Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Back at the townhouse, I accidentally overcook the pasta, which is slightly embarrassing considering I’m half French and pasta is one of those meals a chimp could perfect. Even so, I somehow get it wrong. Noah doesn’t mention it, though. We sit across from one another at the dinner table and he finishes a big bite, offering up an appreciative smile. It hits me then that I’ll really miss my brother while he’s gone. It’s not all that surprising—I like the guy—it’s just that I’ve been too busy to really think about it for the last few days. We’ve lived in the same city for so long now, have always had each other to lean on, and the idea of him leaving in a few days has me putting down my fork and pushing away the second half of my meal.
“You’ll come back and visit, won’t you?”
He glances up at me, his sharp brown eyes narrowing in concern. “If I can find time in my schedule. Worst-case scenario I’ll be back for Thanksgiving. Definitely Christmas.”
I laugh. “You sound like Mom and Dad.”
He chuckles. “Speaking of our parents—did Mom call you today?”
“Yes. Left a voicemail complaining about Dad.”
“Ah, well the call I got must have come later then because she was raving about him. Said they were about to board a plane to Dubai for a piece he’s working on.”
“Sounds about right.”
My parents are a glowing example of everything not to do in a marriage, and yet they’ve been together now for forty years. They fight like crazy, claim the other is driving them insane every other week, and as soon as Noah or I think this time will be the last time, just when we think one of them has pushed the other too far, they’re back in love, more than ever. I’m happy to have an ocean between us. Their rollercoaster of a relationship stresses me out just thinking about it.
The root of my mom’s issues comes from the fact that when they were young and my dad’s career was just taking off, she felt like her own interests were pushed to the back burner. There’s a bitterness that’s built up inside of her owing to the fact that my dad is a raving success and she isn’t. She doesn’t see their relationship as a partnership. She doesn’t see his success as her success.
“Never depend on a man,” she’d tell me while I was growing up, so often, in fact, I’d say it was like her life’s mantra. If she ever wrote a memoir, that would be the title.
She got her wish, though.
Here I am, twenty-eight and kicking butt in my career, no man in sight.
Look at me now, Mom!
“Connor, hey. You hungry?”
I glance up, surprised to see him walking into the kitchen. I didn’t hear the door open. I straighten in my chair and smooth a hand over my hair.
Connor drops his leather bag on one of the barstools then loosens the tie around his neck. I check for lipstick stains on his collar or a whiff of perfume in the air, but all I can smell is my dad’s signature pasta sauce.
“Yeah, thanks.” He sighs, sounding tired. “Surgery ran long and then I needed to stay for a research meeting.”
I nearly smile, glad to find out that’s where he was, not in the arms of another woman. Though why that matters, I don’t know. He’s dated other women. I’ve seen him with other women. I’ve seen his arm curl around the lower back of his date so he could tug her in close against his body and whisper something against her ear. He was standing outside a restaurant, waiting on a cab. He didn’t know I saw him, but I did. It was during one of my runs, years ago, and the memory still stings.
“Natalie made dinner,” Noah says, smiling.
I cringe. “Sort of. I was distracted, so the pasta’s a little mushy.”
Connor nods as he rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, presumably getting comfortable. Then he fills up a bowl with spaghetti and meatballs and walks over to the table. As he takes the seat at the head, his knee accidentally jostles mine.
He doesn’t apologize or move his leg away, so I don’t either.
There’s a smattering of polite conversation between Noah and him while I work on successful human-like activities: lifting a glass of water to my mouth without sloshing any over the edge, humming in agreement when the conversation demands it, blinking.
“Natalie, how do you feel about me setting you up with one of my friends?” Noah asks suddenly.
Connor drops his fork and it clatters against his bowl. Silence follows wherein I can’t meet Connor’s gaze even though I think he’s trying desperately to get me to look at him.
“What?” I ask, shocked. Noah’s never once offered to set me up.