The morning started quietly enough.
Jace had left early for a meeting at the LA office — something he didn't want to attend, but had to, if only to keep up appearances. He kissed me three times before leaving. Once on my forehead, once on my lips, and once on my bump, whispering something to our daughter that made my chest ache in the tender way love does.
"Be good," he had murmured to her, and then to me, "Don't overdo anything. Call me if you need me. For anything."
"Go," I had laughed softly, pushing lightly at his chest. "I'll be fine."
But after the door closed behind him… the house felt too big.
Too quiet.
Too easy to hear your own thoughts in.
I tried to distract myself.
I watered the plants in the sunroom. I folded tiny baby clothes Donna had sent from New York with handwritten notes attached to every outfit (as if the outfits came with instructions on how to raise a baby). I even turned on the TV for background noise, but it just made everything feel louder.
