Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“To your question.” He rubs at my arm with an easy smile. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Some would argue you saw plenty of the women you had a threesome with.” Cool, cool, cool. I’m the obsessed rejected stalker now. What a terrific look.
He waves me off. “That was a high school pal who came to Salem for a visit. She called, and we went out for drinks. It was right around my birthday, and she wanted to celebrate. One thing led to another.”
“That’s just one woman, though. How did it become a threesome?” I refuse to let the subject go. I hope the CIA is recruiting soon. I could use a job.
“The bartender.” He smiles apologetically.
“You should stop smoking.” I change the subject.
“Why?” He takes out the soft Lucky Strike pack and tucks a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, just to spite me.
“Cancer.”
“If I die, it’s on me.”
“What a selfish thing to say.” I scowl. “If you die, you leave everyone else to cope and grieve. Your parents have been through enough.”
“Maybe, after I finish the book.”
“That’s a week away.” My voice brightens.
He chuckles. “After revisions.”
“That could take years!”
“Yup. I can work with that timeline.”
We talk for hours after that. About books, music, films we’ve recently watched. About the correspondence he’s had with two literary agents who are interested in Winds of Freedom.
“One of them did say I should treat this as a working title only.” Joe frowns. “Said it sounds like someone let one rip and is now feeling the relief.”
I cackle. “I can never unhear what you just told me. You cannot use Winds of Freedom, buddy.”
He elbows my ribs. “Instead of criticizing, help me.”
“Lost in New Orleans?” I ask.
“Generic,” he tsks.
“Big Little Easy?” I try again.
“Ever.” His eyes widen. “Wow. That is terrible.”
“At least mine doesn’t sound like an ass burp.”
“You’re really poetic. Anyone ever told you that?”
“I think you did, once. And that was after we had sex.”
We both laugh.
After the alcohol has seeped out of my system, I drive him to a boutique hotel in the Tenderloin. I tell him it’s a rough neighborhood and that he should be mindful of that.
“They should be wary of me. I’m a Bostonian.” He puffs his chest in an exaggerated way that makes me laugh.
“Just watch out, tough guy.”
He kisses my cheek before leaving. I watch him go, then wait a few more minutes as I ogle the hotel door, waiting for him to . . . what? Realize he forgot to profess his undying love for me and jog back to my car?
Yes. I’m that much of a mess.
But since Joe isn’t, the door doesn’t open, and he doesn’t come back and tell me we should be together.
On my way back home, I call Pippa and relay everything that happened today. Finally, I don’t have to summon her into my memory. Talking to her regularly again soothes me.
“So he makes a huge romantic gesture but still wants you to know he is fucking other people?” she muses. I can hear her munching on baby carrots, her favorite snack. “Sounds to me like he’s in deep denial. Now, who does that remind me of . . .” She taps her fingernail over a hard surface on the other line. “Oh, right. You.”
“Denial about what?” I bark. I’m about as friendly as a pet rock right now. Pippa is on the receiving end of my residual emotional carnage. That must mean we are back to being BFFs. You only dump your emotional mess on people you are close with.
“Your feelings toward Joe.”
“I’m not in denial. I know damn well I’m in love with the bastard!” I punch the steering wheel, accidentally beeping at the car in front of me. The driver jerks forward automatically before realizing the light is still red. Oops.
Pippa laughs, delighted. “I just wanted you to hear yourself say that. Now all you need is to tell him.”
“I don’t think it’s reciprocated.” I worry my lower lip.
“I don’t think it’s your place to determine,” she shoots back cheerfully.
“Anyway, what does it matter? I don’t have the guts to be with him.”
What would his parents think? What would the world think? The brother and the fiancée, finding comfort in each other’s arms. This is not the truth, of course. But people never want the truth. Only the juiciest, most easily digestible narrative offered to them.
“Ah, living gutless. It worked so well for you before, didn’t it?” Pippa teases. “There’s no way around it, Ever. If you want to be happy—you have to take chances. You have to open yourself up to getting hurt.”
“I’m scared to make a choice.” My voice cracks as I round the car into my neighborhood.
“You know what’s scarier?” she asks. “Not making one at all.”
Joe and I stay true to our promise to focus on work during the weekdays.