Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“At least you said the thing about his penis,” I muttered as I switched on the coffee machine and ordered Chinese takeout on my phone. But I even felt bad about that. What if I gave him a complex about the size of his penis? Honestly, it wasn’t even small . . . it just wasn’t in proportion to his height.
I called Althea and told her what happened, needing reassurance I wasn’t a horrible person.
“And why the hell are you worried about giving him a complex? Girl, he basically told you that you weren’t good enough for him.” My friend snapped angrily. “I hope that comment about his penis haunts him every time he whips it out.”
I burst into laughter, feeling tears of amusement prick my eyes instead. “Oh God, I love you.”
“I love you too. And whatever you do next . . . do not call one of your college friends to tell them about this, okay?”
I frowned because I had been planning on calling Gabby next. Gabby was not only my college roommate but also my best friend from high school. She worked and lived in Newark, so I didn’t get to see her often, but we talked every week. Still . . . maybe Althea was right.
Let’s just say George wasn’t the only one who had pinned me with a rep I didn’t deserve.
Later, I sat down on my couch, laptop on lap, take-out carton in hand, and proceeded to watch the rest of the videos Christopher had sent Darcy. My phone buzzed and binged, but seeing it was missed calls from both my parents, for once I put myself first and ignored them. I’d pay for it in the morning when I contacted them.
By the time I’d watched all the videos of Christopher, I wasn’t even thinking about George, which just said it all.
Instead I googled every little bit of information I could find on Christopher Ortiz, looked at a ton of his Instagram posts, and rewatched his talk show interviews.
It wasn’t until I thought about the last video letter, the one that had been his most personal yet, that the remorse kicked in big-time.
I’d watched video letters that weren’t meant for my eyes and ears. This man, this super intelligent, charismatic man who exuded joy and kindness, had sent these private videos to his girlfriend and did not know a perfect stranger had watched them all.
And intended to watch them all again.
He deserved to know.
And I should apologize.
George was wrong. I had a backbone. I should send a video letter apology to Christopher, a stranger I had a crush on, even though he’d probably hate me after, because it was the right thing to do.
FOUR
Chris
PRESENT DAY
Standing in the prewar apartment Mom left me, I gazed out the large window at the city before me. Most New Yorkers would kill for this apartment. I loved it. Not just for its view or the fact that it was eleven hundred square feet of space in Midtown East, but because it was a piece of my mother.
My father had bought her the apartment. My mom was a server at a party my father’s business partner, Benjamin Clairmont, had dragged him to. Javier was a highly intelligent college student on an academic scholarship, juggling multiple jobs, struggling but determined not to fail when he met Ben at college. Their friendship turned into a business partnership, funded by Ben’s seed money, but it was my father’s shrewd mind that grew it into what it would become. Ben opened doors to the business world via his father’s connections, but I don’t know if either he or Ben expected the level of success that they achieved. They were just on the cusp of that success when my father met my mother at that party. She was a beautiful, hardworking white girl with grand ambitions, and I think, despite his claims about practicality over passion, he loved her. She told me that she’d confided to him about wanting to live in “an apartment in the sky,” and so he bought her the Midtown East place as a wedding gift.
But then they had Miguel and decided they wanted a house outside the city. But the Midtown East apartment stayed in my mom’s name, and she didn’t want to give it up. Sentimental attachment. With financial backing from my father, Mom had gone back to school, studied interior design, and had launched what would become a very successful interior design company.
She’d taken down two walls in the apartment, turning it into a spacious one bedroom and an open-plan living area with a kitchen, dining, and sitting room, all with a massive corner window that looked out over the city.
When Mom died, he sold our family home and bought a bigger apartment in Manhattan, and Mom left the apartment to me and Miguel. When I turned eighteen, it was ours. We’d kept it as a rental, but after my brother died, I took the money Mom had left us from the sale of her company to cover the monthly maintenance costs and moved in. I’d updated the decor to put my taste into it since it hadn’t been touched in years.