Freida McFadden

My friend Lindsay literally has an entire room just for her clothing. But she’s not married. So she gets to do whatever she wants without another person criticizing her every move.

“I got us separate rooms,” I blurt out.

Noah slides his foot onto the brake at a red light. He turns to stare at me, his hazel eyes wide. “What?”

“At the inn.” I look away from him, out the windshield. “I booked us two separate bedrooms.”

“You did?” Even though we have been fighting nonstop all morning (hell, all year), he sounds hurt. “But… why?”

“What did you unlock the door for?” she snapped at me.

“It was hot.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it. Now she’s going to report me for being a terrible parent and you’re going to get taken away from us. They’ll put you in a foster home. You’ll never see me or your father again.”

The thought of never seeing my mom again? Not so bad. But the thought of never seeing my father again made me sick. So sick, I had to make her pull over so I could vomit.