.
Rosa appears again, quiet as ever.
“Rosa,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Can you take this up to Dwayne’s room?”
She looks at the bowl, then at me. Something flickers across her face, curiosity, maybe, but she doesn’t comment.
“Yes, Mrs. Shailyn.”
She disappears upstairs.
I sink into a chair, staring at the mess I’ve made of the kitchen. Plates. Pans. Evidence of choices I didn’t mean to make.
Minutes pass.
Then footsteps overhead. A door opening.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
I sit there, listening, waiting, ashamed of how much I care.
When the house settles back into silence, the question presses in hard and undeniable.
Why am I doing this? I’m married. Pregnant. Loved. And yet.
I press my fingers to the table, grounding myself. “This has to stop,” I say quietly.
There’s no answer.
Just the echo of my own voice, and the unsettling knowledge that even now, part of me is wondering what Dwayne will say when he finishes the pasta.