Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
It was polite, standoffish, and calculated to see what he’d do.
His reply text was, I’m glad.
I wanted to throat punch him, but I also gave him the benefit of the doubt. I knew my brush with cancer freaked him out, but I still had hope he’d come around and realize it wasn’t that big of a deal. Especially not with how well I’ve been doing.
With me now working a job away from Asher’s apartment and having Hope almost full time, I knew our time together would be limited. But I truly expected more.
More contact, texts, calls, flowers… just something.
I reached out yesterday morning—Tuesday—with a text. I opted for light and sexy. Any chance an employee could have lunch with the sexiest boss around?
His text back felt like a sharp rebuke. Sorry. Meetings all day.
It was unlike the Asher I’d come to know. I have no doubt he had meetings all day, but the man I’ve been intimate with the last several weeks would have said something sexy in return. He would have told me a dirty fantasy or even offered another day we could see each other for lunch.
The writing was on the wall.
Except it’s Wednesday and I still haven’t fully accepted it.
When I reach my car, I put my purse on the hood and fish out my phone. I haven’t heard from him at all today, and I just need to know where I stand. It’s killing me and occupying way too many of my thoughts, this weird limbo he’s put me in.
I type out a quick text, knowing he’ll see it because his phone is always near him and he doesn’t ignore it. Whether he’ll reply is another matter.
Any interest in dinner tonight? I can arrange a babysitter for Hope.
I lean back against my car, staring at the phone with my stomach churning. To my surprise, the answer comes quickly, causing a jolt of excitement followed by a plummeting of my heart. Can’t. Have business dinner to attend.
Pinpricks hit my eyes, and I blink stubbornly against them as I text back, No worries.
I hit send and then, because I need to know, I text again. One last, vain desperate attempt to know if we have a future together. I’ve got to get a dress this week for the gala. Any interest in taking some time to help me pick one out?
As I hit send, a wave of shame hits me over how pathetic I’m being. I should just come right out and ask him if we’re over. Instead, I poke along the edges, terrified of the answer.
It doesn’t come as quickly. In fact, it takes several minutes. I’m almost ready to give up and get in my car, knowing I’ll have a date tonight with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s at the least, when my phone chimes with his return text.
I forgot to tell Christina I was bringing a date, and now all the tables are full. I won’t be able to take you. I’m sorry.
There was the slap in the face I’d been waiting for. The actual breakup he was too chicken shit to just come out and say.
It was over.
I’ve had tough times in my past. An upbringing rooted in poverty, a cheating husband, having cancer, a nasty divorce, and losing custody of Hope. Every fucking time, I raised my chin and chose to be stoic. I decided I was one tough bitch, and I could make it through. I’d watched my mom work her ass off and struggle to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, and I’d been confident I could do anything if I put my mind to it.
Now… I can choose to do the same. I can let this experience with Asher be one of learning to compound my wisdom. Could decide to rejoice in the good times and be grateful for what I had.
Except right now, as the tears start to well up, I don’t feel like being strong. Don’t want to be tough and accepting. I don’t want to change my life to cope with the letdown.
I want to fucking cry.
So I do.
For the first time that I can remember, I just decide to let my vulnerability have its moment in the spotlight and I let my emotions go.
Huddling down beside my car—with my arms wrapped hard around me because it hurts too much—I start to sob. No gentle lead up. No trying to hold it back. I let the dam burst, hoping it purges my pain with the saltiness licking down my face.
I moan, actually in physical pain, as I cry a river for a man who could have been my everything.
“Hannah?” I hear from above me. Through a haze of tears, I see my immediate supervisor, Kyla Wroth. She manages the secretarial pool and has been with Knight Investment Group for almost two decades. “Are you okay?”