Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3)

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “If I’d never left London, I wouldn’t have you in my arms right now.”

  I consider that response. Sort of evasive, is it? “That’s not a direct answer to my question.”

  “Then my direct answer is no. How could I regret a move that led me to you?”

  “So you’re happy?”

  He rolls onto his back. “Obviously, you have something on your mind that you’re skirting around. Please, could we get to the point?”

  I roll to my back. He reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers.

  “Why does Mom think you’re depressed?” His muscles stiffening sends a slight tremor down his arm into my hand. We lie still, silent in the darkness. After a moment, I listen harder for his breathing, wondering if he’s fallen asleep. I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  “It’s been hard for me,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “You always know what’s right for you. Charging ahead with your perfect life plan, while I flounder. That’s not a criticism. I’m proud of you. But I doubt myself at every turn. Or I was doubting. I had a few woe-is-me conversations with Uncle, and I suppose he relayed those to your Mom.”

  He lets go of my hand and slips his arm under my neck and brings me closer to him. I lay my head on his chest. “So you’re not depressed now?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was ever depressed, just worried. Stressed. You know that.” He kisses the top of my head. “All is well, wife.”

  “But it wasn’t, and you didn’t talk to me about it.”

  He laughs softly. “I guess we both have a problem with that open and honest thing.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “So will I.”

  Mom flew back to England yesterday, and I already miss her. She won’t be coming back for Thanksgiving because she and Uncle will be on another adventure—some tropical place. But I’ve decided I won’t be eating turkey this year anyway.

  Jeremy’s been at his computer all afternoon, so I shopped for and prepared dinner alone, which is just as well since it was easy. I text him to say it’s time to eat. Five minutes later he appears and sniffs. “I don’t smell anything. What are we having tonight?”

  “Salad.” I set the bowl on the table. “Sit.”

  “That’s an enormous bowl of greens.”

  I sit down. “It’s not all greens.”

  “Yes, I can see the fiddly bits.”

  “It’s a Mediterranean salad. Those ‘fiddly bits’ are roasted red peppers, garbanzo beans, toasted almonds, and feta cheese.”

  “Very well, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I did.” I dish up his salad. “Bon appétit.”

  He stares at his plate for a moment. “What else are we having, Chelsea?”

  “Nothing.” I pick up my fork.

  “You’re joking.”

  I chew a bite of the salad, smiling contentedly. When I don’t respond, he bores his ocean water eyes into me until I swallow and confess. “We’re going to be vegetarians. It’s healthier.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “So, in the span of five hours since eating an enormous roast beef sandwich for lunch, you’ve gone off meat?”

  “We have.”

  “Ha,” he says, shaking his head. “I think not.”

  I lay down my fork. “Don’t you want our son to be healthy?”

  “Of course, I do, but we eat meat and we’re healthy.”

  “Maybe today we are, but if you read—”

  “All things in moderation. But if you want to be an herbivore, go for it. I choose not to.” He forks a mouthful of salad, chewing as thoughtfully as if he’s a judge on Chopped.

  I glare at him. “So you’re going to saddle our poor baby with a dilemma from day one?”

  “Good God, the drama.” He’s picking at his salad, removing the slivered almonds. “On day one and for a good while after, our son’s diet will consist solely of milk.”

  Growl. “Why do you always have to take things so literally?”

  He shoots me an innocent look. “Is that a figurative question?”

  I grab the almonds he’s laid on the placemat and throw them at him.

  He grins and gives me a wink.

  “Let’s see how funny you think that is when you’re picking up every single one of those.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. The salad tastes great, but it’s a lot of chewing, and we’ll probably empty that bowl and still not feel full.

  “Is meat to be banned in this house,” he says, “or are you just refusing to eat it?”

  “I’m not cooking it.”

  He nods. “I see. I’m allowed to eat meat, just not here unless I cook it myself.”

  I stare at him until he senses it and looks at me. “So, you’re really not going to support me?”

  “On the contrary. I fully support anything you feel you need to do to be healthy. But I cannot live on salad.”

  “We won’t eat only salad. I printed out a load of vegetarian recipes that sound delicious.”

  “Sound is not taste.” When I narrow my eyes at him, he adds, “But I will eat whatever you cook for us. I’m just not agreeing to forgo meat. I will supplement out of your sight, of course, unless we’re out to dinner with friends or family, none of whom are vegetarians.”

  “That’s just being mean.”

  “Right. So, for the duration, we’ll refuse any dinner invitations.”

  “Oh … okay.” Why does it seem like I’m winning and losing at the same time?

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  I can’t take it any longer. I sit up in bed, turn on the lamp, and punch Jeremy in the shoulder. “Wake up.”

  He mumbles something and rolls over. A second later he bolts out of bed. “The baby! What’s wrong?”

  “Relax. Nothing’s wrong. I just want you to get me a steak.”

  “A steak?” He grabs his phone off the nightstand and swipes the screen. “It’s almost two in the morning!”

  “But I’m hungry. I really, really, really need a nice juicy medium-rare steak. Rare maybe.”

