Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Slade (age 11)
Slade—
You’re just mad you weren’t invited to my party.
Campbell (age 10)
6
Campbell
“Are you sure you want to register for that?” Slade points at the gaudy fiesta-style chip-n-dip platter in my hand as we peruse yet another shop for our bridal registry.
“Are you implying that I have bad taste?” I keep a straight face knowing damn well it’s the ugliest chip-n-dip platter in existence.
He cocks his head, lifting a brow. “Well, I’m not implying that you have good taste.”
“How great would this look at our annual Cinco de Mayo pool party though?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t agree to an annual Cinco de Mayo pool party.”
“Oh, but you did. I slipped it into the pre-nup,” I say. “Article twelve, section three—festivities and celebrations.”
“Must have missed that part.” Gently he takes the dish from my hand and places it back on the shelf. “I get the impression you’re just trying to waste time while your mom picks out our wedding china, but let me remind you we still have five more stores to hit after this.”
I hate how well he can ‘read’ me.
It’s cruel, really.
He picks up on more nuances than some of my closest friends ever have.
“You have a point,” I say.
At breakfast this morning, my mother informed us we’d be spending the day in Portland completing our wedding registry. Never mind that Slade’s house already has everything a person could want or need and then some. Most of the things we’re registering for will likely be donated anyway, so I’m keeping an eye out for practical items.
I’ve only been to Slade’s personal estate in Palm Beach once, and I wasn’t exactly making myself at home. Beside the place being ice cold thanks to a plethora of air conditioning units running around the clock, it was wide open, expansive, and reminded me more of a modern art gallery than a place a person would find comfort at the end of the day.
“My darlings, what do you think of these?” My mother appears out of nowhere, holding up two plates: one with a baby blue floral pattern around the edge and the other with scalloped gold edges. “You can’t go wrong with either, in my opinion. True classics. Though, Slade, I know you favor a more modern aesthetic, so I’m happy to look for more options.”
Slade and I exchange looks, both of us silently daring the other to speak first.
Anything I say to her will go in one ear and out the other, so I lift my brows and wait for him to pick.
“To be completely honest, Blythe, I can’t imagine we’ll use the china at all. Even then, it feels a bit superfluous to ask for twenty place settings. I’d hate to have our guests waste their hard-earned money on something that’ll be collecting dust in a drawer somewhere.” He softens his expression as if it could possibly soften the blow he’s just landed in my mother’s speechless direction.
Still, I’m impressed.
Hard truths rarely go over with her, but so far she’s maintaining her composure.
“Hmm.” She examines the plates in her hands. “Well, I mean, it’s tradition and all to register for wedding china, and most people display them in cabinets so they’re rarely out of sight—but if you’re absolutely positive you won’t use them …”
Slade defers to me with a wordless glance.
Are we actually on the same page for once?
“I agree.” I take a step closer to Slade, offering my support. “I appreciate the sentiment, but no sense in registering for something we’ll never use.”
“Fair enough.” She stacks the plates in her hands. “At least select some stemware while we’re here—they have some lovely champagne flutes over there. You can use them on your wedding day and toast with them on every anniversary, just like your father and I do.”
The ease of which my mother pretends all of this is normal never ceases to amaze me, so I don’t waste my breath reminding her there won’t be any anniversary celebrations. At least not on my part. I have no doubt Slade will be joyfully commemorating the specific milestones in which he collects another percentage of his inheritance.
“Sure,” I say. “We’ll head that way in a second.”
Mom trots off to return the plates to their displays, and I turn to my future husband.
“You can pick the flutes,” I tell him. “I’ve never been big on champagne and I highly doubt we’ll be celebrating anything, ever. I mean, with how hard everything will be and all.”
His coffee-hued irises flash, but he doesn’t offer a comeback.
“I need some air.” I point to the doors and head that way before he has a chance to protest. Not that he would. I’m sure he wants a break from all of this together-ness.
Once outside, I drag in a lungful of crisp winter air and let the cold sunlight wash over me. Hard to believe in less than a year I’ll be trading in the four seasons for alligators, well-fed mosquitos, and tropical storms.