Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
“I’m not leaving you. I never would,” I half shout. “Just the apartment.”
Does she . . . want me to stay? Am I misreading everything and letting the unthinkable possibility of her cutting me off rule my behavior? Maybe? I start to ask her what she would like me to do, but she launches herself off the bed, and now she’s standing on the opposite side of the room than me. “Go, then!”
No. Why does she look so exposed? That’s the opposite of how I want to make her feel. I want her to feel protected with me at all times. She might as well be ripping my heart straight out of my chest.
“Go,” she whispers again, no longer looking at me.
I take a big step in her direction out of instinct, suddenly desperate to go back two minutes in time, wrap my arms around her in that bed, and tell her everything is going to be fine. That she doesn’t have to love me back, that I will stay and stay and stay regardless. In my humiliation and self-pity, have I lost my chance to do that? The answer seems obvious when she steps backward, away from me, her back hitting the wall of her bedroom.
The sight of her retreating is almost the final blow, the thing that sends me stumbling out there with my bloody heart in tow, to go lick my wounds.
Except I told her I was going to be permanent in her life—and I meant it.
“I’m not taking back what I said. I love you. I’m immovable, Britta. I’m not moving. And I’m not going anywhere.” Observing her closed-off body language, I swallow what feels like a mouthful of metal scraps. “But I can see you want space right now, so I’m giving it to you.”
A tear rolls down her cheek. She swipes it away quickly, but I can see her relief.
That I’m giving her space or that I’m not giving up on us?
As if I ever could.
“My family is coming to visit in a week. My birthday is the day before our season opener, so they decided to kill two birds with one stone.” I pause for a breath, terrified I’m about to ask too much. I already told her I love her, though, so what do I have to lose? “Come meet them. Come be with me. God knows I’m already with you.”
Leaving her apartment when she looks so vulnerable is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s my only option. All I can do is pray that my patience pays off.
I haven’t even made it to my truck when I get a notification on my phone.
Britta has shared her location with you.
I’m still reeling from shock, joy, and disbelief, when I get the best text message of my life.
Britta: I’ll be there.
Chapter Eight
BRITTA
One week later
I lift the lid off the pot, giving the steam a wary sniff.
I, Britta, made broccoli cheddar soup.
From scratch. For my husband’s birthday party tonight.
Who am I?
I got the recipe off a reputable website, but I’ve never made it before, and it probably tastes like hot garbage, though I’m too afraid to taste it and find out. I’ll probably just leave it in the car and not bring it inside where actual people, a.k.a. Sumner’s entire family, can try some. No one wants to go to the emergency room tonight with food poisoning.
For the eight hundredth time, I jog into my bedroom and look at myself in the full-length mirror, still not sure if the outfit I chose is in-law-meeting material. Ankle boots, a soft, snug T-shirt tucked into a loose flowery skirt. It took me an hour to locate my curling iron, but my hair is lying in soft waves; my makeup is done. I’m a little overdressed, but I want Sumner’s family to know I made an effort.
I want them to know that I think their son is worth an effort.
Because he is.
If the last week alone has taught me anything, it’s that . . . I can’t stand being without Sumner anymore. How can I feel the absence of Sumner so profoundly when he’s only been in my bed once? I don’t know. But I do know that . . . I want him there. I want him to stay next time, hold me, sleep beside me. And these are desires I never expected to have in my lifetime.
It is this specific man that changed my mind, my heart. Sumner.
I run nervous fingers through the waves of my hair one final time, then transfer the soup into the biggest Tupperware container I have, using two oven gloves to transport the still-hot liquid to the back seat of my car, where I secure it with a seat belt.
Nerves snap and crackle in my fingertips and belly on the short drive to Sumner’s house, and when I arrive, I sit outside in the driver’s seat, staring in through the illuminated window at the merriment within. I can see the faces of an older man and two women, presumably Sumner’s father and some of his sisters, plus a couple of husbands, and they look so . . . joyful. Just to be together. Their body language speaks of love and fondness.