Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
She didn’t seem upset.
Hell, if either of us were grouchy about not getting in another session quicker it was me.
I want to be around my best friend.
I want her to ask me questions that lead to me indulging in intoxicating memories from a time when my life wasn’t solely defined by the amount that sits in a bank account, how many promotions are to be had, and campaigning for more attention to be paid to the environment when I can’t even get attention paid to me.
And I’m the one who takes the three fucking recycle bins out to the huge container every week!
“Cancel on her,” he quietly commands upon our arrival at his boss’s front door.
“I’m not gonna just cancel, Xander. These interviews are important to her. Her career.”
“Well, this is important to me and mine.”
“Hence why I’m here now.”
He continues to openly glower at the same time he rings the doorbell.
“I’m doing my best to compromise. Be there for you both. Can’t you acknowledge that and let it be enough?”
The front door is opened by a butler who politely ushers in. “Your coat, sir?”
Xander sheds his black outerwear, which wasn’t necessary to begin with considering it’s not as cold as it has been, and hands it to the gentleman without so much as a thank you or a curt nod to imply gratitude.
My quiet thanks in the servant’s direction is unfortunately overpowered by my boyfriend’s continued griping, “No, Presley, I can’t acknowledge a lie. I won’t. You should be by my side all night. I should come first. I should matter most.”
He’s not…entirely wrong.
I mean we have dated longer than Katherine and I have been friends.
Plus, he is my boyfriend, so he should be at the top of my priorities list beside myself and my family.
Too bad that’s the problem with should versus the way things actually are in my life.
Those two things rarely match.
For instance, we should be engaged in sex or any variety of it – blowjobs, handjobs, hell even a make out session – at least once a week, not once every six when I make a very bold “please get freaky with me” statement. And we should be thrilled to see one another – or even smile over the sight of each other –, not dodging phone calls – which I’m guilty of – or forgetting to not speak unless spoken too – him. Always him.
I like to believe things weren’t this way in the beginning. That we went through a sunshine and daisies thing. That we were just Whitney Houston love song crazy about one another, but when I’m honest with myself – something Katherine keeps encouraging me to be more and more often lately – I know it’s not true.
I know I’m trying to convince myself to believe a lie rather than the bitter truth.
Fact of the matter is, most of the things we’ve done were because they were logical investments, not emotional ones. We started dating because two of our friends were a couple, and we were always hanging out anyway. We moved in together because my roommate was moving out and he wanted someone to split bills with while saving for a better car. Hell, the reason we order one plate at dinner is simply not to waste money on food when we both know we’ll get full enough by sharing especially after appetizers.
Let’s call passion the Holy Grail in this relationship.
He doesn’t believe it exists.
I don’t believe it’s capable of being found.
“Xander!” His boss enthusiastically calls out, hand extended for the cordial shaking. “Glad you could make it on such a short notice.”
“Of course, sir,” Xander insists during their physical greeting. “You know you can always count on me.”
Kiss. Ass.
The instant his hand is free he motions it towards me. “You remember my girlfriend, Presley.”
I offer him the warmest grin I can. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Green.”
“Paul.”
“Paul.”
“Perfect, Presley,” he beams too bright, too wide in return. “And may I say that your presence is always a pleasure.”
The feeling is not mutual.
The only thing that annoys me more than Xander dragging me to these events to parade me around like some prized poodle at a dog show, is that I am indeed not a poodle, but more like a mutt grabbed from the shelter thrown in a room with purebreds.
I get enough of the inadequacy feelings at work without needing it in my face in my personal life at an unapproved constant.
A waiter casually strolls by with a full tray, and my eyes immediately catch a glimpse of something small. Bread like. Most likely crunchy rather than soft but still flavorful enough to subdue my overly inflamed senses. My mouth begins to water in anticipation of the herbs and spices while my fingers wiggle in preparation to stop him.
All of sudden, it hits me.