Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Still, we both pretend not to notice.
It isn’t until we’ve arrived at the pristine stretch of private beach—one that serves to remind me of the unforgettable first night we shared—that Dorian finally speaks to me.
“I hope the irony of this isn’t lost on you,” he says when everyone else is out of earshot.
Before I can reply, he stalks off, his towel flung over his left shoulder.
So many things I’d say . . . if only I could.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DORIAN
One Year Ago
“What are you thinking about?” Briar sweeps her palm along the sugar-soft sand beneath us and releases a dreamy sigh.
Growing up, I used to hate that question.
It felt intrusive.
My thoughts are private, like a locked diary containing every opinion, secret confession, deepest fear, and biggest regret that’s ever passed through my mind.
But for some reason, I’m not annoyed by it tonight.
“All the glitter,” I say.
“What?” Briar laughs, confused.
“Your dress for one.” I point to the sparkly blue number that hasn’t stopped hugging her curves since she walked onto the party bus earlier tonight. “Your purse.” I motion toward her little bag next. “The sky.” I point up to the twinkling blanket of stars above us. What I don’t point out, however, is the glimmer that’s resided in her eyes the past couple of hours. I don’t want to assume it’s for me, nor do I want to sound like some pathetic sap rattling off corny lines in an attempt to get laid.
“I never wear glittery things back home,” she says. “In New York, I mean.”
“What do you wear?”
“A lot of black. Jeans and sweaters on the weekends. I’m a simple girl at heart.”
The ocean laps against the shore, inching closer to us before retreating. This stretch of beach is owned by the resort, and other than a uniformed man raking the sand a few minutes ago, we’re the only ones here.
“Glitter suits you,” I say.
“How so?” She tilts her head, studying me.
“I can’t really explain it,” I tell her. And it’s the truth. Sort of. I can’t explain it without sounding like some philosophical weirdo, and in case this is our last night together, I don’t want to leave off on that note.
But she sparkles—truly sparkles.
Inside, outside, and all around.
She’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met . . . in all the best ways.
“Why do you think people really want to get married?” she asks, changing the subject. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re just afraid to be alone, you know? And then I think about all these people making these drastic, life-altering decisions from a place of fear instead of love. Obviously, not everyone’s scared or whatever. Maybe the ones who married for the wrong reasons are the ones who don’t make it. And the ones who married out of pure love are the ones who stand the test of time.”
“People get married because they’re in love with the fantasy of marriage. The illusion of the happily-ever-after fairy tale we’ve all been sold since the beginning of time.” I dust some sand off my pants. “Why does anyone do anything? Because they want the fantasy of what that thing represents. Why did you move from Nebraska to New York? Was it the fantasy of a glamorous life in one of the most famous cities in the world? The promise of success? The excitement of a fast-paced life? Somewhere along the line, someone sold you on the fantasy of life in the Big Apple, and you bought it. It’s not that much different than marriage, in a way. You just committed to a city instead of a person.”
“Wow. You went . . . extra deep with that,” she says. Running her fingertips along her collarbone, she says, “I think . . . I think you’re not wrong.”
“Look, it’s not a bad thing. It just is what it is.”
“I hate that phrase . . . ‘It is what it is.’” She releases a puff of air through her lips. “It’s depressing. It insinuates we can’t change a situation, so we have to accept it, but a person can change almost every situation—or their attitude surrounding said situation. So in that sense, nothing has to stay being what it is.”
“Now you’re going deep. I love it.”
“You know what else bothers me about marriage?” She sits straighter. “The whole taking-the-man’s-last-name part. Granted, I know it’s not a requirement anymore, but most people still do it in the name of tradition or romance, completely ignoring the fact that the reason that started thousands of years ago is because women and wives were considered property. Giving them a man’s last name showed who they belonged to. I know it was a different time period, and that’s not what it means now, but still, I can’t get over that. Me, personally? I want someone’s heart. Their devotion. Their loyalty. Their love. I don’t need their last name.”