Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 10676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 43(@250wpm)___ 36(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 10676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 43(@250wpm)___ 36(@300wpm)
“All of it. I’m struggling,” I admit.
“Why? Is the guy a deadbeat? Is he unemployed?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “No, he's richer than God. Like, old money rich. Went to boarding school in Switzerland, for fuck’s sake.”
“Interesting. Is he a snob? Is that the issue?”
“Well . . . sometimes he does sound like a rich bro.” For no good reason, a quick mental image of Flip’s longtime-friend pops into my head. That dude’s been visiting my head far too often. So I shove the image of Asher St. James aside. Although I bet it’s unusual for a rich prepster to have a gay best friend. “Honestly, it wouldn’t be fair to say that Flip is some kind of dreadful cliché. It's nothing specific I can put my finger on,” I admit.
“. . . Except for the fact that he doesn’t know how to operate a condom,” Brett quips.
“Well, yeah.” Then again, I got Bridget pregnant before graduation. So Flip and I have more in common than I'd like to admit. Maybe that’s the problem. “Ugh. I just don’t want her to get her heart broken. And I’ve seen it happen. The truth is that I just have a gut feeling that my sister is making a huge mistake. And you’re supposed to trust your gut, right?”
“Right,” Brett agrees. “Although it’s her life. What could you really do about this except show up in a tux with a gift?”
“Not much.” I’ve spent the last few nights stewing over this very question. I love Hannah so much that it hurts. I never want to see her divorced and bitter like me, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s headed that way. “She had a really terrible boyfriend a year ago. This guy Colin. The breakup was awful. I just hope we don’t end up there again.”
“Is this Flip guy anything like her ex?” Brett asks. “Do you see a pattern?”
“Not exactly,” I grumble. The truth is Flip and Colin are nothing alike.
But I’m still wary. I’m still seriously worried for her. I’d do anything for Hannah. I’d fight anyone who got in her way. I’d scale any mountain. There has to be something I can do. I take a deep drink of rum instead, then finish it off, and move my knight on the chessboard—a game I can control.
Soon, Brett pushes away from the bar. “Gotta go, bud. I’m sure you’ll figure something out, and if you don’t, there’s always poker next week to take your mind off it.”
I offer a faint smile. “Yup. Catch you tomorrow.”
He leaves but I stay and order a glass of scotch. And another.
And I think. And think. And then think some more. And the scotch really helps clarify all my thoughts.
A few drinks later, and I’ve totally fucking got it.
There is no problem a single-malt scotch can’t solve.
This is so brilliant, it’s beyond brilliant, and I’m going to fix this now as soon as I get inside my apartment. But first, I’ve just got to unlock this persnickety door.
It’s never been this hard to open.
“What the hell, lock?” I mutter.
I fumble with my key, trying once, twice, three times to let myself in. There. Did it. I am the master at opening doors, just like I am an expert at solving problems.
And I know how to repair this little shotgun wedding situation.
You speak up.
As in speak now or forever hold your peace. I toss my keys on the entryway table, and they skid to the floor with a loud clang.
Oops.
Whatever. I’ll pick ’em up tomorrow.
Because I am ready for business tonight. It might be past midnight, but that’s when the best decisions are made.
“Blackbeard!” I call out to my cat, who’s sound asleep on the couch. “We’ve got shit to do, stat, buddy.”
The furry dude deigns to lift his head, then turns the other way.
“Fine, be like that. I’ll be my own wingman.” I flop next to the feline, setting my wingtips on the coffee table even though that’s against my rules—no shoes on the furniture. But who cares? I’m the only one who makes the rules in this home now, and I can put my goddamn feet wherever I want, and I can speak my mind, and isn’t that what we’re just supposed to do in life?
Don’t let stuff fester and all.
I crack my knuckles, then grab my phone, ready to tell my sister exactly what she needs to hear. This brilliant insight is going to be so helpful for Hannah. Hell, she’ll be damn grateful. Protective big brother is here to save the day.
So I do it.
I fire off a text to Hannah.
Yup.
That’s clear.
Except, maybe I need to send just one more.
And while I’m at it, how about another?
And another, and another, and another.
And fine, just a few more.
And while I'm at it, there's one little thing I've been meaning to tell her about Asher St. James.