Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Late for what?” Grant asks, and I silently think, I love you, but you’re a betraying little bastard right now.
“The thing, honey.” I skirt around my lie. “Come on.”
Grant digs his heels into the grass. “But you said—”
“Grant. Come on. We have to go.”
“But you said we were—”
God bless this adorable, horrible child.
“Sweetie, we have to go,” I order, grabbing Grant’s hand and starting to walk.
I turn to Noah over my shoulder hurriedly, thinking I’ll say one last quick goodbye to avoid looking like a complete psychopath, but my toe catches on Dolly’s leash and I trip forward. Noah reaches for my hand on a lunge, but the sudden move yanks Dolly’s leash taut—right between my legs.
The normally good girl lets out a bark of panic and jerks to a run, jamming the leash straight into my vagina, which, incidentally, really hurts my labia and my pride. It’s a real two-for-one special the grocery store never talks about.
Both Dolly and I yelp, and everyone else freezes, including Chanandler Bong. It’s not like they don’t care—even supermodel Kendall’s face is a mask of empathy—but this isn’t the kind of injury Noah can ask to take a look at, especially in front of his gorgeous lady friend.
I untangle myself in a manic twirl of limbs and lifting of legs, spinning in a complete circle with Grant’s hand in mine and absolutely trucking away from the people I’ve left to gawk.
I swear, the universe is the smitiest of smiters sometimes.
Noah calls out my name one more time, but I manage the cringiest smile in the world and a wave and then set my sights on anywhere but here. My phone pings in my jacket pocket, and I barely even hear it. The embarrassment is too loud.
Grant’s mouth moves a mile a minute.
“Where are we going?”
“What are we doing?”
“Why are we walking so fast?”
“I didn’t know old people could move this fast!”
You name it, he says it, but I’m too wounded to care. My southern lips need an ice bath pronto, and mentally, I need the respite that only the barrier of a locked door can provide.
By the time I manage to get us home, I’m sweating, my beaver is still aching from playing BDSM with a dog leash, and Grant’s given up on trying to understand what kind of psychotic break he just witnessed his mother suffer.
Instead, his attention is on watching cartoons while I make his requested lunch of macaroni and cheese, grapes, and broccoli with ranch.
I pour the dry pasta into the now-boiling water and grab the grapes and broccoli out of the fridge. The entire time, I’m still mentally berating myself for the outright ridiculous scene that just played out for all of Central Park to see.
Visuals of Noah’s concerned face and the empathy in Blondie’s eyes try to filter into my mind, but I shake my head, refusing to experience another replay of the embarrassment.
Instead, I grab my phone off the counter and decide to make my grocery list for the week as I wait for the pasta to cook.
A text notification from earlier sits waiting, and my hand quivers gently as I open and read it.
Gavin: I’ll be in New York all next weekend. Dinner Sunday? I’d love to see you again, Sammy. PS: I’ll even bring an umbrella just in case.
Sunday, May 1st
Call up Michael J. Fox and get the DeLorean ready because I am at a fancy Italian restaurant, and I still haven’t convinced myself it’s not because I’ve gone back in time.
The ambiance reminds me of classic, 1950s Italy with distressed walls and chandeliers and picture frames filled with previous guests and nostalgic memorabilia, and the soft music playing beneath the chatter of the dining room is that of classic crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.
And I’m dating, and there are no kids.
There absolutely has to have been a short circuit in the space-time continuum. Right?
Vincenzo’s is located in Lower Manhattan and is a New York staple that’s had famous guests like Denzel Washington and Lenny Kravitz dine in the private room at the back. And apparently, the owner is vehemently against reservations, but Gavin Evans, my date, has managed to get one.
And he’s gone to all this trouble because I love pasta.
Impressive, I know.
Gavin smiles at me from across the table as he takes a drink of red wine, and I return the gesture, even though, internally, I’m at war with myself.
Shockingly, it’s not because of the idea of being on a date. Compared to last time, I’m actually starting to find some sense of peace with it.
It’s the mom part of me that’s riddled with guilt, wondering why I agreed to this on a Sunday.
As one of my only off days, and the only one when the boys are off school too, it’s usually a lazy day for the three of us. We’ve made a habit of going to Central Park in the afternoon and spending the rest of the evening eating takeout and watching a movie together all snuggled up on the couch.