Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
So, maybe I can work with another archetype.
Maybe another troublemaker in disguise, like Meredith was shaping up to be, but without the anger management issues…
I’m still thinking of troublemakers in disguise when Ainsley and I head into the Javits Center later that afternoon, and I find myself face-to-face with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
A woman with long ebony hair, the face of an angel, and an appetite for chaos made clear by the way she dashes down the wide exhibition aisle and dives into a blow-up igloo at the “Ice Camping in Quebec” booth.
Seconds later, a pink-cheeked man in brown jeans and a red flannel jacket that makes his broad shoulders look cartoonishly wide, jogs around the corner.
“Candy? Candy is that you?” He glances back and forth as he passes me, not thinking to check the igloo to see if “Candy” might be hiding inside.
But then, he doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy who wastes a lot of time on creative thought. He looks like one of the beefy farm boys who enjoyed pounding my face after school when I was growing up in Western Massachusetts.
Eastern Massachusetts is all lobster-loving beach towns and big city lights. Western Mass is cows, corn, and guys who don’t like it when you make jokes about them having intimate relations with their prize pig. (In my defense, the pounding started before the jokes, and back when I was still a skinny late bloomer, animal husbandry punchlines were my only form of self-defense.)
Now, I could easily defend myself from a farm boy with an axe to grind. I hit the gym almost every night after I leave the set. It’s my way of blowing off steam, of cleansing my mental palate before I head home to Greg “Satan” the cat, the angriest feline in the world.
But I’d be angry, too, if I’d been forced to move in with a jaded bachelor after spending the first six years of my life being pampered like a prince.
I still can’t believe Vivian left Greg behind.
I really thought she loved that stupid cat.
But then, I thought she loved me, too…
I never imagined she’d ghost me without a word. No explanation, no warning, not so much as an “it’s not you, it’s me” before she vanished. I would have suspected foul play if she hadn’t been spotted in Vermont a few days later, photographed making out with a lumberjack she hooked up with at a Scottish festival.
They’re married now and have two children. I know because I follow Vivian’s social media from Satan’s old pet account that she curated for him when she lived in the city. I keep waiting for her to notice her cat stalker and block me. Or text to demand that I send Greg to her in Vermont, post-haste.
Or at least slip into my DMs with an apology for bailing and leaving me with an evil cat who hates my guts.
But so far…nothing.
Four years later, the whole thing still chaps my ass.
It also makes me certain that I don’t have what it takes to win the game of love. I was with Vivian for two years, and I never saw it coming. None of it. The cheating, the lying, the ghosting, the cat abandonment—they were all a complete shock.
It left me determined never to be blindsided or played for a fool again. I’ve shut down the part of me that craved a relationship more meaningful than friends with benefits. I don’t flirt anymore. I barely notice women in that way. I don’t feel drawn to make conversation with attractive girls at happy hour or at the rare industry party I’m obligated to attend. I haven’t downloaded a dating app and have no future plans to swipe left or right. Not. Ever.
Call me crazy, but normalizing online shopping for people doesn’t seem like a societal step forward, and I’m happy alone. I honestly love it! Alone is solid and safe and fun and good.
Still, for some reason, I hear myself tell Ainsley to continue on to the New England Innkeeper’s meet and greet without me.
Before I know it, my feet have carried me over to the entrance to the igloo and I’m squatting down, peering in to lock eyes with the angel in the red sweater.
She’s still the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, and quickly becomes one of the most intriguing as she whispers, “Ever had one of those days? One of those ‘diving into an inflatable igloo seems like a good idea’ kind of days?”
My lips twitch. “Oh yeah. Big time.”
She smiles, and that’s all it takes for me to drop to my hands and knees and crawl into the igloo to join her.
three
. . .
Caroline
When I was a little girl, I had a pretty good idea what I wanted my Prince Charming to look like.