Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I set up search parameters—between the ages of thirty and forty. Male. It defaults to living within a mile of me, and I hesitate—why would it do that unless it’s just a hookup app? But I leave it as is and skip past the stuff that doesn’t matter to me—color of eyes, hair, ethnicity—and then suddenly a list of men pops up. Images, with basic stats attached. My chest squeezes as I scroll through them. I stop, look up at our wedding photo one more time.
But it’s been twenty-two months, nearly two full years.
I scrub my face with my free hand and realize I’m trembling. God, why is this so hard?
I scroll again, and again. Hit the NEXT tab for more profiles. Just trying to normalize this in my head—get used to the idea of considering seeing someone. I open the profile of a moderately handsome man, ignoring the fact he actually looks a little like you, and swipe through his photos until I come across one that makes my jaw drop—a photo of him and a blonde who probably models in her spare time. Looking for a third, it reads. They’re wrapped up together, her ass practically hanging out of a shiny silver skirt. I swipe back as fast as I can. I’m not opposed to that sort of thing for others, just—just not what I’m looking for.
I take a steadying breath and scroll again, inspecting a few profiles more closely. I even hit the heart button once or twice, saving them so I can come back later. Or maybe it tells the man I’ve done it and puts the ball in his court? I’m not sure. I just know this is how everyone is doing it these days. Meeting people.
I finish my wine, rise long enough to apply a foaming facial cleansing mask, and to pour yet another full glass. An hour goes by, then two, maybe more, and I roll my wrists, getting the stiffness out of them. My eyelids droop with exhaustion. I’ve looked at hundreds of men, but none of them seems quite right. None of them I want to meet.
A heavy sigh works its way through my body.
I stare at our wedding photo again.
God, I love you so much.
God, I hate you so much.
My heart feels like it’s being strangled again. Or maybe it hasn’t stopped feeling that way since the night my phone rang. The night you ruined our life. But that’s it. I’m done. I stumble to my feet and walk over to the photo, taking one last long look, before placing it face down.
There. That’s something. Baby steps…
CHAPTER 10 Then
It’s never good news when the phone rings at two in the morning.
I fumbled for my cell in the dark. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Fitzgerald?”
My heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“This is Dr. Bruner at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital.”
I twisted to look at the other side of the bed. Connor’s side. It was still empty. He hadn’t come home after our fight last night. I somehow already knew that, yet I stared at the empty spot where he should be. “What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but there’s been an accident. Your husband, Connor, was in a car accident.”
I swallowed. “Is he okay?”
The doctor stayed quiet for a few heartbeats too long. “It’s very serious. You should come to the hospital immediately.”
I don’t remember hanging up. Or getting dressed. Or hailing a cab. Did I even say goodbye to the doctor? I must’ve lifted my arm to get the attention of the taxi driver. But I couldn’t for the life of me recall the simple motion. It’s like there was a gap in time after speaking to the doctor and now suddenly we were pulling up under an overhang at the hospital.
EMERGENCY
Big, red block letters. All caps.
An ambulance waited off to one side; two men in uniforms leaned against it drinking coffee. One laughed at something the other said. Business as usual. For them.
We pulled up at the wide sliding doors, and I rushed to get out of the cab.
“Hey, lady!” I already had the door open and one foot out on the pavement when the driver yelled. “You gotta pay for the damn ride.”
I shook my head. “Oh. Sorry. Of course.” I dug into my purse and grabbed two twenties without looking at the meter, handing them to the driver. “Thank you.”
Inside, I rushed to the reception window. A woman sat behind Plexiglas, talking on her cell phone. I was certain she saw me, yet she kept her eyes trained down as she smiled and laughed, continuing her conversation.
I bent down to the small opening made for passing papers back and forth and spoke through it. “Excuse me?”
She frowned and spoke into her cell. “I’ll call you back, Bebe.”
I couldn’t even wait for her to hang up. “Someone called me. A doctor. My husband was in an accident. He was brought here.”