Page 65 of Meant For Love

“It is, actually,” I admit. “It’s almost eight here, and it’s past Caine’s bedtime.” I try to make a joke to get off this call. “How about we reconvene tomorrow morning at eight my time?”

“Sounds good. Have a good night, boys,” my father says right before he hangs up, and I laugh because we are both in our thirties, but we are still boys to him.

“Later,” I say.

At the same time, Caine says, “Good night.”

I put my phone down, seeing the emails that have come in since this afternoon when I left, knowing I have to answer a couple of them before I head to bed. I get up and walk out into the kitchen, seeing Zoey sitting on the floor trying to assemble one of the cat trees while the cat sits between her legs. “We are almost finished,” she tells the cat, and I see she put out the white water bowl I bought for her and right beside her the white bowl for food, “and then we are going to set up the litter box. I just don’t know where to put it.” I can’t help but feel centered and at peace when I hear her voice or know she’s around. “I was thinking the laundry room upstairs, but we’ll see once Nash gets off the phone.”

“I don’t care where you put it,” I cut in on their private conversation. “You can put it wherever you want it.”

She looks up at me, and all I can do is stare at her. “Oh, you’re off the phone,” she says softly.

“I am, but I need to answer a couple of emails,” I tell her, looking at the food on the counter that she was taking out when I got here. “Did you eat?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I was waiting to see if you ate or not.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Oh,” she says, looking down at the cat, who is now sitting up, looking at me until she puts a paw on one of Zoey’s legs. “Okay, I’ll set up the cat and then grab something to eat.” I put my hands in my pockets, itching to go and touch her or kiss her. I don’t think we’ve gone more than eight hours without kissing each other, and that’s only because we are either sleeping or at work.

“I’ll leave you a plate on the stove in case you get hungry after your emails,” she offers and gets up off the floor. “If you don’t eat it, just put it in the fridge.” She bends to pick up the cat in her arms, who leans forward and looks up at her with the biggest eyes.

“Will do,” I reply before I turn and walk out of the room, instead of asking her what the hell she meant by us getting a divorce. Instead, I go into the office and grab my phone.

I see Caine texted me.

Caine: What’s up with you?

I look at the phone and then at the door to see if she’s going to follow me to ask me if everything is okay, but she doesn’t.

Me: Not sure.

Caine: Want to call me?

I know that it’s past eleven his time, and he has a wife and daughter he has to take care of, so I push him off.

Me: No, it’s late, we’ll talk tomorrow.

Caine: You sure?

Me: Yup, it’s nothing that urgent.

Caine: Okay, call me tomorrow.

I put the phone down before dropping my head back and looking at the ceiling as I drag my hands over my face. Ninety days, we could be divorced, the words make my hands ball into fists.

I turn in my chair and do what I know I do best, I get to work. I answer the emails that need to be answered, and before I know it, it’s past eleven. “Fuck,” I curse, turning off the computer and grabbing my phone.

I walk out, seeing the house mostly dark with just the light over the stove on. I walk over and put the plate of food on the top in the fridge before turning the light off and making my way up to the bedroom.

I look over to the right and see the light is on in the laundry room, so I walk over and see she set up the litter box with another bowl of water and food for the cat. I don’t turn off the light, but I close the door enough for it not to shine in the hallway. I walk over to the bedroom, where I see Zoey on her side with the cat curled up in a ball by her stomach. Both of them are sleeping. I quietly tiptoe to the bathroom, taking off my clothes before sliding into bed. Her back is to me, and even though I want to wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest, I don’t. Instead, I lie on my back, looking up at the ceiling most of the night.

The cat gets up a couple of times, jumping off the bed and waking Zoey, who looks over at me, but I fake sleep, watching her get out of bed and follow the cat around the house. She climbs into bed a couple of minutes later, again turning her back to me. When I open my eyes a bit after five o’clock, I look over at her and see she’s turning toward me with the cat still sleeping next to her.

I slide out of bed slowly, so as not to wake them, before going out to the gym where I just run on the treadmill, trying to run the nerves out of me, along with everything else. When I walk into the house, I’m shocked to see her in the kitchen. “Good morning,” I greet her, and she looks over at me as she stirs the eggs in the pan in front of her.

“Hey,” she says softly.