Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
The ultimatum hangs in the air between them. Hell, between the three of us.
She licks her lips, her eyes blazingly blue. This is her moment of decision. She can unring that bell and go back. It’ll be awkward, but she could do it. She could do anything.
“I have to do this. For both of us. Otherwise, I’m going to be standing at the kitchen sink one night after putting our kids to bed, and you’re going to come home after ‘working late’ when what you were really doing is sleeping with the new teller at work. And we’ll both be lonely, sad, and alone. I want better than that for us both.” She implores him to understand, speaking from a well of deep sadness, but he’s staring back in slack-jawed confusion at the picture she’s painting. Before he can collect his scattered brains enough to argue, she continues, “One day, I hope you’ll see that this was for the best. That just because we fell in love and had the chance for our childhood dreams to come true doesn’t mean it’s the right thing. The future can be a complete unknown, and that’s okay because we don’t have to have all the answers today. I know that sounds crazy coming from me, Little Miss Planner, but it’s the truth. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know what I’m not doing.”
Marrying you.
She doesn’t give her answer to his ultimatum aloud, but damn if I don’t hear it. Roy does too.
But he can’t accept it, already shaking his head as he forms a rebuttal.
I get it. He’s losing the most important thing he’s ever held, but he can’t keep Hope by holding on tighter.
Free and wild, wherever you choose to be. Flying on the wind, please take me.
“This isn’t over,” he vows. He takes a step back, and then another, before turning, shoulders slumping. It’s a hard hit, and it hurts.
Yeah, it is over, and he knows it. But he doesn’t want to admit it. That’d make it real, and he’s not ready. But Roy’s feelings on the matter don’t mean shit to me.
All I care about is that Hope watches him go for a moment and then turns to me with a wavery smile. “I did it.”
“Fuck yeah, you did. How do you feel?” I step into her space, not touching her but wanting to lend my support if she wants it.
Her answer is important. What she’s done isn’t easy, so being torn about it is to be expected, but underneath the gut-wrenching, there should be a release of that knot she’s been holding on to for too long.
“Scared,” she confesses. “But like I’m gonna be okay. I hope Roy is, too, someday.”
Sweet girl knows she broke that fucker’s heart, but he didn’t deserve her. Any fool can see that. It might’ve only been one emotional conversation, but he went from slick charmer to bossy asshole to whiny brat at the drop of a hat, manipulative to the end. Admittedly, he’s desperately in love and probably kicking himself in the ass, but he didn’t listen to Hope. Not really. Or else he’d want her to run so she can find happiness, even if it’s not with him.
Loving someone isn’t about getting what you need from them, but about giving them what they need. And Hope needs freedom, passion, and surprises—all things Roy couldn’t or wouldn’t give her. And now he’s paid the ultimate price . . . he’s lost the best thing he’s ever known.
But Hope? She’s finding something important—herself. And it’s fucking breathtaking to witness.
Chaos in a bottle, going wild beneath the lights. Prettiest train wreck I’ve ever seen, covered in your glittery midnight.
The words are coming fast and easy when I think about Hope, and I use some of the ones I willed myself to remember on the boat tour, which seems like a lifetime ago, not only this morning. I get a chorus done in record time, go back to add the opening verse, and then stare at the words in the notebook in front of me.
This feels like the old magic, and this is the point where I’d usually share it with Sean. I value his input and want it to feel right to him too. Before I question myself, I grab my phone, take a picture of the scribbled lines, and send it to him.
I’m avoiding the conversation we need to have like a weak-ass bitch, but hopefully, this can be the olive branch we need to find a starting-over point.
New phone. Who dis?
It’s not a new phone, and he knows exactly who sent the picture.
Got inspired, what do you think?
Think you’re an asshole who writes shitty poetry.
Thanks. I’m thinking ballad for this one.
I’m thinking you can suck my sweaty ball sack.
I sigh as the irritation begins to prick over my skin. But then another text comes through: