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)
It doesn’t hit me until we’re walking back up the stairs out of the park that I’m definitely late for work.
“Connor!” I scramble. “I have to go!”
“No.” He laughs. “You don’t work today.”
“What?”
“I called and asked another fellow to cover for you last week. You don’t have to go in today. We’re actually heading back to our townhouse now.”
“What? Why?”
“To celebrate.”
The surprises continue from there. Once we arrive, we’re greeted with an array of flowers and balloons offering congratulations. Voices carry from the kitchen and I spot Lindsey in the hall first. She throws her arms up in the air as she runs for me, nearly taking me down to the ground with her fierce hug.
“I’m so-so-so happy for you,” she says as I laugh and complain that she’s going to suffocate me.
Noah is there too, patting Connor’s shoulders and welcoming him to our family with a teasing glimmer in his eyes.
“Can’t say it was an easy entry.” Connor laughs, referring to their ridiculous fight weeks ago.
Noah shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t defend my sister, right? I had to make sure you were worthy of her.”
Connor grins and shakes his head, and we all walk toward the kitchen with our arms thrown around each other.
I think life can’t get much better until I hear a familiar voice speak English with a French lilt, and I look to Connor with a question in my eyes.
“How—”
He winks. “I arranged for them to visit. I figured you’d want them here to celebrate with us today.”
It’s impossible, but true. I find both of my parents in the kitchen. I almost don’t believe my eyes. I haven’t seen them in so long. They’ve been busy traveling for my dad’s work and now to have them here, only feet from me…I can’t stem the tears. How my body still has any left at this point, I have no idea.
It’s funny to see both sets of parents in one room together. Opposites doesn’t begin to describe them. Connor’s parents are unassuming and simple. His mom is wearing an apron over her jeans and pink sweater. Her highlighted blonde hair is twisted up in a bun with a tortoise shell clip holding it in place. His dad is wearing Wranglers and boots, accompanied by a flannel shirt with pearl snaps.
My dad, never one to travel without his camera, has it hanging on a worn leather crossbody strap layered over his emerald green sweater. He’s wearing a tweed flat cap and his white goatee is trimmed neatly. His eyes—the same color as mine—shine behind his round clear-framed glasses when he glances over and sees me stroll into the kitchen. Immediately, he breaks away from the group to walk toward me. His hands bring me in close.
“Mon bonheur,” he whispers before giving me a kiss on the cheek. Translated, his endearment means “my happiness”, a name he’s called me my whole life.
I’ve missed him so much. The scent he’s worn for as long as I remember clings to him and I inhale deeply. Mandarin, mint, and clary sage—the scent of my childhood home.
“You look radiant—happy. Are you happy?” he asks, stepping back to hold me at arm’s length. “With this man?”
Connor is within earshot, and still, my dad expects absolute truth from me, like if I wasn’t happy, I’d tell him so right now in front of everyone.
I laugh and nod, not quite up for full sentences yet, not while shock still has my heart racing a mile a minute.
He smiles and presses another kiss to my forehead before squeezing me tight against him again.
My mom steps near and my hackles go up. She’s not a mean woman, though her appearance can be deceiving. She’s taller than my dad by a few inches. Thin and elegant, like a ballerina. Her cheekbones are almost unnaturally sharp—like Noah’s—and even now, her smile isn’t as wide as everyone else’s in the room. She’s reserved and contemplative, never one to be overly excited or overly sad. Emotions, in her opinion, are meant to be felt insularly, not necessarily shared with the world.
Even now, she tuts at my tears and I roll my eyes.
“Can’t I at least get a hug before you start harping on me?” I tease.
She huffs and leans in, kissing each of my cheeks before smoothing a hand over my hair. Her hand skates down to my chin and she lifts it up to get a good look at me.
“Happiness looks so beautiful on you.”
Her accent is so romantic, heavily rooted in Spanish, though now that she’s traveled the world with my dad for so many years, it’d be impossible to trace the nuances of it.
“It’s good to see you, Mom. I’m glad you came.”
By now, most of the guests have gathered around the island, where Connor’s mom has placed snacks and drinks for everyone to share. My mom and I remain near the threshold of the kitchen, out of earshot.