The Book Of Me & You

"Paper Cut Stings From Our Paper Thin Plans"

If you cried last chapter, get ready for this one.

I'm sorry in advance.
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Amy twitched ever so slightly, a small draft rushing against her bare skin partially hidden under the corner of the sheet.

Ricky's hand was resting lightly against her bare left thigh just below but butt, leg bent at a 45-degree angle, while light snores came from his partially parted lips against the pillow.

She blinked a few times, registering her surroundings, and smiled affectionately at how cute he looked with his disheveled hair that her hands had ravaged though a few hours before.

Not wanting to disturb him, but desperately needing to pee, she slowly and carefully slid out from under him, tugging his black button down over her exposed midsection - given how she always had some kind of his clothing on just incase John decided to crawl into their bed unannounced - and crossed her legs in a desperate attempt to fight her lack of bladder control since giving birth to their daughter as she ran down the hallway.

Coming out of the bathroom, she creaked the door open, peaking quietly into the night light lit room at their two sleeping angels shielded under their blankets.

Tugging the shirt further down her bare skin, Amy let a small giggle leave her mouth as she bent to retrieve her red lacy underwear that he had so carelessly tossed atop his backpack by the bed, with the matching bra lying lazily on the corner of the nightstand.

When her fingertips brushed against the fabric, and she gathered them into her grasp, the backpack tipped over silently - different sized bits of white paper spreading halfway out onto the hardwood.

Ignoring it, she hastily put the red lace back on her body, sighing tiredly as she bent to pick up the shards: thinking nothing of the pages that she assumed were that of a paper or a test he wasn't satisfied with, and went to throw them in the trash by the sink.

One of the pieces fell to the floor, the blue cursive ink catching the light from the window just enough for her to see the visible words "to feel your hand" scribbled down. Furrowing her brow, Amy took her foot off the trash bin and frowned, bringing the pieces of torn paper to the table and moving them around in a single line all the way across. Having had to put multiple papers and homework sheets back together given John's little destructive self when he was younger, she was somewhat of a pro in reconstruction, and began to slowly bring each piece up to the light to find where it fit.

10 minutes later

Tilting the small palm sized flashlight she'd found on top of the refrigerator up, she shuffled the final piece - each blue cursive inked line now matching almost perfectly up to that of its counterpart. Admiring her work, she began to read, squinting and then frowning at the words etched on the page.

Eight.

Amy read the profession eight times.

Each time letting another piece of herself crack until, finally, the last sentence sent her to the floor, unable to control the hurt, betrayal, anger, and pain that stabbed through her chest like a harpoon as she brought her knees to her chest and silently wept in the darkness - determined to spare their innocent children from being awoken by her pain.
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He mumbled something into the pillow, rolling over to the cool empty space beside him, eyes still closed, flexing his fingers against the sheets before sleepily starting to open them. Mumbling again, he could see her through his hazy eyes sitting at the kitchen table, "Coming back to bed?" Ricky asked in the darkness, shifting slightly on his elbows to get a better look at her. She was silent, staring off into the kitchen window above the sink. Blinking a few times, he chuckled lightly, "Surely you didn't leave me over here in the cold for a snack?" No reaction, just silence.