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)
“That’s ludicrous.”
Ignoring his complaint is easier than I anticipated. “I’ll see you after class.”
“What if it doesn’t finish at the same time that I’m ready to leave?”
“Then you either wait or you leave without me, and I catch a ride home.”
“You’d just waste gas and risk your life leaving with a stranger?”
“I’d simply play the cards you left me to play, babe.”
“Can’t say I care for that term.”
“Can’t say that I care for your unwillingness to put me first every once in a while.”
“Presley-”
“Enjoy what’s left of your run, Xander.”
Not another word from either of us is said.
He just abandons his objection.
Doesn’t offer to join me.
Decides not to let me know here and now if I’m calling Katherine, an Uber, or hoping like hell that the housewife with three kids I ended up next to has room for one more person in her SUV on her way that direction.
I’m simply left backing up towards the studio rooms while he resumes jogging.
The other direction.
This…
This is what my life is.
This is what life has become.
This is the actual treadmill I need to figure out how to step off of.
**
Storming into Katherine’s dining room post the spin class I was determined to take – and in doing so it damn near killed me –, I clutch my half-finished mango madness smoothie to my chest and drop down into the cream-colored chair beside Angel who is smushing a banana in an attempt to eat it.
Or maybe just to have fun with it.
She’s a baby so most likely both.
“Why do I accept the indifferent state of my relationship with Xander?”
“Because you’re twenty-eight years old and have accepted the idea of romance as a lost notion for those too young to know there isn’t always a happily-ever-after so much as just someone you are compatible with in the circumstances you have managed to find yourself in.”
Her blunt yet correct accusation pushes my back against the chair. “Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
Sarcastically, I snap, “Answer faster, please.”
My best friend makes another goofy face at her daughter who giggles and reaches over to smash bits of banana on Katherine’s face. Like any well-trained mother, she dodges the blow with a wet wipe to wash her daughter’s hands. “You are wrong, darling.” Between wipes, she explains, “From the past few conversations we’ve had for my case study, it’s clear to me that you emotionally shut down after Ryder. I’m sure there’s a reason it shut down as harshly as it did, but regardless of whatever it is, it’s a fact. The romance you experienced then can easily be written off as puppy love, which to most I’m sure it is; however, I don’t necessarily agree with that theory. I never have. I don’t believe romance has emotional states like that. I believe people are the variable that changes. We mature. We grow. We are affected by our environment, our experiences or lack thereof, which results in how we view romance. But the actions and gestures themselves remain the same. Getting flowers is still getting flowers. Getting jewelry is still getting jewelry. Having someone hold your hand is still the same simplicity it was ten years ago. It is you or what you’ve become that creates the differences.”
The impact of her words causes me to slump further in to my seat.
Angel, like the sweetheart she is, offers me the remaining Cheerios in her hand, demonstrating her own act of love.
With the way I feel right now, I’m tempted to accept the soggy offering instead of just leaning over to pretend to.
She giggles at my monster eating noises before I sigh in defeat, “I effing miss getting flowers outside of teacher appreciation week, which they so sweetly add director/owner appreciation into.”
“Xander won’t buy them?”
“According to him they’re a waste of money and rude to the environment. They wither and die before their value has matched an adequate amount of time as well as disrupt the natural lifecycle of the plant.”
“Cards?”
“They’re a waste of money when he could simply text me sentimental words using a service that he already pays for that doesn’t require additional trees to be chopped down first.”
“I swear he’s an android.”
“Katherine.”
“Proof that the computers have already taken over and are testing how well they can blend into society.” She picks up her daughter out of her highchair while I snicker at her jokes. “Tell him, I’m onto him.”
“Katherine…”
“I’m gonna change and tuck this cute little thing in for a nap. Finish your smoothie, avoid eating the everything bagel on the counter, and meet me in my office.”
She strolls away with Angel who she’s returned to playfully cooing at.
Rather than mope in my seat, I do something I rarely ever do.
I wander around the downstairs area and stare at the numerous photos of Katherine and Carter. While every picture is in a frame that matches their chosen décor room by room, each one is different. There are various poses. Occasions. Moods. I stop to enjoy their wedding photo, which Xander was only excited to attend to network with some of their extended family. I giggle seeing him in a floral shirt next to her in a grass skirt and coconut bra on a tropical beach on their vacation. More laughs come over sights of them with pie on their faces from some family gathering. There are more candid shots as well as obviously staged ones like the pregnancy shoot that she did with Angel. And in every photo…every single fucking photo…there seems to be an obvious element in them.