Forever My Angel by Kelly Walker Read Free Book Online

It's deeply ingrained in who I am.
    “How?”
    “It just is!” I raise my voice without meaning to, then feel like an ass. “I’m supposed to take care of you,” I say more softly, “not the other way around.” If I can't take care of her, then what good am I? I don't expect her to hold herself to the same standard. Maybe it's sexist, but it's also honest.
    “Aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way street?”
    “Look, I love that you wanted to do this for me. Truly, I can’t help but love you for it. But you blindsided me, even if you didn’t mean to. I just need some time.”
    She huffs out a hot, angry breath. “In other words, you don’t want to talk about it. Ever. You’re just going to ignore it.”
    “That’s not what I said.” Goddammit! Why is she trying to put words into my mouth?
    “Well, let me ask it a different way. You told your mom you need time, but do you have any actual intention of pursuing a relationship with her?”
    My silence is my answer, and we both know it.
    “That’s what I thought.” She turns her head and stares out the window.
    “You have enough things to worry about without worrying about fixing the things you think are wrong in my life.”
    “Really?” Her voice rises to a dangerous octave. “Like what? Fixing your dinner? Letting you get me barefoot and pregnant? What do I have to occupy my hours, A?”
    For the first time today, I realize I’m in trouble. Like, big trouble. My girl is not happy, and I didn’t know. The elation of this morning, when she said she was ready to marry me, is gone, crushed into a fine dust that clogs the air and makes it hard to breathe. How did I not know she was feeling like this? I don’t deserve to be her husband.
    “I don’t know,” I say quietly.
    “Me either.” She resumes staring out the window, and the ocean between us grows wider.
    I should tell her I’m sorry. Or thank her. Or, fuck, I don’t know. Everything I consider sounds lame and contrived in my head. I still haven’t said anything by the time we pull up in front of the apartment, and she hasn’t either.
    Not while she turns the key, unlocking the apartment.
    Not until she steps inside, a few strides ahead of me.
    And then she screams.
    I can’t get through the door to her fast enough, and then I’m at her side, scanning for the danger. It’s pretty fucking obvious as soon as I look for it. The end table is knocked over, the lamp it used to support in pieces. Couch cushions have been displaced. The comfortable chair Angel likes to curl up in when she reads is sitting at a funny angle. Every drawer in the kitchen sits open, or has been pulled out onto the floor. And that’s just in this room.
    Angel’s hand finds mine, and she’s squeezing hard enough I think she might cut off my circulation. I immediately pull her with me, out of the apartment. I glance at the door jamb as we go, and my heart nearly stops. There are obvious marks of forced entry. If I hadn’t had my head stuck so far up my ass thinking about the shit between me and Angel, I would have noticed it.
    “Wait.” Her voice wavers. “Molly!” she calls out, planting her feet and refusing to follow me any further than the hallway.
    Of all the times for her to be fucking stubborn. I want to tell her that we’ll worry about the dog later, but while I can prioritize, I know for damn sure Angel will worry about the dog now. I sigh, unable to curb my irritation. Angel flashes me an angry look of her own. This day from hell is never going to end.  “Go down and let yourself into Mrs. Peters’ townhouse if she doesn’t open the door. I’ll look for Molly and then I’ll be right there.”
    I try to take a mental inventory of the things that might be missing as I search, calling softly for Molly. It’s hard because so much of the stuff here is Chelsea’s, not ours. I’m getting angrier by the minute. Angry at Angel about my mom, angry that I’ve got to find the damn dog instead of