“Are you… trying to kill me?” he splutters.
“What?”
“For you falling in the toilet…”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “You’re just… snoring really loudly and I thought something was wrong.”
He squints his eyes. “So you thought you would plug my nose so I couldn’t breathe?”
“Well, when you say it like that it sounds bad…”
I roll over on my back and release a sigh. “I’m so tired,” I whine, sounding like a baby. “I can’t sleep with you snoring.”
“You snore too,” he volleys back.
I swing my head back toward him, shooting him a glare. “I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Well, if I do, there’s no way it sounds like whatever it is you’re doing,” I scoff. “Like you’re literally sawing logs in our bed.”
“Okay.” He chuckles, pulling me into his arms. “How about you fall asleep first, so my log-sawing doesn’t keep you up?”
I nod, laying my head on his chest. His arm comes around me, his fingers running soothing lines up and down my back. My lids become heavy and I’m almost asleep, my head feeling slightly fuzzy, when a loud choking sound has my eyes opening.
He can’t be fucking serious. How the hell did he fall asleep that fast?
I move out of his hold and grab my iPad. It’s obvious I’m not going to fall asleep right now, so maybe I can read a few chapters in my book. I always fall asleep while reading when I’m tired.
After reading the same paragraph several times and having no clue what I’ve read—because Ryan’s snoring is so close on my radar, I can’t not hear it—I grab my blanket and go to the living room. It’s already three in the morning. If I don’t fall back asleep soon, it’s going to be a rough morning when RJ wakes up, bright-eyed and ready for the day.
Out here, I can’t hear Ryan’s snoring, but the couch obviously isn’t meant to be slept on, because as I shift around trying to get comfortable, my back screams in pain. I finally give up and turn on my iPad. I read the remainder of my book and then start on another one before my body finally submits and I fall asleep.
“Bababababa.” The sound of RJ has me wrenching my eyes open. Not even on the monitor does he sound that close. Forgetting I fell asleep on the couch, I roll over and fall onto the hardwood floor with a thump.
“Ugh.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My knees and back are both moaning in agony, and my head is pounding. I couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, concern in his tone.
I glance up and find him standing in front of me, dressed for the gym and holding our son in his arms. RJ is no longer in his pajamas and is sucking down a bottle.
“Yeah,” I grunt, slowly rising to my feet.
“Why did you sleep out here?”
“It was either that or suffocate you in your sleep,” I say dryly, dragging my feet to the kitchen to make myself a cup of much-needed coffee.
“I’m sorry,” he says, following me. “I had no idea I snored that loudly.”
“Your wife never pointed it out?” Or tried to kill you…
“We slept in separate rooms,” he says with a shy shrug.
RJ drops his bottle and reaches for me. I take him from Ryan and he picks the bottle up, throwing it into the sink.
“It goes in the dishwasher,” I point out.
“Huh?”
“The bottle goes in the dishwasher, after you rinse it out. Otherwise it will stink up the bottle.”
“Oh, sorry.” He rinses it out and places it into the dishwasher, while I pour milk and sugar into my coffee.
“You’re going to the gym?”
“Yeah…” he says slowly. “Is that okay? I work out every morning, but I don’t have to—”
“No. It’s fine.”
“You sure?” he questions.
“Yeah. I have some stuff to do around the house.” I stand on my tiptoes and give him a kiss. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
After he’s out the door, I set RJ in his swing, put on a baby show for him to watch, and go about tidying up a little. I notice Ryan brought in his duffle bag and left it by the door. When I pick it up to move it to the room, I find it’s seriously heavy. Emptying it out, I set his stuff—like the photo album I got him—on his nightstand, and then grab all the dirty clothes to put them in the hamper. When I go to lift the lid, I notice the boxers, sweats, and shirt he was wearing last night are on top of the hamper. Not inside… but on top. Really? Is it that difficult to lift the lid and place them inside?
Grabbing his clothes, I add them to the pile in my hands and put them all into the hamper. Since the hamper is now full, I figure I should probably just do a load of laundry. So, scooping all the clothes back out of the hamper, I bring them to the laundry room and throw them into the washer, along with some detergent. I read the dials on the washer to make sure it’s set correctly. I’ve occasionally done my own laundry, but usually my mom—or the cleaning woman Dad hired to help out—handles it—I know, I know, I’m spoiled. But I’m not above learning.