Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
When I collapse on top of her, we’re both sweaty and wasted. Two bags of useless limbs. So human, so mortal, it is almost laughable that what we shared right now was divine. When I pull away a little to give her some space—crushing to death the woman I love is not on my agenda—she looks confused and childlike.
“You okay?” I ask.
She presses her lips together. “That really depends on how our next conversation is going to go.”
After we take a shower together, we dress to the sound of the city waking up. Winnifred leans against the poster I stole of her, her arms pressed behind the small of her back. She is staring at me as I get dressed. It’s a small gesture, but I’m not used to being observed. I decide I like it.
“What if we can never have babies?” she blurts out into the room. The question echoes between the walls.
“Then we’ll never have babies.” I roll a sock up my foot. “Why must there be an if about it. Since when do babies determine the strength of a relationship, or lack of?”
“We may never be able to have biological babies.” Her eyes are shining in the blue-pinkish hue of dawn, like two diamonds. She is thinking about Paul. She is thinking about the disappointment, the pain, the betrayal. She is worried about history repeating itself.
“You mean, we’ll be able to spend our time traveling all over the world, making memories, living the high life, and fucking twenty-four seven? I’ll try to bear the burden of such a scenario.” I stand up, but I don’t make a move toward her. Not yet.
“Oh, be serious.” She stomps her foot on my granite floor.
“I am serious.” I smirk. “I don’t care if we never have children. Quote me on that.”
“Then again, we might have lots of children. Three, maybe four!” she says heatedly. “I like babies. I love children. And if we can adopt, I’d definitely want to. How would you feel about that?”
“Exhausted, I assume.” I dig my heels into the plush rug under the bed, making a point that nothing she says is going to make me run for the hills. “And excited. The house will always be full. I will never be bored. I do prefer children to full-size people, as a general rule. They’ve yet to surrender every part of their individuality in order to fit in, and they view the world through a fascinating prism.”
What I don’t say is that I’d love a do-over. A real family. A place of my own. That I think Winnifred will make an amazing mother—like Patrice—and that I want to see her have everything her heart desires.
She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Her walls are breaking. I can feel them tumbling down, brick by brick.
“We both had such toxic relationships,” she whispers, eyes still closed.
“Yes. And we’ve learned so much from them. This feels different. Grown up. Fully ripe. It feels like I dismantled something unsteady and built it back together, but better.”
She opens her eyes and licks her lips. “I’m sorry I bailed on The Seagull. It was wrong of me—”
“I don’t give half a shit about The Seagull,” I cut her off. “It was never about the play. Never about your commitment to it. Always about us.”
She digs her teeth into her lower lip, considering this. “Yeah. I guess so. You couldn’t wait to get rid of Calypso Hall, could you? How was London, by the way?”
I smile. This is what she wants to talk about right now? Classic Winnie.
“Beautiful. Cold. Gray. The restaurant was fantastic.” I pause for a moment. “But I couldn’t do it. Calypso Hall is still mine.”
She tilts her head sideways, staring at me funny. “It is?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well . . .” I take a step toward her. Check the temperature. She is standing still, not inviting me to come closer but not withdrawing from me either. “I did pour five hundred thousand into renovations and a complete refurbishment just a few weeks ago. They’re due to start working on it after The Seagull finishes.”
She cups her mouth, her eyes flaring. “You didn’t!” She stomps, so full of joy I can’t help but tip my head back and laugh.
“Did too.”
“But . . . why?” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“I was going to sell it to Archie Caldwell, an old friend of mine, if you can call him that. He wanted it for his wife, who is moving here and looking for a project to keep her entertained. Then I realized if everything goes according to my plan, maybe I will have a wife who would like to keep Calypso Hall for herself too. Besides, turns out I’m one sentimental little shit. My mother loved this theater, and . . . well, I loved her.