  Shaking his head, he sinks down on the bed. “I really, really, really think pregnancy has made you mental. Out of the blue, you decide to be vegetarian, but now ten days later—and in the middle of the night, I might add—you’re ready to eat a cow raw.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  He looks at me. “Where do you propose I get you this steak? At two in the bloody morning.”

  “You don’t have to be so grumpy about it.”

  He sighs and gets up to start dressing. “Forgive me, my dear. Just tell me where one can purchase a steak at this lovely hour when everyone else in town is sleeping.”

  I burst into tears.

  He dives onto the bed and takes me in his arms. “I’m sorry. Truly. I know your body is out of your control right now. If you’re craving red meat, I’ll find a 24-hour supermarket.”

  Sniff. “We could go to a restaurant.”

  “Right. That would be easier. Do you know one open at this hour?”

  I don’t. “Um, maybe we could just drive around?”

  He stares at me as his jaw works, but wisely he says nothing. He gets up again and pulls on his jeans. He picks up the shirt he took off earlier, examines it, and then opts for a clean one.

  “People work at night,” I say. “Second shift? They must eat somewhere, right?”

  “Absolutely.” He’s searching for his shoes. “So … shouldn’t you get dressed?”

  While I put on a bra and exchange my stretched-out tank top for a tee, he goes to the sink to splash water on his face, gargle mouthwash, and tie his hair back. I’m slipping on my flip-flops when he turns around.

  He looks me up and down. “You’re wearing pajama bottoms to the restaurant, are you?”

  “They’re comfortable. And who’s going to see me anyway?”

  His right brow arches. “Who indeed?”

  We both know none of the res
taurants we frequent are open in the middle of the night, so we drive around aimlessly for a few minutes. When we turn onto the main commercial street, which Jeremy sometimes slips and refers to as the high street, he points to McDonald’s. “I don’t suppose a Big Mac would satisfy your craving.”

  “No.”

  He smacks his forehead. “Google Maps.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I type in: nearby 24hr restaurant. “The only result is Dee’s Diner. It’s 6.3 miles away, out by the freeway.”

  He hangs a U-turn and twelve minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of a truck plaza. “You’re sure about this?” he says, watching a burly tattooed guy walking toward the door.

  “It has four stars.”

  “From whom?”

  A police car swings into the parking lot. Jeremy shoots me a worried glance and holds out his arm in front of me like he’s prepared to leap across the console and shield me from gunfire. The car parks and two laughing cops get out. One of them waves at us before they continue on inside.

  “See? The cops like it, so it must be good. And safe.” I open my door and maneuver my body out.

  As we cross the parking lot, Jeremy wraps his arm around my shoulders, obviously still not certain we should be dining at Dee’s. The place is busy—but maybe not surprisingly so since it’s apparently the only place open for miles. Jeremy scopes out the whole place immediately.

  A tall, thin, woman wearing a green apron and a name tag calls out to us, “Seat yourselves. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  We find an empty table in the center of the room between a table with the tattooed bruiser and two middle-aged women wearing a ton of makeup—one as pale-skinned as the other is dark. The restaurant decor is definitely outdated. Like, thirty years outdated, but it looks clean and smells yummy. Jeremy’s eyes are still darting around, no doubt trying to locate the cops.

  “Relax,” I say.

  “Do you think this is a place to eat steak? If they even serve steak.”

  “Oh, they do, darlin’,” the red-haired woman at the next table says.

  “Pardon?”

  “They have real good steaks here.” She winks at him. “Where you from, darlin’?”

  He glances at me, eyes wide.

  “Your accent, honey,” the woman in the platinum wig says. (I hope that’s a wig.)

  Jeremy stares at them for a second. “London.”

  “He your husband?” the first woman asks me.

  “Yep.”

  “Lucky you,” she says.

  The woman who told us to find a seat arrives at our table with menus. (Her name is Jill, according to her name tag.) “Sorry for the wait. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coke,” I say.

  Jill looks at Jeremy.

  “I … uh … I’ll have a coffee. I suppose.”

  “Decaf or regular?”

  He stares at her like she just asked him to recite the periodic table or something, so I answer for him. “He’ll have regular, please.”

  “Be right back.”

  I lean across the table when she leaves. “What’s wrong with you?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head and opens his menu.

  When Jill returns with our drinks, he’s still trying to decide what to order, so I give her mine. “I’ll have the eight-ounce sirloin, medium rare, with fries and a side salad. Italian dressing.”

  Jill writes on her pad and turns to Jeremy.

  “A Belgian waffle, please. Could I get that without the whipped cream and strawberries?”

  “Sure can. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.” He looks at me.

  “We’re good,” I say.

  “Got one of those cravings, huh?” Wig Woman asks.

  I smile and pat my belly. “Yes.”

  “How far along are you?” Red asks.

  “Almost seven months.”

  “You cute little thing. I was big as a house with mine at seven months.”

  Tattoo Guy laughs. “Still are, Bonnie,” he says.

  “Shut your trap, Walt,” Bonnie says, but she’s laughing too. “You ain’t giving London here a run for his money, that’s for damn sure.”

  Jeremy’s staring straight over my head and gulping his coffee.

