My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 06

My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 06

“Because…” He took a deep breath.

“This time, the twelfth time, I want to tell you the truth.”

In the distance, headlights approached, then passed and faded away.

The world was so quiet that only the wind and his breathing remained.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Outside your guesthouse.”

I hung up and started the car.

On the drive back, it began snowing again.

I thought of many things.

The first winter after we got married, it snowed, and I wanted to build a snowman.

He said it was cold and went to work in the study.

So I built two snowmen in the yard by myself, one big and one small.

My hands turned red from the cold.

The next day, the snow melted, and both snowmen collapsed.

When he left the house, he stepped right through the puddle without noticing.

Just like he had never noticed me.

When I was almost back at the guesthouse, I saw a figure in the distance, standing under a streetlamp.

A black coat. No umbrella. A thick layer of snow had settled across his shoulders.

I parked the car but didn’t get out right away.

He saw the headlights and turned around.

In the light, his face was pale from the cold, and his lips had lost all color.

We looked at each other through the window.

He moved first, walking over and tapping on the glass.

I rolled down the window, and cold wind rushed in.

“Evelyn,” he called, his breath turning white in the air.

“Get in,” I said.

He walked around to the passenger side. When he saw the potted echeveria, he froze for a second.

Then he carefully picked it up and got in.

The car was warm, and the snow on him began to melt. Water dripped from the ends of his hair.

“How did you find this place?” I asked.

“I checked your flight,” he said

“And called the rental company.”

“Of course you did.” My mouth twitched. “Typical Mr. Whitmore.”

He lowered his head and looked at the echeveria in his hands. “You bought yourself a plant.”

“Mm.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Thanks.”

Silence fell between us. The heater hummed softly.

“Go ahead,” I said, eyes forward. “What truth?”

He turned the pot in his hands, his fingers brushing over the kraft paper.

“Serena’s baby,” he said slowly.

“It isn’t mine.”

I turned to look at him.

“What?”

“The baby isn’t mine.”

He repeated it, his eyes fixed on the echeveria’s leaves.

“The father is her ex. He ran off, and her family tried to force her to terminate the pregnancy. She had nowhere else to go, so she came to me.”

“So you let everyone think the baby was yours?”

“She needed someone to sign the prenatal paperwork,” he said.

“The clinic needed a father or spouse to sign the forms.”

“You could have said no.”

“I owed her.” His voice dropped.

“In high school, she helped me. Back when I was diagnosed, everyone avoided me. She was the only one who talked to me like I was normal.”

“So this was repayment?”

“Atonement.” He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot.

“But I went about it the wrong way.”

Snow had piled thickly against the windshield.

The whole world was wrapped in white.

“Julian,” I said, calm and almost tired.

“Even if the baby isn’t yours, you still went with her to those prenatal appointments. That is a fact. You still wrote Julian & Serena in your notebook. That is a fact.”

“Yes.” He admitted it quickly.

“All of that is true.”

“Then what else do you have to tell me?”

He took a deep breath, as if gathering courage.

“The pothos,” he said.

“I really did replace it three times. The first one died while you were on a business trip, so I bought an identical one.”

“The second one got infested in the summer, so I replaced it.”

“The third one was last month, when you overwatered it and the roots rotted.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.” He paused.

“It was something I bought for you. I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t even keep a plant alive.”

I laughed, but tears fell anyway.

“Julian, you’re unbelievable.” I wiped them away.

“You remembered to replace a pothos, but you couldn’t remember our wedding anniversary. You remembered that Serena needed help, but you couldn’t remember when I had a 102-degree fever.”

“I remembered,” he said suddenly.

“What?”