Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
He made that same offer before, and as much as I’d love it, I can’t. “I need to stay with Bette.”
“All right,” he says, sighing as he leans in and tastes my mouth one last time tonight. “Call me in the morning.”
I amble up the driveway as he climbs into the driver’s side of the Nissan, and I sneak inside, reeling.
Every part of me is lit, alive in a way I’ve never known.
I feel unstoppable, giddy, and I couldn’t wipe this ridiculous smile off my face if I tried.
It’s a foreign sensation—all of it, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize …
… this must be what it feels like to be loved.
Chapter 32
Talon
We file into a pew in the middle of the church Saturday afternoon, next to a woman with an oversized hat and a man in a mothball-scented tweed suit. Their expressions are somber, mournful almost. But I think that’s just the way they look …
The place is covered in pale pink flowers and silver ribbons and a woman in the front plays How Great Thou Art on an organ. Irie says this is what weddings are like in Iron Cross—a hybrid between a marriage ceremony and a service, but with an odd funeral vibe to round it out.
“You excited?” Irie asks with a teasing wink. “You seem like the kind of guy who just loves a good Midwestern wedding.”
“Let’s be real: I’m just here to catch the bouquet.”
She laughs through her nose, but her smile fades the moment her attention skirts over my shoulders toward a clean-cut dark-haired man making his way down the aisle.
He takes a seat in the row behind us, a leggy brunette with glossy curls on his arm. The stench of his overpowering perfume is almost nauseating as it assaults the air around us. Irie’s hand is still in mine, only there’s a slight tremble to it.
It’s him.
Trey McAvoy.
Has to be.
I don’t think she’s afraid of him—I think his sheer presence brings out all the deep shit she’s been avoiding all these years.
I give her hand a tight squeeze before leaning in and whispering, “Fuck that guy.”
Her posture gives a little, and she relaxes against me, resting her head against my shoulder.
“I love you,” I whisper next.
“I love you too.”
Saying those words to her last night in the football field was the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever done—but once they were out, I’d never felt so liberated.
So I’m that guy now.
Drunk-in-love, drunk on her.
After a few more minutes, the pews fill all the way to the back, and the groom makes his way up front next to the preacher.
As soon as the music begins to change, five sets of bridesmaids and groomsmen march down the aisle, all of them carbon copies of one another. Honestly with as prissy and conniving as Lauren is, I’m shocked she was able to scrounge up these many friends for her bridal party.
Irie keeps her attention on the front of the church, her gaze never veering, not once. But every time I steal a quick look around, I catch him staring, watching the two of us. I even shoot him a smile. Not a kind one of course, one that implies that I see him, I’m onto him. That she’s mine. That he can gawk all he wants but she’ll never want him, she’ll never be his again.
His gaze is so heavy, so penetrating, so invasive, I’m going to need a chemical shower to get it all off me.
As soon as the bridal party is settled up front, the music changes once again, the wooden pews creaking as everyone rises to acknowledge the bride. In the back of the church, Lauren stands in the whitest of white princess-style gown. An elaborate veil covers her face, hiding everything but her bright pink lips that match the plethora of pink flowers she’s had placed in every corner of the sanctuary.
A woman in front of us gasps when Lauren and her father pass, exclaiming to her husband that Lauren looks like a “modern-day Grace Kelly” … whoever that is.
A few moments later, Michael gives his daughter away and takes a seat next to Elizabeth in the front row, dabbing at the corners of his watering eyes.
It makes me think of Irie—and the fact that she doesn’t have a dad. Would she want Michael to give her away someday? Or maybe she doesn’t want to marry at all. Seems like everyone I know is swearing off marriage, and for a while, I was right there alongside them.
But when you meet someone and you know you want to spend the rest of your life with them, it changes your whole perspective on locking it down.
I glance at Irie, whose stoic expression is virtually unreadable, and I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking right now … specifically, if she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking.