Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
I’m never going to survive tonight. I did well today, wrapping thoughts of Laurence in a tidy package and filing them neatly at the back of my mind. Then along comes Becca and stamps all over it, tearing through the paper and flinging every emotion I’ve ever felt for him to the surface. Even if I wrap him back up, I don’t think there’s enough tape in the world to hold the pieces in place while chowing down on bobtailed bunnies with his fucking family.
My phone is in my hand, thumb hovering over the maps app, when I find myself doing something else entirely. It’s like I’ve lost control of my own body. The text message thread appears to open automatically, even though I can see my thumb tapping the screen.
Me:
Who’s Emmett?
I watch for the three dots, chest deflating when they don’t show. I shouldn’t be surprised. A man like Laurence could be anywhere, doing anything. He could be modelling for some glitzy magazine. Receiving an award. Getting chased by paparazzi down a busy city street or mobbed by gorgeous women as he jogs through a leafy park. Although, none of those things have happened while I’ve known him. In fact, if I ignore the flashy cars, the posh hotel, and his bitter-faced bodyguard, I wouldn’t peg him as a movie star at all. I’ve never felt on show, as it were.
LC:
My brother. He introduced himself didn’t he?! Sorry!
The ping snaps me from my thoughts.
Me:
Not only that. He invited us to dinner. So that won’t be awkward at all. What do I do???
LC:
It’s just dinner. Really this time ;-)
Goddammit. I’m smiling. I shouldn’t be smiling. My life is in literal turmoil over here.
Me:
His wife is cooking Peter Rabbit! I think I’ll gag. I’m serious. This is serious. Help.
LC:
Josie’s rabbit is divine! Tell yourself it’s dark chicken. Tastes pretty similar. Bit meatier. Mix it in with ya tatties and you won’t be able to tell. Promise.
My smile refuses to leave. I feel better, somehow. Even about eating bloody rabbit. I should leave it there. End things on a good note. In a few texts, we’ve had a good, uplifting, friendly conversation. No need to complicate it. So why am I still tapping my screen…
Me:
How are you?
LC:
Missing you…
Shit.
I need to go now. Get the wine. Get back to my family.
Don’t say it.
Me:
I miss you too
LC:
Have you been thinking? No pressure
Me:
Constantly
LC:
And?
And I love my family. I can’t lose them. But…I don’t think I can lose him either.
Me:
I have to go. Becca’s calling. I’m supposed to be getting wine. So sorry.
Swallowing my deceit, I quickly delete our messages like the traitorous bastard I am, before tucking the phone back in my pocket.
Wine.
I can control that.
I’m going to focus on wine.
Chapter Eleven
William
Becca’s made the effort for dinner. Put on a dress, applied a darker shade of lipstick. She even got Lucy to blow dry her hair so that it flicks out at the ends. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, which Becca tuts at.
“It’s not The Ivy, Becs,” I argue, looking down at my attire. I think I look fine. It’s a nice shirt. Plain, with a collar. A little zip in favour of buttons.
The stroll to the farmhouse is almost enjoyable. I capture mental pictures along the way, committing them to memory. Beautiful scenery. Happy faces. Lucy posing for Instagram. Ben jumping in the way. Becca looking over her shoulder to check I’m still here, and then smiling when she sees me. We look like a moving postcard for idyllic country living. But that’s the thing with postcards. They’re curated. Fabricated. Designed to draw people in. They pick out the best and brightest parts of a place, taking meticulous care not to pan a smidge to the side where ugly truths are on display. Broken buildings, littered streets, people without homes or food.
Or in the case of our postcard…a husband with feelings for someone else.
When we arrive, I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be to sit down for a couple of hours with Emmett and Josie. I must’ve rehearsed every potential conversation in my mind throughout the day. Unfortunately, that goes to shit as soon as the door opens, and we’re thrust into a house filled to the fucking brim with people I don’t recognise.
“Oh, goodness. I wasn’t expecting such a crowd,” Becca says before kissing the woman who’s just greeted us with a kiss on her cheek. They giggle and flatter each other, like wives do, with Becca handing over the wine, while I keep repeating oh, goodness in my head, trying not to smirk. My wife is trying to be posh. She never says goodness.
“I’m Josie,” says the woman, closing the door behind us. She starts pointing at various people. “You’ve met Emmett, of course. Over there, we have Caleb. Connie and Caitlin, my and Emmett’s girls…”