Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
We’d talked at our last semiannual retreat about catering to the growing demographic of moms who subscribed to Willow, but I’d never imagined that just a few months later, I’d be in a position to write stories like the one I’d just turned in.
A confirmation message popped up in my inbox immediately. Liz got the email I just sent her. Scoffing, I looked at the clock on the wall of Ben’s study—it was nine fifteen and the sun had set hours ago. I’d privately joked to other staffers at the magazine that Liz didn’t actually have a home; she just coiled up beneath her desk for a few hours each night to digest whomever she’d eaten whole that day and slithered out a few hours later to do it all again.
I’d envied her work ethic. But I now realized it was a hell of a lot easier to put in twelve plus hours a day when you didn’t have any other responsibilities.
I quickly closed my computer so I wouldn’t see any more messages from my boss until tomorrow. I was exhausted. It had been a long day of laundry, taking care of the kids and working. I’d come into Ben’s study around three this afternoon, leaving Wes to take care of the kids.
My plan to close the door and focus entirely on work this evening had mostly worked. I hadn’t been able to resist turning on the baby monitors that were connected to the kids’ rooms when Wes was putting them to bed.
He’d told them stories about Ben as he fed Benny his bottle, tasking Annalise with organizing Benny’s dresser drawers to keep her busy. It was bittersweet, tears forming in my eyes as I smiled at his recollections of Ben’s first car, their first NHL game against each other and the time they tried skydiving.
“I was the chicken,” Wes had told the kids. “I had to tell your dad to push me out of the plane. He was smiling and laughing the whole way down and I was screaming my ass off. Sorry, my butt.”
“Daddy said ass too, Uncle Wes,” Annalise said. “When Mommy wasn’t around, he said shit, ass and fuck. Mostly when we were watching hockey.”
Wes had laughed at that, and I had, too, wiping tears from my cheeks. Even after nearly two months, the loss of Ben and Lauren still felt so raw. Every time one of the kids did something cute, I longed for Lauren to be here to see it.
There was a picture of Ben and Lauren on Ben’s large walnut desk, and I picked it up for a closer look. It was the two of them on their honeymoon in Hawaii, smiling happily as they took a selfie in front of a waterfall.
Little did they know. I was grateful they’d found their great loves in each other and had two children together. But they’d been taken from this world far too soon. Wes had gotten a call from the local state’s attorney’s office a couple days ago letting us know all the toxicology results were in and the case review was complete. DUI charges were being filed against the driver who’d killed Ben and Lauren.
Wes had been stoic when he’d told me, but I knew it had to be emotional for him, too, even if he wasn’t showing it.
It was a gut punch. One person’s stupid decision to drive drunk had cost two beautiful young children their parents. Wes and I both supported the state’s attorney’s decision to charge the driver, but there was no penalty that would come close to comforting me. The world had been a better place with Ben and Lauren in it.
With a deep breath, I picked up my phone and got up from Ben’s office chair, opening my personal email. I let out a little squeal of excitement when I saw a message from the photographer I’d hired to shoot Annalise’s party. The photos were in.
I went to the kitchen to find something to eat. There was leftover pizza from the place Wes had ordered delivery from for dinner. I put a few pieces on a plate and set it in the microwave, pushing the buttons.
“Hey, there’s pizza in the fridge,” Wes called from the family room. “And I already poured your wine; it’s waiting for you.”
I smiled as I took my plate from the microwave, grabbed a napkin and walked into the family room, where Wes was sitting on the couch watching SportsCenter, his feet propped on the coffee table.
“I don’t know,” I said as I sat down beside him. “Do you think maybe when others know you want a glass of wine before you even say anything, it might be one of the Top Ten Signs You Have a Problem?”
Wes shrugged. “I say wine’s not your problem, but your solution.”