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Chapter Thirty-one

KATIE

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I hung all the small colorful fish around the babies’ new room one after the other. Eric has his heart set on a Finding Nemo theme, so I went with it.

Lately, I just follow my husband’s lead. I don’t question him any more. I don’t look at him sideways as I used to when I was trying to figure him out. I just smile and play a good little wife.

I don’t want to adopt, but I have no other choice. It’s what Eric wants, so it has to be what I want, too. We fought every time I protested, so I just stopped. I never made it back to my OBGYN or any other doctor. My husband forbids it and refuses to understand that I want to be a mother so badly but not this way.

I stand back and try to admire the baby’s nursery. I would like to say it looks good, but I’d be lying. The truth is, the room looks cold and disgusting. It doesn’t look like a nursery put together by a mother’s love. It really doesn’t look like much of anything at all in here other than a page out of a baby catalog.

I took a deep breath as the doorbell chimes. It was probably just the UPS man delivering something I ordered off Amazon that I don’t need, so he can just leave it at the door.

I thought about sitting in the wooden rocking chair over in the corner of our son’s room, but that thought quickly faded. The rocking chair didn’t look inviting; it looks even colder than this room does.

Maybe I’ll feel better when Eric gets home. I always do. Even though my heart is full of resentment toward him and this whole adoption thing, I still love him.

As I head down the staircase to see who decided to ring the doorbell a second time, all I could think about was Eric and the new baby. I’m going to call him when I get back upstairs. I know we’re going to fight again, but I have to tell him that I cannot go through with this. I don’t want to adopt.

“Yes, may I help you?” I opened the door without looking out.

The guy standing here was definitely not the UPS man.

When his words started to jumble, “Sir, may I help you?” shot out of my mouth again. He looked at me like he didn’t know what to say. My voice raised an octave when I said, “Sir, what can I do for you?” What the hell was wrong with him, and what did he want?

When his urban speech finally came together, he told me who he was and where he was from. Now, what was the owner of that dumpy-ass tapas bar doing here?

“Yes, Mr. Byrd, what can I do for you?” I decided to be nice.

When he started apologizing for the night I experienced when I was at his restaurant, I cut in with, “It was just a panic attack. You don’t owe me any apologies.” He should’ve been apologizing for that awful décor if anything.

“Mr. Byrd, if you’ll excuse me.” I’m done here; we have nothing else to discuss.

He stopped me before I could close the door on him. “Katie . . . Um, Mrs. Reynolds, are you related to Epiphany Morgan?”

“She’s my sister.”

“I know her very well. She and I used to work together at Citizens Bank.”

“Oh yeah, I remember her mentioning you once or . . . Well, once.” Is he still here?

“Do you mind if I come in?” He slipped something out of his pocket. “I have an insurance document for you to sign.”

“Fine.” Maybe if I sign his little insurance form, he’ll go.

“You have a lovely home.”

I cleared my throat, hoping he would catch the hint and leave. This is not a social call. He wasn’t invited here, nor was he welcomed here. I don’t make it a habit of intertwining with his type. He’s a gay black male, so when I say his type since my husband is black, I’m not pulling the race card this time. He’s gay! A lot of women say those types of people make terrific friends, but I disagree. All I see when I look at people like him is that three-letter word stamped across their foreheads, and nothing more: G-A-Y.

“You said you had some forms for me to sign?” If he would stop looking around my home as if he was seconds away from snatching and running, I could probably have that balled up piece of paper in his hand signed so he could be on his merry little way.

I scribbled Mrs. Dr. Eric Reynolds on the form and handed it back to him. “If we’re all finished here . . .” We were done, so he could be gone.

He looked at the insurance form then back at me. That look in his eyes was all too familiar. I see that same expression whenever my sisters are around.

He probably didn’t know I was married to a doctor. From that look on his face, he probably instantly became envious of me and the life he imagines that I have. Yep, just like Kyle and Epiphany. He had every right to feel that way. I have a beautiful home; I’m married to a doctor and look at me.

Poor thing . . . He’ll probably be on Grinder in a few hours praying for some anonymous fling to come over to his dark studio apartment and bend him over.

He stood there with his mouth wide open, looking back down to the form. I wanted to tell him Hon get over it. We all can’t be married to a doctor, so get your ass back to that over-the-top restaurant and wait for Mr. Whoever and his hard-on.