"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I told you to take a cab!"
"If you ruin this surgery for Naomi, I'm telling you right now—this wedding is off."
The hairdryer roared. Every word out of his mouth drove into me like a needle.
It hurt.
My body didn't matter to him.
What mattered was Naomi's surgery.
In Leonard's eyes, my breast was Naomi's entry ticket—her one shot at keeping her place at Provincial General Hospital.
"Go take a shower. Don't catch a cold."
"These next few days, take care of yourself. No colds. No fevers."
He gave me another push.
Naomi smiled from the side of the room, chiming in helpfully with one pre-surgery reminder after another.
"Leo, I'm hungry…"
"I want your plum-glazed ribs."
Naomi's wheedling voice drifted from behind me, followed by the low, indulgent murmur of Leonard's reply.
My feet felt like they'd been filled with lead.
Eight years together—and I didn't know Leonard could cook until Naomi came back.
The day she returned to the country, Leonard brought her straight to our place.
I'd thoughtfully booked a restaurant ahead of time, but Naomi pouted, "I want to eat Leo's cooking"—and just like that, my reservation meant nothing. Leonard was already in the kitchen.