Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I tilt my head back and forth, studying him. “Nope. I don’t see it.”
“What?” he asks, slowly chewing another artichoke heart. “Brussels sprouts looking like alien heads?”
“No, you as a boy.”
“You thought I was born thirty?”
“No, I thought you were born eighty. Be honest, have you ever uttered the phrase get off my lawn?”
“I have not. Though, over the past few weeks, I sure have wanted to utter the phrase get out of my house.”
I look quickly down, a little surprised at how much his comment stings. Not that it’s been any big secret that he doesn’t like me, but I hadn’t realized it’d been that bad.
“Well, good news,” I chirp, forcing the hurt somewhere else, to be dealt with at a later time. “Only two months to go, and then you’re officially done with me.”
“Charlotte. I didn’t mean—”
“No, you did,” I interrupt. “And it’s okay. You’ve never pretended to like me. I’d be insulted if you started faking it now. So, I’ve been thinking, do you think we should have a divorce party?”
“A what?”
“A divorce party. I know it’s not typical, but then we didn’t exactly have a typical marriage, so why would we have a typical divorce?”
“Why in God’s name would we want to have a party?”
“Oh, come on. You know you’re going to want to celebrate being done with this.”
“As will you.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
“Well, to be honest,” I admit, “I’ve been thinking lately that I was robbed of a proper wedding and a proper wedding reception, so maybe I’ll just do it in reverse and have a divorce reception. We could have people come over for cocktails and canapés and dancing.”
“A divorce reception,” he says. “You are …” He rubs at his eyes. “I don’t know what you are.”
“I’m fabulous. And the party would be fun,” I insist.
“It would not be fun. And I hardly think we need to spotlight the fact that we’re parting ways for the immigration authorities. Why don’t you save whatever plans you’re cooking up in your head for your next wedding?”
“My next wedding,” I repeat. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“Don’t you expect to get married again?”
I give it some thought as I chew on an artichoke heart. “I don’t know. I hope so, but there’s definitely nothing on the horizon.”
“Hasn’t there ever been someone—?”
“No,” I interject. “I don’t have a Rebecca. I mean, I’ve cared about people over the years, but I’ve never really been able to see myself growing old with any of them. I spent my twenties pretty focused on the company.”
“What about your thirties? What will those bring?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say, dragging my pinky through the sauce on my plate and sucking it off. “Maybe starting something new? A new company?”
“Husband? Kids?”
I feel an unexpected tug at the thought of a family, and I realize that’s part of what’s been getting under my skin the past few weeks. It hasn’t just been being back in New York, and it hasn’t just been reuniting with my family, or even playing house with Colin. It’s been the sense of wanting something more. My adult life to this point has been almost entirely about my professional development and having fun, and it’s been great. Really great.
But lately it feels as though I’m ready for the next stage. One that involves diapers and dogs and someone to come home to. The same someone to come home to.
“I guess it’s possible,” I say, answering Colin’s question. “A few years ago, I don’t think it would have appealed to me, but the same ticking that’s got Rebecca acting all crazy didn’t pass me by altogether. I think I’d like being a mom. I think I’d be good at it.”
“I think you would too.”
“Wait.” I wave my fork at him. “Did you just … compliment me?”
“It slipped out.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, if I do have kids, I hope I get boys. You going to eat that?” I point at the last artichoke heart.
“All yours. Why boys?”
“Girls are hard. I mean, you saw how I was ten years ago. If my daughter is like me, I’ll go insane.”
“We’re all entitled to a few growing pain years,” he says, his voice surprisingly kind.
“I bet you didn’t have any. I bet you were the perfect son.”
He shrugs. “I was easy. I tried to be easy.”
“Tried. Why?”
“My parents wanted to have more children. They were devoutly Catholic, and I don’t think it ever really occurred to them to have fewer than five kids. But it also didn’t occur to them that they’d struggle to conceive. They were left with just me.”
“Must have meant they doted on you.”
“The normal amount,” he says with a faint smile. “But they were fairly strict. Serious.”
“No,” I say in wide-eyed surprise. “But you’re so fun-loving and free!”
He ignores the sarcasm. “I was always painfully aware that I was their one shot at being parents, so I tried to be what they wanted. Quiet. Respectful. Good grades, sat still in church.”