Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Maybe that fine-ass accountant will still be available when you’re ready,” Hendrix teases with an affectionate smile.
For a moment I consider confessing the clandestine touches beneath the sheets to my memories of Judah, but I decide against it. I don’t want to muddy the waters any more than they already are. I said I’m happy being by myself for the first time, and I am. I need this. I just wish my body had gotten the memo because it lights up around Judah Cross.
I’m loading my bowl into the dishwasher when my cell rings in my back pocket.
“Hello,” I answer, accepting Yasmen and Hendrix’s bowls when they enter the kitchen.
“Mrs. Barnes?” A man’s voice, brusque and businesslike, comes over the line.
I don’t bother correcting that I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Charles. “Yes, this is she.”
“I’m calling from Spiros to confirm your reservation for this Saturday night.”
It’s the reservation I made last year for our wedding anniversary.
“Oh, yes,” I answer, forcing myself to focus. “The reservation. I actually…”
Actually what?
I’ve wanted to eat at Spiros for two years, but they’ve always been booked. Why should I pass up a chance to have a superb meal at a place I’ve wanted to try for years simply because I no longer have a man to take me?
“Mrs. Barnes?” he asks, a touch of impatience coloring his voice. “Do you still want the reservation?”
“It’s actually Ms. Charles now.” I swallow the last of my uncertainty and take the plunge by myself. “And yes. I still want it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JUDAH
I have to stop doing this. It’s becoming… obsessive.
Before the thought has even fully formed, I’m picking up my phone and going to Soledad’s profile. This is the shit high school boys do when they have a crush, not forty-one-year-old men with kids and responsibilities. Not directors working on a Saturday night who have presentations Monday. I have no excuse for being distracted. The boys are at Tremaine’s for the weekend. I have the house to myself and an uninterrupted evening to catch up on some work.
And what am I doing?’
Lurking on Soledad’s socials hoping for a glimpse of what she’s doing right now.
“I know what she’s not doing,” I mutter, navigating to her profile. “Having coffee with you.”
I blurted some half-formed invitation to grab coffee, and she literally ran screaming from my front porch. Her daughter was waiting by the car, so I know she had to go, but still… it was definitely not an I’ll think about it. I was just so unprepared to see her at my house. I ordered the basket because I wanted… I don’t know. To be connected to her? Involved somehow? I didn’t analyze my motivation when I grabbed that flyer in the barbershop. I acted without thinking.
Also uncharacteristic.
Like it belongs to the teenage boy I’m apparently reverting to, my heart beats heavily when I see the notification that she’s live right now. She’s tagged the post Get Ready with Me. I click on it and lean back in my chair to see what she’s up to today.
“So,” she says to the camera, pretty face clear and fresh looking. “Help me choose what to wear on my anniversary date.”
What the hell?
Aren’t they divorced? Is she visiting Edward in prison for their anniversary? Is it a conjugal visit? It can’t be. Only five states still allow those, and Georgia isn’t one of them. I know. I googled it when Edward was sentenced. Now if this were Mississippi…
“It would be none of your damn business.” I return my attention to Soledad. She’s seated in front of the mirror putting on makeup. Her hair, held back by a terry cloth band, streams in deep waves over the silk robe on her shoulders.
“This concealer, you guys.” She displays the tube and uses the wand to apply some brownish-beige liquid under her eyes and over the tops of her cheeks. “Great dupe for NARS. I grabbed it at the drugstore for ten bucks.”
She pauses to wink at the camera and whispers, “They’ll never know.”
She reaches for a brush and smooths foundation over her face. “Back to my anniversary date. There’s a restaurant I’ve wanted to try for years, but it’s always booked. So last year I made a reservation for my wedding anniversary.”
Her half-made-up face clouds for the briefest moment before clearing.
“If you’ve been following me, you may know that my husband and I divorced this year. My first instinct when they called to confirm the reservation was to cancel, but I’ve been challenging myself to enjoy this journey of self-partnering.”
She pauses to pop on lashes.
“Through therapy, I’ve come to realize I was married to a narcissist. How might one know if one is married to a narcissist?”
She gives a wide-eyed look and twists her lips.
“I’m glad you asked. Do they dismiss your feelings as ‘crazy,’ but others in your life don’t agree? Do you often feel manipulated? Controlled? Like you’re losing your sense of self? Then you might be married to a narcissist.”