  “Well, I guess we done sat here long enough,” Wig Woman says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and getting to her feet. “Time to get back to work.” She pats my arm. “It was nice to meet you. I’m Rashonda, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Rashonda and Bonnie. I’m Chelsea and ‘London’ there is Jeremy.”

  Bonnie stands and picks up their check. “You two take care. And enjoy every minute of that baby. They grow up so fast.” She smiles at me and lays a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. He startles and sloshes coffee on the table.

  As Bonnie and Rashonda head for the cashier, Jill arrives with our food. My mouth starts watering at the first glimpse of the steak. I’m already chewing the first bite before she can refill Jeremy’s cup.

  “This is perfect,” I mumble.

  “We aim to please,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She moves to Walt’s table to refill his cup and then walks away.

  Jeremy watches me eat for a moment. “Is that truly all right?”

  “It’s great. Want a bite?”

  He shakes his head and spreads butter on his waffle.

  “We should come back here.”

  He looks up at me, saucer-eyed. “Why?”

  “It would be a great place to people study.”

  He shakes his head and forks a bite of waffle into his mouth. We eat silently until Walt finishes and leaves his table. Then Jeremy leans toward me. “You do realize what kind of work those women do, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “They’d make great characters. Well, probably not in my books, but maybe in one of yours.”

  He closes his eyes. “Mental,” he mumbles.

  “So, will we come back? Become regulars?”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “We. Will. Not.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Eating meat again necessitates a trip to the grocery. Just as I back out of the driveway, I remember that I’ve left my shopping list in the pocket of the jeans I changed out of, so I park and run back into the house for it. I can hear Jeremy’s voice as I head down the hall toward the bedroom.

  “… told her I was happy about the baby.”

  As he pauses to listen, so do I, hoping I’ll get a clue who he’s on the phone with.

  “Yes, a fait accompli.” Pause. “True, mate, but an expensive one.”

  Mate. He’s talking to Ethan.

  “Circumstances had changed.” He exhales heavily. “So, looking forward, what choice do I have?” Pause. “I know I should have been honest with her then.” Pause. “You’re right, but that’s complicated by the fact that she doesn’t have a clue.”

  Ohmygod. Weakness washes over me, and I brace myself against the wall. Jeremy doesn’t want the baby. It’s all been an act. Breathe, Chelsea. He’s talking again, but his voice is muffled by my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I don’t want to hear any more anyway. As fast as I can on shaky legs, I hurry back outside to the car. I drive to the end of the street before pulling over to the curb. I’m too freaked out to deal with traffic. Or shopping. Or life.

  Images from the past months whiz around my brain. Jeremy’s stunned reaction when I told him I was pregnant—followed by his faking being thrilled. His spreadsheet adding up the costs of every tiny thing to do with the baby. And what did he mean by “circumstances had changed”? Oh god. He’d decided he didn’t even want to be married. That’s the real reason he said he wanted to postpone trying to get pregnant, isn’t it? That’s what I don’t have a clue about—or didn’t. “My eyes are open now, dude.”

  The baby thumps my ribs in response to my voice. I pat his little head, I think. “We’ll be all right, sweetie.” Even though your daddy doesn’t want us. I can’t say that last part to ou
r son. It might break his heart before he’s even born.

  I reach for my phone before I realize I’m not going to call Gabi. It would kill me to admit that Jeremy thinks he’s made the two biggest mistakes of his life in the last eighteen months. For a while, I sit there staring through the windshield and rubbing my belly. Finally, the shock wears off and the tears come.

  Later, I return home with groceries that I barely remember buying. While I’m putting them away, Jeremy comes up behind and gives me a hug. “I’m not in the mood, Jeremy.”

  “I’m only saying that I missed you,”—he pats my belly—“both of you.”

  What a frigging actor. “We’re having chicken for dinner.”

  He tenses. His hands move to my shoulders and turn me to face him. “What’s wrong?”

  I can’t meet his eyes. “Nothing. Just planning dinner.” I step around him and gather the empty bags for recycling. He watches me in silence. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  He traces his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Is this just a hormonal thing, or have I done something to anger you?”

  “I’m not angry.” That’s true; I’m devastated.

  “I love you.” He waits.

  I force a smile. “Love you too.”

  We’re eating breakfast in silence when Jeremy says, “Your necklace.” I look up from my plate but say nothing. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  Because I’m afraid it’s a mockery. “Because I took it off to clean it.” I take another bite of my egg, even though I’ve lost what little appetite I had.

  “And then you cleaned it but forgot to put it on?”

  I chew until the egg has liquefied before I swallow. “I … no … I forgot to clean it.” He gives me a look but says nothing. After a moment, he accepts that I’m giving no further explanation.

  While he finishes eating, I drink my coffee and then start clearing up. I’m not as skilled in acting as Jeremy is. I can’t keep up the stress of pretending life is just bloody marvelous like he can, but I can’t bear hearing him admit the truth either. My hand caresses my belly. Before now I wouldn’t have hesitated to confront him. Pregnancy changes more than just your body, I guess. I don’t know myself anymore.

  Jeremy startles me when he appears beside me to put his plate in the dishwasher. I burst into tears. “Chelsea?” He reaches for me.