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)
If you’re so smart, make that make sense.
Slade (age 13)
9
Campbell
“You’re seriously watching this without me?” Slade stands in the doorway of the den Saturday night.
“Oh, sorry.” I pause Mr. Perfect. “I didn’t realize you were into it.”
“I wasn’t,” he says. “But I’m invested. I want to know if Jessamyn ends up with Mr. Perfect and whether or not her sister and ex get their comeuppance.”
“Hmm.” I tilt my head. “Kinda sounds like you were into it.”
He takes the spot beside me, his body weight dipping the couch cushion just enough that there’s some sort of gravitational pull that brings me a few inches closer to him than before.
Whether it’s a strategic, intentional move or sheer happenstance is hard to tell, but I have my suspicions.
I press play and attempt to get comfortable despite the fact that my thigh and his thigh are basically fusing into one thigh and we’re sitting so close I can taste the mint on his breath when he exhales.
He must have brushed his teeth before he came in here …
“Is it true you wanted a black wedding dress?” he asks when we’re halfway into the next scene. Rose Byrne is showering with Mr. Perfect and in a span of thirty seconds, he goes from massaging the shampoo into her hair to massaging an orgasm between her legs.
“Yep.” I drag in a slow breath, waiting for some smart remark, but it never comes.
“And funeral flowers?”
“Yep.”
“Let me guess, you’re mourning the life you’ll never get to live.”
I clench my jaw, hating how spot-on he is while also being wildly impressed with his consistent penchant for keen observation.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“Little bit.” He sniffs. A bout of silence simmers between us. “Some people have real problems, you know.”
“Thank you for that enlightening tidbit of information. I had no idea.”
“I’m just saying, there are worse things in life than marrying into a family richer than God and having the kind of privilege ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine-nine percent of the world will never experience a fraction of.”
“Not surprised you’ve done the math on that.” I keep my gaze trained on the TV screen so I’m not tempted to look at his lips or his mouth this time.
“I’m just saying, sometimes perspective is priceless.”
“That’s rich coming from a man with quote-unquote more money than God,” I tell him. “By the way, who even says that? Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Not every truth can be wrapped in a pretty bow for the masses.”
“For the record, I’m not the masses, I’m your fiancée. And please don’t ever use that expression in my presence again.” I reach for the remote and dial the volume up a couple of notches. I don’t want to talk, bicker, or flirt. I’ve been with this man for two straight days. All I want is to escape reality for the next forty-five minutes by living vicariously through Rose Byrne and her sexual escapades.
“Noted.” Swiping the remote, he dials the volume back down.
“What are you doing?”
“Rose gets a little loud when she, uh …” His eyes dart to the doorway where my father essentially manifested out of thin air the night before. “I mean, unless you want everyone to think we’re watching porn in here or something …”
Fair point.
We continue the show, but in the minutes that follow, I can’t stop thinking about Slade’s comments, so much so that I can’t focus on Mr. Perfect’s eight-pack while he tugs his shirt off before baking Jessamyn pumpkin muffins for her neighborhood’s charity bake sale.
“I hope I don’t come off like some spoiled princess in a tower, crying over her good fortune,” I break the silence. “I promise I’m not like that. I’m not a poor little rich girl. I’m very grateful. Beyond, actually. I just …”
Slade pauses the show and turns his focus to me.
“The funeral stuff, that’s my sense of humor,” I continue. “I’m trying to make light of something that’s arguably pretty heavy. No one knows about this arrangement. Not even my closest friends. I can’t talk to anyone about it. There’s no one I know who can relate to the strange assortment of feelings swimming through my head at any given moment. I’m alone. I don’t even have you to talk to because you’re this impenetrable fortress of a man.”
I spare him the diatribe on how I’ve never had the choice as to where I was going to live, whom I was going to marry and have kids with, or even whether or not I’d keep my last name. All of those things were decided and all but written in stone before I took my first steps or said my first words. These ideas and expectations have been indoctrinated into me for as long as I can remember, presented to me as both a privilege and a threat at the same time.