Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Problem is, those weekends are like a rich cognac.
One small pour and then you’re done.
Long-distance sucks big time. The pain of separation pounds through me every day like a dull headache.
I have to live with it, and there’s no aspirin to take away the sting.
But December has coasted into Manhattan and that means in one week, I’ll fly to Paris for Asher’s birthday. That’s what he wants as a gift, he said.
Me.
Change is a funny thing. My sister is right about life’s moments. A year ago this month, I met the guy at one of her game nights. If you'd asked me then if I'd be planning a birthday trip to France to see the superhot wingman who’d become my boyfriend, I’d have said that was as likely as Warren Buffett investing in GameStop.
Now, I’m counting down the days.
And he knows it, evidently. “Are you doing that thing where you’re crossing the days off on your wall calendar with a big marker?” The question comes from Asher on the phone.
I keep my eye on Rosie as she clambers up the monkey bars in Chelsea Green park after school on a brisk December day.
“I do not keep a paper calendar.”
“I meant the digital one in your head, nerd boy.”
“Yes, and I presume you’re also counting down, since I know how much you like gifts.”
“Obviously. I require several blow jobs for my birthday,” he says as Rosie climbs her way to the top of the blue and orange bars.
“Daddy, I’m a spider monkey,” she shouts.
“And spider monkeys are very careful,” I tell her as I pace the edge of the structure, craning my neck to watch my kiddo.
Asher laughs. “Your multi-tasking skills never cease to amaze me.”
“Yes, I’m kind of blowing my own mind too.”
He laughs. “Speaking of multi-tasking and blowing, this blow job requirement⏤that’s giving and receiving.”
“Obviously. And I think thirty-one is a good goal.”
“Yes! What more could a man ask for on his thirty-first birthday. I call first dibs on the terrace.”
Yeah, we’ve enjoyed tradesies on his terrace overlooking the Seine. “It’s your birthday so you deserve it, birthday boy.”
Rosie scrambles back down, then runs to the other side of the jungle gym. “Daddy, take a picture of me and send it to Asher.”
“Of course, cupcake,” I say.
“What is she doing right now?” Asher asks, and my heart warms, like it does nearly every time he asks about her, or talks to her during our regular phone chats⏤the PG ones, that is. I never imagined my guy and my kid would have any connection. Why would I? But they do, and at first I thought it was the sporty thing⏤Rosie is an active girl. But that’s not why they like each other. Asher talks to her like she’s a person, with thoughts and feelings, not like a little alien doll from another planet. In Miami, I was so sure the kid thing would be a big issue for him. Turns out, it’s not. I don’t question it anymore. Maybe because Asher and I just work, and he knows I’m a package deal.
“She’s showing me one of the many ways she plans to strike fear into me for the next several years of my life. By doing daredevil stunts on the jungle gym. I’ll show you.” I say, then snap a quick pic of her racing up the jungle gym again and send it to him.
“Aww,” he says, and I picture him on his couch looking at the shot. “I did that, too, as a kid. And I'm no worse for wear.”
“Well, my heart is beating crazy fast and I'm standing five feet away from her,” I say.
“Go for it, Rosie! Climb all the way to the top,” Asher says, even though I’m the only one on the phone.
“Don't encourage her,” I say, but I love seeing her happy, and she’s been having a blast lately. I’m still doing the bulk of the parenting and that still works for me and for Rosie too. We’ve all adjusted and settled into our post-divorce routine.
“Do you want me to take you on a tour of the Louvre for my B-day?” Asher asks. “Go to Versailles? We could even take the elevator all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I know you love touristy things,” he says, since we never do any of those things. I’ve seen very little of the city beyond a few blocks in the Seventh where he lives, and I’m more than fine with that.
I cup my mouth, speaking just for him. “All I want is the terrace and the food and the wine and . . .” I trail off because I'm not romantic with words. That hasn’t changed. All I want is just to be with him. Spend time with him. That is literally all I crave.