Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Oh!” She covers her mouth with her hand. Then she scoots closer on the sofa to read over my shoulder.
OH SHIT I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY THAT IN A TEXT I WANTED TO SAY IT IN PERSON. I WAS TRYING TO WAIT.
AND YOU WAIT TOO MUCH TOO. YOU WAIT FOR ME ALL THE TIME. BUT I DON’T KNOW WHY. I SNORE AND MY HAIR IS FLOOFY.
YOU NEVER COMPLAIN ABOUT MY STINKY FEET BUT IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.
TONIGHT I’M LISTENING TO MAROON 5’S DAYLIGHT ON A CONTINUOUS LOOP, LIKE AN EMO LOSER. BUT IT HURTS SO GOOD.
“Oh, that poor, sweet summer child,” Valencia says as the texts roll on. “Your man needs you.”
“I know,” I groan. “But there’s not enough of me to go around right now. This is the worst.”
“Mommmmyyyyy!” Alba calls. “Can Rosie sleep over tomorrow night instead?”
“Does Rosie want to?” Valencia yells back.
“Yes!” my daughter shouts. “Duh!”
“I should just text him back,” I say.
Valencia pokes me in the ribs. “No, Mark, please go into your super-tidy bedroom and throw a few things into a bag. Get your passport. Go to France. That’s what you should do.” She locks eyes with me. “Tonight. Now.”
Wow. The moment she says this, I can actually picture stepping off that jet at Charles de Gaulle, hurrying towards the immigration line to see my man, kissing the hell out of him on his birthday.
But it’s just not practical. I have to work on Monday morning. It’s already eight on Friday. Plus, I have my kid. “I couldn’t do that,” I say, even as the image of Asher’s smile flashes before my eyes. “I can’t just walk out on you and Rosie.”
“You’re not,” she says firmly. “The person who needs you right now is Asher, not Rosie. She can spend the whole weekend with us, and she’ll have a great time. You need to be in France. Now. Go get your man. I’ll hold down the fort here. Seriously. How hard could it be?”
“Daddy!” Rosie yells. “I got icing on the pirate cat!”
“F-fiddlesticks,” I say, setting my wine down on the table in preparation for cleaning that up.
Valencia holds out a hand. “No. I got this. I got tonight and tomorrow night, too, if Bridget decides to go to the opera or the damn symphony. Go, Mark. It’s hard work finding your special someone. If you love Asher, go tell him so in person, and when you get your butt in a cab in ten minutes, text him that you’re on the way.”
She’s completely right. My guy needs me. My friends have my back. My kid is doing great. There’s only one place I need to be right now, and it’s not here.
My chest squeezes with gratitude for Valencia. I’m lucky to have this life. “Are you a hundred percent serious?”
“A hundred and ten percent.”
I meet her warm brown eyes. “Okay. I’m really going to do this crazy thing.”
Holy shit. I am.
“Hurry,” she says, then wags her phone as the door swings open, and Valencia’s wife strolls into the vestibule.
“Who has yellowtail rolls and mackerel? This girl,” she calls out.
Valencia nods in the direction of her wife. “I’ll look up flights, and Zoe will handle the kitchen. Pack a bag and talk to Rosie. Quick!”
“Talk about what?” My daughter comes around the corner, probably to beg for a sleepover. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and red icing lines her cheekbone. I look at her⏤my baby girl.
And my heart tugs in another direction.
Rosie has always been my number one. From the very first time I held her, I knew I’d never let her down if I could help it.
“What, Daddy?” she asks, cocking her head. “What’s wrong.”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.” I sit back down as Zoe crosses into the kitchen with a wave. “It’s just that Asher is sad, baby. I was supposed to go to Paris for the weekend to see him.”
She marches into the room and slides onto my knee. “Why don’t you go?”
“Because you needed me too.” I give a little tug on her ponytail. “And you’re my number one. Always.”
“I know that.” She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “But maybe Asher needs you a little. He’s your number two, right? You could go and I could stay with Alba.”
“Only if you’re sure,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “I’d come home on Sunday night, or maybe Monday. But no later.”
“And you’ll call me from Paris?”
“Of course.”
She looks me right in the eye. “And you’ll bring me those chocolates from the airport? In the shape of the Eiffel Tower?”
Valencia snorts. “Work it, girl. Work it.”
“I’ll take some macarons,” Zoe calls out.
“Possibly,” I hedge to Rosie. “That was a lot of chocolate. I might have to choose a smaller treat.”
“Fine.” She gives me a cherubic smile. “Bring one for Alba too.”