Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 142664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
But when you know, you know. The girl I had dated longer than anyone else had wanted this with me, and I always knew it wasn’t going to be her. I didn’t lead her on to thinking differently, but like most humans, she thought she could change me.
She wasn’t pleased; no one was when I decided to break it off. Though we parted amicably in the end, it was for the best after all; I’m sure they would’ve hated it even more had we gotten married only to divorce in a couple of years.
I say that because I received a call from my ex earlier our time while my wife was still asleep. She was hurt and offended that I had married someone I barely knew when I wouldn’t commit to her after dating for so many years.
This was something I thought about as well; I’m not a complete rube after all. But I reminded her that I had been upfront and honest with her when I refused her proposal all those years ago.
I’d dated plenty since our breakup, and she had gone on to get married and have the kid she wanted, so she should’ve moved on by now. She didn’t see it that way. She sees it as me telling the world and our friends and families that I never loved her, and I love this new girl who was probably just in it for my money. That’s the point at which I cut the call and hung up while she was beginning to get irate.
That conversation only made me even more sure of my decision. She had a point; why would I marry someone I just met over marrying the girl I had known and been in a relationship with for years? You’d think it was obvious.
It's because I knew the real thing when I felt it, and I’m glad I followed my mind and the call from my soul that day. I’m even more pleased that I didn’t have to go through her getting married to someone else before I could take her.
The very thought of him, Denny, was it, touching her the way I do, loving her the way only I am supposed to, makes me crazy. I didn’t know I had it in me, that I was the kind of man who could be retroactively jealous.
I’m not obsessive about it or anything, but let’s just say her blood on my cock has spared her a lot of grief from me. I know myself, and although I’ve never been jealous of anything or anyone a day in my life, when it comes to her, all of that has changed.
She’s sitting across from me in one of her new swimsuits, white and gold, with a colorful half coverup, shades on her head, either hers or mine, because she’s a thief who likes to take my shit if she likes it better than what I had chosen for her.
Her only jewelry was her new watch, her wedding and engagement rings, and her eyes. Those emerald-green gems that sparkle with mischief and mayhem. Every time she looks up at me I get that little hitch in my heart and wonder each time how long that was going to last.
It's the equivalent of the female butterflies, I guess. “Why are you staring at me?” She asked from around her magazine, still not looking at me. “I need a pad and paper; this is too much to work out in my head.”
“What are we talking about?”
She moved the magazine and looked at me. “I have a lot of things to mull over, fifteen years’ worth of shit, and I can’t keep everything straight, so I need to write it down. Is that okay with you?” She fluttered her lashes at me, and I threw a piece of toast at her.
She caught it and shoved it in her mouth. “Ooh, what kind of bread is that? Gimme.” I rolled my eyes and spread some pâté on toast, and fed it to her. She ended up finishing my damn lunch with no remorse whatsoever.
I’m pretty sure she’s more Machiavellian than me. I called one of the staff over and got her the pen and notepad she wanted and she got busy. She was at it for a while as I enjoyed the sunset and a snifter of Louis xiii.
“What are you writing?” I’d taken the time off for my honeymoon and had nothing better to do, so her drama was all I had going for me right now. As someone who’s never been embroiled in family drama and avoided conflict of any kind that didn’t directly involve me, this was a first. But she’s my wife, so we ride this one out together.
She wrote a few more words and then showed me the graph she had drawn. “I don’t understand.” She used her pen to point out the PowerPoint she’d made. “These are the issues at hand. Dad had an affair with Helen. That’s pretty black and white.”