Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Those initial feelings of crazy love slowly morph into something steadfast and, dare I say, calm. God it’s good. Better than I could have imagined. A kind of love you can depend on day in and day out? Kids, it does exist, I swear.
I make a concerted effort to not become so focused on Grant that I lose sight of the other relationships in my life, namely my relationship with my brother and his family and my friendships with Sophia and Daphne. Grant would love nothing more than if I moved in with him ASAP, but I hold off. I love this time I have with my friends, and I know it won’t always be like this. Sophia’s getting married soon, and we’ve already talked about ending our lease before that. And by “talked about”, I mean we’ve absolutely hysterically cried about it as if the three of us were getting shot by cannon to three different parts of the world. Write me from Antarctica!
There’s something about living with roommates in your early 20s. The absolute shitshow of an existence that can only happen when three girls find themselves in “silly goofy” moods at 2 AM and we decide Sophia definitely needs highlights in her hair, and then I try to do it for her with a hair dye kit I find under her bathroom sink only to realize halfway through that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, but it seemed easy enough when I read the instructions. The moment she looks in the mirror and screams and then starts laughing, and I start laughing, and Daphne starts to laugh so hard she starts to cry—that is the stuff of legends. I want to take advantage of every second we have together, just the three of us.
In late fall, the Pinstripes make it deep into the post-season, and they’re favored to take it all in the World Series. Unfortunately, things begin to unravel at the end of October. Nick has a season-ending injury when he breaks a bone in his wrist, and Dustin can’t seem to connect the bat to the ball with the same magic he was conjuring during the regular season. A string of bad luck culminates in a game seven loss that turns the city on its head. Collectively, we’ll mourn. Restaurants and shops will proudly leave up their Pinstripes flags and posters in the windows for weeks to come. Billboards and signs will belatedly show support for a team that’s out of the running for the year. I’m so disappointed for Grant, for Luke, for all the guys.
I’m with Grant that night. As soon as the ninth inning ends and we’re cleared to access the field, I walk to him with tears gathered in my eyes. I watch him clap Nick on the back then shake his head at something Josh tells him. The teammates and friends hug and console each other, and then Grant steps back, alone as he waits for me to reach him. He stands near the dugout, shoulders slumped, frustration written across every line of his face.
I don’t say a word because what is there to say? I let him reach out and grab me. I sway toward him as he wraps his arms around me in a punishingly tight hug. There, I cry against his chest. I squeeze him to reassure him. I tell him how much I love him, how proud I am. His tears are mostly held back, though I understand how much anger seethes under the surface. It must feel like an entire season wasted even though logically that’s not the truth.
That night, he takes longer to get home from the stadium than usual. I didn’t want to rush him, so I left with Sophia and Daphne.
I can only imagine him and the guys in the locker room, rehashing every moment of the game, talking through what could have been if only this play had worked out or that out had been counted or that ball had just cut a few inches to the left—had it all gone their way. I’m asleep when he slides into bed behind me, wraps his arms around me, and draws me to him. I give in so easily when he starts to kiss my neck and wrap his arm possessively around my middle, pushing my pajama top up in the process.
It’s obvious how much he needs this, needs me, as I shake off the last vestiges of sleep and turn to face him, kissing him back. It’s slow and tender. We keep the lights off, but there’s no fumbling. He knows my body as well as I know his. His rough hands run gently down my stomach until he reaches my thighs and spreads them apart so he can sink into me, bury his problems there with a heady groan.