Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I enter the bar and start down the aisle of black-and-white checkerboard tiles, searching the dimmed bar for any sign of my mom. She stands out, always saying we were born to, but she’s not here. I turn back and look again as if I’d possibly miss her. Nope. Not here.
Checking the time, I was ten minutes late due to traffic a few blocks away. Is she fashionably late? Is that really even a thing? Or it’s just a good excuse to use when you’re running behind? I know I’ve used it, but it’s a habit I’ve broken more recently. Now I just own my tardiness and apologize.
I’m here, so I’ll wait a little while. Instead of sitting at the bar, I choose a table for two that has just come available. Slipping around, I sit on the cushioned bench that is the length of the bar, leaving her the chair.
Since I’m here, I order a glass of champagne and a water. Jackson would be so proud. Setting my phone on the table, just in case she texts, I’m tempted to bide my time and text him. But I don’t. He’s working while I’m gone. I’m hoping when I return, he’ll be free to finish what he started on the sidewalk.
Twenty minutes pass. I check the time on my phone.
Thirty minutes . . . I polish off a side of fries with a delicious aioli dipping sauce. Jackson would be proud.
Forty-five . . .
An hour passes and I’ve had two rounds of champagne and water. Tired—emotionally, disappointment had settled in around nine thirty. Hurt followed shortly after. Anger has replaced the pain. That’s it. I press my palms to the table and stand, ready to pay my bill and go home.
“Marlow.” My name is heard above the crowd.
Looking to the left, I see her waving in my direction . . . with Paolo, her long-term boyfriend, in tow. “Just us” comes ringing back. But more importantly, the server hasn’t returned to clear the dishes from my table. Dammit. I sit back down and wave, trying to act like I haven’t been here drinking and eating my feels.
Her gaze does a quick sweep of my outfit before I receive an approving smile and air kisses. “Hope you weren’t waiting long. Dinner ran over but you know how that goes.”
“No, just got here. It’s fine.”
“Started without us, I see,” she says, sitting down and plucking her glove from each finger before removing them and setting them lovingly across her lap since the table is dirty as she points out.
Paolo finds a server to add a chair to our table for two, but before he returns, I whisper, “I thought it would just be the two of us.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you said it would be.”
“Huh?” She pulls her phone from her clutch and studies the screen. “No, I said it would be just us.” Signaling toward Paolo, she adds, “It is. Just the three of us.”
I’m slow to catch on, but when I do, I realize she meant Jackson wasn’t welcome. Ah. She never did like an audience when it came to the uglier things in life. This is a setup. I should leave now, but the little girl in me needs to go through this.
I’ll never learn.
Nonetheless, I’m here, and the server has returned and taken her order. Turning to me, he asks, “Can I get you another glass?”
“Absolutely.”
My mom says, “So you have been here a while.”
“Yes, Mom. I’ve been here since a few minutes after nine. My car was stuck in traffic, or I would have been here on time. Now I see that was a fruitless concern of mine.”
Paolo returns and leans over the table to greet me. “So good to see you again,” he says with a kiss to the cheek. His accent is thicker than I remember, his hair darker as if he’s recently colored it. I have nothing against him.
He’s a former Brazilian model and the son of a telecommunications tycoon in South America. Late thirties. Paolo is everything my mom told me she wanted for me—worldly, degreed, older, comes with family money and a legacy. The only things she values. Like modeling, she expected me to follow in her footsteps, and just like in that endeavor, I will fail her in who I choose to be with. I spent a lot of years dating many men Talia Marché would have adored. I’m not with them for many reasons. My mother’s approval was never a factor.
I’m with a man who is more than she even realizes—kind, supportive, thoughtful, a great family who values people over money, but yes, he has some of the latter, too, even if I’m not yet privy to just that part of his life. He can’t be doing that badly judging by his apartment.