Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I want to give her time and space for that. To take the time and space myself, too.
She calls something to me from the room.
Goodbye. I think. I don't chase her down. I let her leave. I give her space.
It's strange. I want to hold her close, and I want to set her free.
How can I want such opposite things?
Maybe that's what I missed before. Maybe that's something about love. It means wanting the best for someone else, no matter what.
I do want the best for her.
Even if it isn't this.
I just—
I'm not considering that yet.
I take a shower and dress in clean clothes.
I look at the pictures we took last night.
Cell phone snapshots aren't my thing. Maddie always teased me about that.
How would anyone know we were together? How would anyone know I even existed if I never took a photo to prove it?
But that's silly. People existed before we had cameras in our pockets. They existed before photography. There's nothing to prove and no one to prove it to.
We were together, whether I took a picture of us lounging by the pool or not.
But now, I see what I was missing.
The desire to capture a moment. To share my joy with someone else. To feel a happiness so intense, I needed to prove it existed.
I've never felt that before.
But it's in these pictures. I shouldn't have dismissed Maddie. Just because I didn't feel that bliss, because I didn't love her, because I didn't see it. She felt it. She wanted it.
I didn't listen.
Right now, looking at the photos I took last night, I see every inch of it.
This is two people enjoying their time together. Two people who want everything they're doing.
Photos from the bar. The bartender. Our drinks. Our hands, intertwined. The bartender, offering us a lost and found ring.
Daphne, on her knees, holding up the rings.
And the venue. The wedding itself.
Daphne looks happy in her white sequined dress, her eyes on the ring.
This time, she's staring at it like it brings her all the joy in the world. Like she can't believe she actually asked, and I said yes, and we made it to a chapel.
I can't believe it either. But looking at the picture, me and my slacks, and her cocktail dress, and Elvis in a studded jumpsuit between us—
It feels right.
It is right.
Husband and wife. Till death do us part.
It was her idea.
As was—
Shit.
She posted the photo right away. On all her accounts. And all of mine.
And there it is, on my Instagram. I already have a thousand likes. I don't even have a thousand followers. I haven't posted in months.
Who the hell is liking these pictures?
Comment from RipMeANewLaw. What a happy night! I bet you know how to rock a honeymoon.
My work rival.
The fucker even dropped a winking emoji.
If he found out I got drunk in Las Vegas and married a woman who isn't the one I had phone sex with at the office—
He will use that against me.
No question.
Why is he even following my account? I don't use it. I only made it for fun with Cassie. Shit, Cassie.
Right on cue, as if propelled by some sort of younger sister sense, she knocks on the door.
"Jackson," she says. "Seems like we need to talk."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jackson
In her black tank top, ripped jeans, Converse sneakers, and thick eyeliner, Cassie looks as stylish and effortless as always.
The expression on her face isn't normal.
She's worried. Not about her work or her boyfriend or our parents or our younger siblings.
About me.
My sister smiles. "Usually, I'm the one asking you for advice." She doesn't rub it in. She could—I offered a lot of unsolicited advice about her current boyfriend (and several exes).
I don't regret it—I was looking out for her—but, for the first time, I get how she must have felt. How much it hurt to hear someone she loves tell her not to be with someone else she loves.
All right, maybe I regret one part.
I don't think I ever kicked her when she was down, but fuck if I did—
"I'm an asshole, I'm sorry," I say.
She nods in agreement. "True. But what is this in reference to?"
"Damon."
"Wait a second." She holds her hand to her ear. "Is Jackson Steele apologizing for misjudging Damon Webb?"
"Not when you say it like that."
She holds up her fingers and presses them together in a so close gesture.
Okay, she's right. I owe her a real apology. "I should have given you more space to make your own mistakes."
"And when he breaks my heart again, you'll show up with tissues and a gun?" she offers.
"Of course. The tissues."
"The gun you'll do on your own?" she offers.
"I wouldn't use a gun, Cass. Where's the craft?"
Her raspberry lips curl into a wide smile. "This might help." She holds up a carry-out container of iced drinks.
I take the iced tea.