Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She offers a similar expression, tells us to text if we need her, and starts her car giving us the whistle to get my plans in motion.
During our stroll over to our SUV I keep my hand nestled on Harlow’s hip and occasionally give it a comforting squeeze when I hear her breathing shift from calm to chaotic.
It’s strange but…over our past few weeks together I’ve been picking up on all the cues as if she’s my teammate who really does need me on the assist in life versus just on the ice. Sometimes the shit is super subtle—like now—and then sometimes it’s much more in my face—like when she runs out of TP because being preggers gives her the trots. Shit between us—pun not intended—isn’t always super fucking romantic or sentimental like movies and TV leads you to believe. Just because you’re with someone doesn’t mean the other weird, normal, unbecoming life shit stops happening. She farts in her sleep. I come home smelling like sweat and feet and ass after work. We spill shit on our clothes, and both randomly get caught picking wedgies. It’s…real life shit…yet it doesn’t make me want her less.
Or need her less.
Or love her less.
Mom says that’s actually how you know when you’re really in love.
When you can accept more than just the polished performance people put on during dating.
I’ve never stuck around a chick long enough to get here in the past.
And even if I had…I don’t think I’d feel about them an inkling of the way I feel about Harlow.
She’s somehow my best friend and the best ass.
I mean we haven’t fucked since Vegas; however, handy js and blowies are in no short supply in the Brickley-Hennington household.
She refuses to take my last name.
Ever.
I’m working on getting her to hyphen it…but…not much luck there, either.
Opening Harlow’s passenger door is followed by the retrieval of my vibrating phone from my pocket the instant it’s shut. The sight of my mom’s photo is what pushes me to answer rather than sending it to voicemail if it were anyone else.
Particularly Zao, who keeps calling to ask can he have random shit of mine he’s recently found.
It’s like come on, bro.
You really think I’mma pay for you to ship me an old car charger and an out of season bartender’s mixing guide?
Fuck off.
Now, if it were my original copy of Nothing Lasts Forever—the book Die Hard is based off of—or one of my missing Die Hard blue-rays, it’d be a different story.
Pretty sure that fucker is keeping those for himself.
Hitting the answer key and putting it on speaker happens the second my ass is in the driver’s seat, “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, B!” Her excitement is so palpable that Harlow can’t resist smiling, too.
“Hey, Nora!”
“Aw, hey, Hennington!”
Yeah.
Even Mom calls her Hennington.
“How did everything go today?”
“Awful,” my wife answers before I can. “Just…pure…awful.”
Mom’s gasp echoes throughout the vehicle. “What?!”
“And your son yelled at me!”
“Brendan Anders Brickley!”
Harlow impishly snickers under her breath. “Forgot your middle name is Anders.”
“Why the hell would you yell at your wife?!”
Mom using the term causes Harlow’s expression to transform into a glower and mine into a victorious grin.
She’s still not one hundred percent comfortable with the label, but it’s growing on her.
I know that for a fact because she hasn’t taken off her wedding ring since she got back from The Draft a couple weeks ago.
“What is going on you two?!” Mom’s voice increases in concern. “Do I need to hop a flight and come down there?”
Despite the fact it’s not what either of us wants, it’s evident by the soft grin on Harlow’s face that she doesn’t mind the threat nearly as much as I do.
Ever since Mom found out about the whole marriage and babies and pretty much accidentally settling down thing, she’s been active in the situation. Lending advice on relationship arguments—turns out slamming the door in each other’s face isn’t healthy or helpful. She’s also done some reassuring us that the pregnancy shit happening—like random nose bleeds—is totally normal and doesn’t mean Harlow’s body is trying to reject the baby—er babies. Mom’s definitely momming—too much for me sometimes—yet knowing the very little I do about Harlow’s relationship with her own mother is what keeps me from bitching about it.
Harlow likes having that relationship.
And I like her happy.
And like a good teammate, I’m gonna keep doing whatever I can to maintain that shit.
“We’ll send the plane,” my wife good-naturedly insists as I start the engine to get the AC going.
“We’re not sending the plane,” I huff in exasperation, “and the hot piece next to me is being overdramatic. Severely.”
“Finding out you’re having fucking twins is not being overdramatic!”
“Aw, you two are having twins?!”
Her excitement shifts Harlow’s gaze to the ceiling in further annoyance. “Apparently these things inside of me are Gremlins. I wasn’t supposed to get them wet or feed them after midnight or something.”