Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
The room is quiet save for the sound of running water on the other side of the closed door, and a short while later, she emerges smelling of spearmint and roses as she climbs into bed.
“Is everything okay?” she asks. “I just … the last couple times I’ve seen you, you’ve been … different.”
I lift a brow, playing dumb. “Different how?”
“Colder. More distant,” she says, fussing with the blankets. “I thought we were finally turning a page and then … I don’t know what happened. If you want to call the wedding off just—”
“—work has been stressful,” I cut her off. “The wedding is on. I apologize if I’ve been checked out. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’d ask if you want to talk about it, but I already know what you’ll say.” There’s a bit of pity in her voice for some reason, almost like she feels sorry for me for being such a curmudgeon.
But I don’t need her sympathy.
The only thing I truly could use right now is a miracle.
“You know me well,” I say, paging to a new article on my tablet.
“What’s on the docket for the week? Are we going to visit your parents?”
“They’re unavailable this week.”
“Oh.” I can tell she wants to ask why, but for whatever reason, she doesn’t. “So, what’s the plan?”
“What’s with you wanting a plan? You’re never like this.”
“I just figured you had the entire week all mapped out. Sorry for asking.” She rolls to her side, reaching to turn off the lamp on her side of the bed. As a night owl, it’s unusually early for her to be calling it a day.
I imagine her lying there for the coming hours, pretending to be asleep. Maybe she feels guilty for spending her evening with Oliver instead of me, though she shouldn’t. I’d rather she enjoy herself than hate every second she spends under my roof.
Without a word, I reach into my nightstand drawer and retrieve a white remote. With the press of a button, a TV lowers from a hidden section in the ceiling. I power it on, pull up the streaming menu, and cue Below Deck for her.
It’s the least I can do.
.
Slade—
What do you think we’ll be doing ten years from now?
Campbell (age 21)
Campbell—
I try not to think about that if I can help it.
Slade (age 22)
19
Campbell
I plug my AirPods in, cue my music to a nineties station, and fan myself with the latest Taylor Jenkins Reid paperback. Despite it only being 8 AM, the Palm Beach sun is radiating in full force and I’m pretty sure I’ve got roughly thirty more minutes before I melt into a pile of sunscreen on this lounge chair, but I persist.
It’s June and I need to acclimate myself to the summer climate. Fiona said July and August are even worse, which I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll have to be someone who goes north for the summer.
Alaska is sounding like a dream right now.
An angsty Fiona Apple tune croons in my ear as I flick to a dogeared page in my book. It’s so hot, I can hardly concentrate, and a cocktail of sweat and sunblock burns my eyes and blurs my vision. Wiping my face with a clean beach towel, I manage to get my vision back in time for Fiona to appear with a breakfast tray.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her as she places my usual favorites on the side table. “But thank you.”
She smiles. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
I’m halfway through my avocado toast when Slade steps out onto the terrace, his sweat-glistened torso glimmering in the sunlight as he shoves his sweatband up his forehead.
“Have a good run?” I ask between bites. Lately this is what we do—small talk. Neutral conversations. Non-sations as I like to refer to them. As long as I don’t ask him if he’s okay or if he wants to do anything fun, he doesn’t snap at me. Every once in a while, he’ll throw me a bone by doing something unexpectedly or randomly nice. Most of the time, though, I’m walking on eggshells around him.
He says it’s work, but the closer we get to the wedding, the worse his moods get. Correlation doesn’t always equal causation, but I can’t imagine what else it could be?
“The keys to the Tesla are on the dresser,” he says. “I’m grabbing a shower and heading out.”
The plan for the day is for me to drive around the city—solo—to learn my way around. Slade gave me a list of all the places we’ll likely frequent after we’re married as well as a few places he thinks I might like—various restaurants and shops, his parents’ house, Oliver’s house, the family’s country club, fitness centers ... I have my own list of places too. Mostly charities and animal rescue organizations I’d like to volunteer at when I’m here full-time. I imagine cruising around is going to take up all of my day, which is exciting because lazing around Slade’s ice-cold mansion gets old after a day or two.