Chapter Twenty-Five
I smell toast.
I stretch out on my bed and smile, because Ryle knows toast is my
favorite.
My eyes flick open and the clarity smashes down on me with the
force of a head-on collision. I squeeze my eyes shut when I realize
where I am and why I’m here and that the toast I smell is not at all
because my sweet and caring husband is making me breakfast in bed.
I immediately want to cry again, so I force myself off the bed. I
focus on the hollowness in my stomach as I use the bathroom, and tell
myself I can cry after I eat something. I need to eat before I make
myself sick again.
When I walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, I
notice the chair has been turned so that it’s facing the bed now
instead of the door. There’s a blanket thrown over it haphazardly, and
it’s obvious Atlas was in here last night while I slept.
He was probably worried I had a concussion.
When I walk into the kitchen, Atlas is moving back and forth
between the fridge, the stove, the counter. For the first time in twelve
hours, I feel an inkling of something that isn’t agony, because I
remember he’s a chef. A good one. And he’s cooking me breakfast.
He glances up at me as I make my way into the kitchen. “Morning,”
he says, careful to say it without too much inflection. “I hope you’re
hungry.” He slides a glass and a container of orange juice across the
counter toward me, then he turns and faces the stove again.
“I am.”
He glances back over his shoulder and gives me a ghost of a smile.
I pour myself a glass of orange juice and then walk to the other side of
the kitchen where there’s a breakfast nook. There’s a newspaper on
the table and I begin to pick it up. When I see the article about the
best businesses in Boston printed across the page, my hands