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Nine days. Of course he’s keeping track.
After a few minutes, he shows me the drawing. The pillow is squished under my head, and I’m smiling like I am now.
“Doesn’t do you justice,” he says.
A few minutes later, I blow him kisses bye.
“I’ll call you as soon as possible,” he promises.
We study one another and the continuous silence lingers for a few extra seconds. It’s theI love yousilence, where I know he wants to say it, but doesn’t because he’s waiting for me. But I refuse to say something so significant over the phone.
He smirks. “Have a wonderful day, darling.”
“You too,” I say.
The call ends.
I roll over, pulling the comforter over my head, and somehow fall back asleep.
When my eyes flutter open again, it’s just past nine. I take a shower and go downstairs. Each morning, I make a shot of espresso, then enjoy the sunshine on the balcony. Today is no different.
The doorbell rings as I’m about to gulp down the rest of my coffee. I jog through the living room and check the peephole. A delivery person holds a box wrapped in white paper with a red bow tied around it and a bouquet of white roses.
I open the door.
“Lexi Calloway?” the person asks.
His words have my face breaking into a smile.
“Yes.”
I sign for it and the goodies are handed over.
Once I close the door, I glance at the camera in the corner of the room. “Easton, what have you done?”
I’ve been chatting with him throughout the day like he’s here, knowing he’ll go back and watch the video like I’m vlogging for him. He mentioned it’s his entertainment before bed, so I’ve tried to make it fun.
I’ve even worked in some corny jokes, hoping they’ll make him laugh. It’s the least I can do because I know he’s stressed. I can see it on his face and hear it in his tone.
“The flowers are gorgeous,” I say, setting them in the middle of the breakfast nook. I pull the edge of the silk red ribbon tied around the box, and it falls to the floor. Carefully, I peel off the paper. “Gotta give it to you; you’re the king of surprises.”
I glance inside, and it’s a bunch of individually wrapped gifts. On top is a card with my name on it, and it’s in his handwriting.
This man.
“You’re so sneaky,” I say, smiling at the camera. “How do you continue to pull it off?”
It’s not hard to imagine that sexy smirk on his lips.
I read the note.
Dear Wife,
Our marriage has officially outlasted every relationship I have had in nearly twenty years. Happy day fifteen.
—Your Already-Obsessed Husband
I place each gift on the counter, picking up the largest one first. I unwrap the paper and see a laptop. A note is taped to the front.