Page 64 of The Marriage Mistake

By the time I made it downstairs with my sickbed sheets bundled in my arms, I was washed and fresh and feeling better than I had in almost a week. I dropped the sheets in the washing machine and started the load before padding to the kitchen.

There I found Jack, shirtless, wearing a low-slung pair of faded jeans, standing at the stove scrambling eggs. He turned when I entered, casting an assessing eye over me. “You look better,” he said, nodding, then slid the eggs onto a plate with a waiting piece of toast. “Here.”

I slid into a seat at the kitchen table and stared at the simple food. No one had ever cooked me anything before. Not since I was very, very young. The one boyfriend I’d had in college had burned a bunch of pasta when he’d tried to cook it. I’d made our food from then on.

It was hard to speak past the constriction in my throat. I nodded at the plate and said, “You don’t have to take care of me. That’s not what our arrangement is about.”

Jack had been at the sink, washing the pan. His movements paused for a moment, then resumed more slowly. After he grabbed a dishtowel to dry the pan, he turned to look at me, a sardonic arch to his eyebrow. “You know, Ember, you’re not the easiest person to nurse back to health.”

Guilt slammed into me. Jack had spent the past week taking care of me. He certainly hadn’t had to do it. He’d worked from home, skipped family lunch and who knew how many other engagements just to feed me broth and water and make sure the humidifier was always pumping fresh moisture into my bedroom’s dry air.

He’d taken care of me—was still taking care of me—and I was an ungrateful grump who couldn’t even muster the courage to thank him.

My shoulders rounded, and I scrubbed my face. “I’m sorry. I—I’m not used to this.”

“Not used to what?” There was a guardedness to Jack’s words, and when I looked up, I could see what the sarcasm of his last statement had hidden. He was hurt. I’d hurt him.

The easy thing to do would be to retreat. It was probably also the smart thing to do. I didn’t want to get attached to him or to Darby or to this town—not any more attached than I already was. I wanted to get that wedding certificate filed so we would officially be married, then get out of here.

But Jack had just spent a week caring for me in a way no one else had. I owed him more than silence and walls.

A boulder rolled onto my chest and made it hard for me to inhale.

“No one has ever…” I tore my eyes away from him, unable to look him in the eyes as I spoke. “No one has ever cared for me like that. I don’t get sick often, but when I do, it’s…I just deal with it on my own. I wasn’t expecting anything more from you, is all.”

He was silent as he put the pan away, then padded to the table to take a seat across from me. I could feel his gaze on me, even though I stared at my plate. I picked up the fork and twirled it between my thumb and forefinger, too nauseous to eat—and I knew it wasn’t due to illness. It was because opening up to anyone felt like an existential risk. Letting another person in on my feelings gave them access to hurt me. I was terrified.

“Ember, I know we have a contract, and I know…” He sighed, propping his elbows on the table. He rubbed his face with his palms before continuing. “I know things between us aren’t…we’re not a regular couple.”

Why was that painful to hear? Why did him saying that feel like a stab in the chest? It was the truth, wasn’t it?

“But I’m not going to let you lock yourself away and suffer when I’m right here and I can help,” he finished. “Never mind the fact that it was my fault you got sick.”

“I think I’ve just gotten used to taking care of myself,” I said quietly. “I grew up with a single dad too, you know,” I admitted. “And he was nowhere near as loving and caring as you are with Darby.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened. He watched me for a beat. “And your mom?”

“She died giving birth to me.” I let out a bitter snort, gaze sliding away from his. “That’s the reason my dad resented me so much.”

“What? Why? Her death wasn’t your fault,” Jack said, surprisingly emphatic. When I blinked up at him, his brows were drawn and his jaw was tense.

He was angry. On my behalf?

“It kind of was,” I said. “If her labor hadn’t been so difficult, she wouldn’t have hemorrhaged. I’m literally the reason she died.”

His eyes narrowed. “Ember,” he said.

I leaned back, crossing my arms. “What?”

“You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

I blinked.

“So tell me,” he continued, eyes flashing, “why would you say something so fucking dumb?”

Outrage burned my chest like acid. I set my fork down, my plate untouched. “Excuse me?”

“From the little you’ve told me about your dad, he was a real piece of shit. And he’s dead now, yeah?”