Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I opened my mouth, unsure what to say. I never thought I would have something in common with Mrs. Havemeyer—nothing other than Clark, at least—but in that moment, I did. Sure, our moms were different and mine was great, but we’d still let how our parents lived their lives shape us, we’d made decisions in life because we were afraid of being like them. Fear really was a powerful motivator. It had the ability to make us do crazy things. “I…well, I get that, because I’ve done the same thing. I told myself I wouldn’t fall in love because I didn’t want to be like my mom, but then Clark came back into my life, and I fell in love anyway. He makes me see the world in a whole new way. He makes me want love, and I trust him…I trust him to take care of my heart, and if he chooses to give it, I’ll always take care of his too. So I get it, how you feel. We see the truth now, and we’re trying to fix ourselves. That’s what matters.”
And then…then she surprised me by stepping toward me and pulling me into a hug. It was brief, not like the hold-tight-for-dear-life hugs my mom gave, and then she was pulling back, wiping her tears, and straightening her clothes. “Thank you, Skylar. I appreciate that. Now, you’ve told me you love Clark, but have you told him?”
“Not yet. I was on my way to do it when you arrived.”
She smiled, maybe the most genuine smile I’d ever seen from her. “Well, don’t let me hold you back. I’ve already done enough of that.”
I grinned back, knowing that even though there would still be bumps in the road, everything would be okay.
40
Clark
We’d just finished our Zumba class, where I’d definitely not given it my all, only my some, and Gretchen had noticed my low energy right away.
“Still feeling blah?” She threw her arm around me as we trudged back to our apartment building. The other night, I’d spilled my guts to her and Hope over a bottle—or two—of wine, so she knew all about the fireworks, and Skylar, and the mom confrontation.
But I didn’t really want to talk about it. “It’ll pass,” I said as we waved to Eddie at the front door and headed to the elevator. “It always does.”
“This is not the same, and you know it.” We stepped inside, and she pushed the button to our floor. “This is you dealing with a broken heart.”
I sighed because she was right, and what made it more difficult still was that I needed to essentially get over my heartache in record time so I didn’t ruin my friendship with Skylar. The transition was going to be tough, and it didn’t help that even a random text sent me into a tailspin.
“Can we pass on the smoothies tonight?” I said as we got to our floor. “I just want to lie on the couch for three hundred hours and feel sorry for myself.”
“I’ll allow it just this once.” She kissed my cheek. “But text me if you want company. Promise?”
“Promise.”
I walked to my door, and once inside, I went to take a shower, then pulled out my comfiest sweats. They also happened to be my grubbiest, and only worked to soothe me in times like these, this being the worst. Then I ordered Chinese delivery because a double order of Mar Far chicken would at least temporarily distract me from this constant ache inside me.
I threw myself on the couch in dramatic fashion and clicked through the channels, never settling on any one thing. Finally, I left the television on a popular show where they remodeled older homes, and let my mind drift to the real-estate business. The idea of helping Mr. Whitney with the new building was exciting and refreshing, and it would be good to immerse myself in that project. And maybe I’d even work later hours just so I wouldn’t be here alone too much. I turned up the volume to make more noise and so it didn’t feel so quiet.
It didn’t work, because my thoughts returned to Skylar. I still couldn’t shake that last conversation with him and how he’d sounded, how his words said one thing, yet beneath that, they seemed to ring hollow, as if he was feeling emotional and vulnerable and…unworthy. But I was terrified I was only reading into it, that I was seeing something that wasn’t there.
Except, there was even more evidence, like how he’d looked at me the last time he’d been in my bed, and how tender his kisses had been—had always been. There was something between us, damn it, at least in our most intimate moments. But outside the bedroom too.
Could our obvious connection sustain us in the bigger moments, like the one we’d just been through? And shouldn’t I at least try to figure it out? If I was taking back my professional life, shouldn’t I try to do the same with my personal life? Shouldn’t I go after what I wanted?