Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
The music’s soft, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating me as I look down at my dress.
My wedding dress. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like what Avery wore, but that’s okay. If anything, it’s better, because it’s meant for me. The ceremony’s perfect for me too. There’s only a small group. Mom, of course, Aunt Etta with Lester on her shoulder, the minister, myself . . .
And Wyatt. Under the draping branches of the willow tree we’re gathered under, he holds my hands, his smile wide and happy.
“Everything about you was wrong—you were the wrong bridesmaid, you lived in the wrong town, and you had all these wrong assumptions about me. But somehow, you and I were meant to be together, today and forever, right here in our hometown. And that is right. I love you, Hazel Sullivan.”
I blink away the tears, speechless for once in my life. Finally, I find words, not the traditional vows, but ones from my heart . . .
“I was wrong. About everything. But most of all, about you. You’re more than I ever dreamed, and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong. Yeah, I’ll admit it . . . this one time, so listen close . . . I was wrong. I love you, William Wyatt Ford the third.”
I startle awake, the dark night still surrounding us. Wyatt is asleep but must sense my movement because he pulls me in, cuddling me. We’ve moved, and he’s on his back, but instinctively I curl into him, laying my head on his shoulder to stare at his profile in the moonlit darkness. He’s beautiful, inside and out.
My dream tickles at the edges of my brain, feeling surprisingly warm.
I’ve heard that dreams are the brain’s way of processing the minutiae of daily life, but it’s an imprecise process. Like the time I ate cotton candy at the zoo and dreamed of hippos dressed in fluffy pink candy tutus doing ballet through the water. Your brain takes the information of the day and doodles with it, making funky collages of the whole thing.
So it would make sense that getting closer to Wyatt on the tail of Avery’s wedding is probably what made my brain put that little movie-style love scene together. I shouldn’t read more into it. It doesn’t mean anything.
Even so, as I fall asleep, I hope my brain cues up a sequel, or maybe an encore performance. Because if I remember right . . . Wyatt wasn’t wearing pants in my dream.
Chapter 18
WYATT
Home. It’s a strange thought, because my parents’ house hasn’t been home in what feels like forever. For a long time, I vowed that I’d never consider this place home again, and that if it burned down, I’d come back only to piss on the ashes.
But walking in after being at Hazel’s makes it feel even less so. There’s no warmth, no desire to curl up and relax. It’s just walls surrounding people who happen to be related to one another.
Okay, that might be a bit harsh. I do care about Wren, Winston, Mom, and fine . . . even Dad. But it’s a different kind of care. More than anything, I worry about my sister, hope for my brother . . . and my parents are more complicated.
It’s a contrast between us and the lengths Hazel’s family go to take care of each other. I’m quite sure that if I were to hurt Hazel’s feelings, her mother and aunt know quite a few places my body would never be discovered.
“Bill, is that you?” Mom’s voice comes from the back living room, and I freeze in my tracks.
For a telling moment, I consider dodging her, and glance up the stairs at the escape they offer, but ultimately call back, “No, Mom. It’s me.”
I regret my response approximately two seconds later, when I walk in to see Mom holding court. There’s a group of women politely perched on the edges of chairs and couches, matching books with mugs of coffee in front of them. Going by the matching covers, it seems I’ve walked in on book club time. Mr. Puddles is lying on the rug in a beam of sunlight, watching the tray of veggies that looks to be untouched.
“Didn’t realize you had company, Mom.”
I can see the eager, curious looks of the women, and Mom beams. “Oh, it’s fine! Come in and let me show you off a bit.” She closes her book, using a notepad as a bookmark, and waves me in.
Begrudgingly, I take a few steps into the shitshow circus. “Reading anything interesting?” I say, trying to keep the focus off me.
A woman holds up her copy of a self-help bestseller and explains, “It’s for our book club.”
Another teases, “Don’t you dare think us boring, though. We’ve read some spicier things too.”