Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
But it’s not all healthy recovery over here, because, like picking at a scab, I’ve also been devouring Midnight Destruction videos, trying to find any hint of the lying, betraying, game-playing asshole Ben is. But all I find is a masked figure that haunts me when I do get a few minutes’ rest. He sings to me in my dreams—not the screaming noise he makes onstage, but the soft, shy “Here Comes the Sun” he sang to me on the boat. I wake up sad and sick to my stomach, and then don’t sleep again for fear that the dream will come back to torture me once more.
Eventually, my coworkers come in, happily ready to tackle the day despite their bleary morning eyes. Dr. Payne brings in two trays of coffees, each one specific for someone with their current favorite order. He’s caring like that, and always does kind things, but I think he’s working hard to cheer me up.
“Hey, Hope!” he greets me. “Ready for a day of bad breath, Oreo-crumb-coated teeth, and biting kids?” He grins expectantly, hoping his joke will lighten my dark mood. Unfortunately, for all his awesome traits, Dr. Payne isn’t a funny guy, and his question is a little too accurate to be witty. Plus, as better as I feel, I’m still not in the mood for humor yet.
I force a small, empty smile and a polite chuckle. “Yep. Chairs one and two are ready for you.”
His perfectly even white grin falls, and he grows serious, lowering his voice to give us privacy. “Thanks. And really, take all the time you need. You’re important to us here, but we can make it a few more days without you if necessary.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. He really is a great boss and friend. So are the rest of my coworkers, who’ve all been absolutely supportive of my mood swings, from hyperfocused productivity as a distraction method to bump-on-a-log pouting sessions while hiding out in the bathroom. Luckily, I haven’t had one of the latter in several days.
“Thanks, Dr. P. I need the routine, I think.”
He nods wisely. “Well, if you change your mind, just let Jordan know you’re leaving and we’ll hold down the fort.”
Jordan is our receptionist. She’s the best one we’ve ever had, full of youth in a bubbly, charismatic way that puts patients at ease. She’s also engaged, and we’ve done a fair amount of wedding planning together on our lunch breaks, sharing Pinterest inspiration pictures, Reddit threads about wedding-day drama, and Instagram stories filled with happily-ever-afters. She’s been avoiding me like the plague since I came back to work, probably afraid my wedding-day disaster will rub off on her and ruin her own special day. Or maybe she’s being kind by not reminding me of the thing we so recently had in common. Either way, I won’t be talking to her today.
Except life has other plans.
“Morgan, can you check—” I say, heading into our insurance-billing supervisor’s office. But I stop, realizing Jordan is sitting in front of her looking like I busted her for stealing out of the office cookie jar. To be fair, our cookie jar is shaped like a molar and usually filled with small trail mix packets, undyed drink-mix sticks, and sugar-free gum in a variety of flavors. Definitely nothing worth stealing. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, sorry. We were just talking about cake.” Jordan’s eyes widen, and she slaps her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, Hope. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Morgan looks aghast too.
I realize something important. They, if not everyone, think my recent heartbroken state is related to Roy and bailing on the wedding. They have no idea of the truth.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m not this”—I gesture to myself, knowing I look like hell despite the under-eye patches and the hair-oil mask I did last night—“because of the wedding or Roy. It’s Ben.”
“The rebound tourist?” Jordan asks, her perfect brows pulling together.
Pressing my lips together, I nod slowly. “He was more than that. A lot more.”
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know!” Looking hesitant, she says, “Um . . . in that case . . . if it’s not too tender to ask . . . I do have a wedding question . . .” She pauses, waiting for permission to ask something I’m probably going to refuse to answer. When I don’t disagree, though, she continues, “After you, uh, left, did anyone eat the cake at your reception? You know how we were going back and forth between the Chantilly cream and the almond-vanilla? I’m having second thoughts.”
I bark out an unexpected laugh of shock because that’s not at all where I thought she was going. I fully expected something entirely too personal about me and Roy, the wedding itself, or my 400 m sprint exit in custom cowboy boots. And once I start to laugh, I can’t stop. My entire life has become so ridiculously dramatic. Tears spill out of my eyes, which surprises me because I thought I’d dried out every last one of them, but apparently there are different wells for tears of laughter and tears of heartbreak. Jordan looks completely dumbfounded by my laughter, and Morgan seems worried about me, so eventually I corral it in.