Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeat.
The three of us sit there with our own thoughts, and though the mood is sad and heavy, I’m a little lighter because they’re with me.
We’re all just human, doing our best. Sometimes our best isn’t good enough, and all we can do is try to do better next time. It’s not easy, and it still hurts, but maybe it can hurt a little less if we’re there for one another.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
As Miles nods, there’s a knock on the door.
Max gets to his feet. “I nearly forgot. I ordered room service.”
Miles quickly disappears into the bathroom just before a waiter pushes a cart into the room. I’m assuming that Max ordered dinner for himself, until the waiter leaves and Max uncovers the plates to reveal three different desserts.
“Miles said you didn’t have a chance to have dessert tonight.”
I watched Miles send his brother a message earlier to let him know we were coming back. How did he possibly communicate that much information so quickly?
“Dessert sounds great. What did you get?”
“Double chocolate fudge cake—it’s a classic. I couldn’t pass it up. Passion fruit crème brûlée, and in case you want something lighter, strawberry shortcake. You can take your pick, or we can share all three.”
“No banana pudding?”
Max shudders, and I giggle. Dessert is probably just what we need to lift our moods.
“Would you mind if I take a quick shower first? I’d like to change out of this dress.”
“Of course. Get comfortable.”
Miles is out of the bathroom, so I go in and wash up. I have a long moment of indecision over what clothing to put on after my shower. Last night, my inhibitions dulled by alcohol, I wore the silky pajamas that Marissa added to my luggage. Would the men, especially Miles, think it’s strange if I go back to my modest PJs tonight?
In the end, I decide to go with Marissa’s recommendation, if only because the silky set is actually more comfortable, and I feel prettier wearing them.
When I come out of the bathroom, the men’s eyes tell me they appreciate my choice.
“Feel better?” Miles asks after clearing his throat.
“Yeah.”
“Did you make a decision about your dessert choice?” Max asks.
Good as they all look, my mind has been on the men rather than the sweets. “I’d be happy with any of them. Why don’t you both pick?” When they start to insist I choose first, I interrupt them to say something I was thinking about while I showered.
“You’re both such good, caring men. I really appreciate you coming to the wedding with me. You’ve made it so much easier for me to be here. I feel more at ease with you than I do my own family.”
It turns out they’re not very good at accepting compliments, because they both look uncomfortable at words I hoped would make them feel good.
“I’m glad we could help,” Max says finally. He sets all three desserts on the table and arranges things so we can all gather around and share, with him and Miles sitting in chairs, and me back on the end of the bed.
As we start to eat, Max asks, “Have things always been complicated between you and your mom?”
“Complicated? I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it.”
“You seem like you don’t want to let her down. I get the idea you don’t want to disagree with her about anything.”
I take a spoonful of the crème brûlée and think this over. My first reaction is that he has this wrong. I disagree with her plenty. But when I think about it, I realize that most of my dissent is only in my head, or shared privately in gripe sessions with Sadie.
“I feel like it’s easier just to agree with her,” I say. “But I suppose there is a need to please built into me.” Saying this aloud triggers a memory. “I was really little when our father left, but I have memories of my mom crying a lot and being sad. I think I just wanted to make her happy.”
Miles nods as he spears a strawberry with his fork. “That makes sense, but you shouldn’t make others happy at the expense of making yourself miserable. You shouldn’t need to hide your feelings.”
Do I do that? I remember yesterday when Mom didn’t like my hair at the roller rink, and Miles spoke up to compliment it while I stayed quiet. Or when Aunt Iris overstepped to the point of being rude, and I just went along with what she was saying, rather than stand up to her.
“I try to be respectful …” I say, not entirely sure that’s actually my motivation for not making waves. “But I suppose you have a point.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid to let people know how you feel,” Miles says. “I’ll bet your family would actually be okay with it.”