Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
If I could just make myself fall head over heels for him, everything else could fall into place. Instead, I’m stuck in neutral. Tires spinning. Waiting for a push that may or may not ever come …
I think the world of Grant. I do. He’s a good man. He works hard. He’s clever and energetic, and his mind is constantly churning. He’s a people person. He’s tremendously easy on the eyes. Beyond generous in bed. Cultured. Self-aware. Considerate. The man wields a larger-than-life persona that walks into the room long before he does. Impressive, truly.
And my family loves him. No—scratch that—they adore him. And everyone’s been so proud of me for getting out of my comfort zone, for “finally living.” My oldest sister even teased me once that they had a running bet about which one of us would be more likely to wind up a spinster and the money was all on me … until now.
Even my father, who doesn’t much care for anyone, is all but obsessed with him.
They golf together.
Get drinks on Friday afternoons.
Talk shop (money matters mostly).
I’ve even caught them texting each other, like they’re good pals. It’s cute and it’s strange and it’s funny and it also complicates things … because if I change my mind about marrying Grant, it’s going to devastate my father.
I climb into my car as Grant drives off and blast the AC. My radio plays on low, some melancholy Bon Iver song, though if I’m being fair, that could describe ninety percent of their songs.
I’ve been missing Kari lately, thinking of her more than usual. Wondering if she’d like Grant or what kind of advice she’d have for me. She was always the best at giving it to me straight, at not projecting her life goals and expectations onto me (unlike the rest of my well-meaning sisters).
My ring shimmers aggressively in the blinding midday sun as I grip the steering wheel. Grant said it’s three carats. I told him he didn’t need to go all out. But he said he had a thing for the number three because it represented the past, present, and future. That and the day we had our first date was March the third … 3/3.
I still can’t help but think about that study that correlates ring size with divorce rates.
But, as with any study, there are always, always outliers.
I pull into traffic and come to a slow stop at a red light. A text from my oldest sister, Carly, dings from my phone. I don’t need to read it to know that she’s probably asking if I’ve picked up the cake for Alana’s shower yet.
Another text comes through, this one from my mom. I imagine if this one isn’t about the shower, it’s about the appointment she made at Bridal Atelier downtown for ten AM tomorrow morning.
My mother is full speed ahead with the wedding planning, and she’s tickled pink at the fact that my father doubled the wedding budget. Thought I can’t help but wonder if he’s giving me what would’ve been Kari’s budget …
The light blinks to green, and I head the three miles to my townhouse, the one my father’s company built for me at cost when I passed my tenth and final actuary exam.
I pull into the garage seven minutes later and kill the engine.
When Grant gets back from his trip, we’re supposed to set a date. Last night at dinner, he mentioned a New Year’s Eve wedding.
I laughed at first because I thought he was kidding.
It’s August now …
I told him we should wait a year, minimum.
But he kept citing Cainan’s accident, raving on about how short life is and how when you know what you want, why wait? And then he went on about babies and family vacations and all the memories we’d make together. He painted the loveliest of pictures that quelled my nerves for the remainder of the night.
But the next morning, the thought continued to loop through my head.
Grant Forsythe is perfect for me in every sense of the word.
I couldn’t have dreamed a more ideal man into my life if I tried—and for the first time, I am living, truly living, and it’s because of him.
So why, then, does all of this feel so wrong?
8
Cainan
“You have no idea how good it is to see you … walking around, looking healthy again.” Grant gives me a half-handshake-hug sort of thing, the greeting we’ve been using since we were inseparable six-year-olds living on Copper Street in one of the worst neighborhoods of Jersey City. “You’re back, baby.”
“You just saw me last month, asshole. Come in. You want a beer?” I change the subject.
As kids we dreamed of making it big in the city, running this town and taking names. Then the traitor bastard up and moved to Phoenix fucking Arizona several years back, taking a lucrative gig with some connection of his uncle’s. Now he claims he never wants to leave, and every time he comes back for a visit, he sports a golfer’s tan and hiker’s calves. Any time he tries to convince me to trade my concrete jungle for palm trees, sunshine, and desert, I give him two words: translucent scorpions.