Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Vivian’s attractive in a standard New York City entry-level-professional sort of way—straight brown hair clipped back, a black sweater, chandelier earrings, and trendy boots.
As my dad circulates with a board of figs, nuts, and cheese, she makes small talk in the living room with Bridger about the supposed golden age of TV, and how the entertainment business is blessed with so many options these days.
Boring.
He seems to listen intently, but he says little, maybe because she talks a lot. He wears his five-o’clock shadow like a 1950s ad exec, and he looks like he spends his working hours on the phone, talking, negotiating, wooing. He also sports pressed black pants and a shirt the shade of a ripe raspberry.
But it’s not the one I told him to wear and that pisses me off too.
After ample praise from his guests for his charcuterie skills, my father heads to the kitchen to assemble an encore, nodding not so subtly for Vivian to follow him.
Naturally, I follow, too, a few steps behind.
No one notices I’m there. Dad taught me to be invisible when it comes to adult affairs, so I use that to my advantage as I beautify the board.
“What do you think, Vivian? Is he the bloke for you?” Dad asks her.
Jaw ticking, I listen as I layer figs.
“Well, what’s not to like? He’s handsome, well-educated, and he’s making bank. He could be the one,” she says. I want to tackle her. Who cares if Bridger has money?
I damn well plan on making my own money when I am out of school. I don’t intend to be dependent on anyone else’s wallet. Besides, love shouldn’t be about what someone makes. It should be about how someone makes you feel.
“There you go,” my dad says, chipper.
I hate my father all over again, in a fresh, new, feral way.
But I try to tamp down my anger as the man of the matchmaking hour walks into the kitchen to pour himself another iced tea. Bridger helps himself to a pitcher from the fridge, and after he fills up his glass, he spies the board I’m finishing. He plucks an olive from the center.
After he bites into one, he rolls his eyes in pleasure. “Olives are my guilty pleasure,” he says to me.
Yes. To me.
Take that, Vivian.
“Don’t feel guilty about pleasure,” I say, flashing a smile his way.
Vivian edges up to the board. “I better try one too,” she says, then bats her lashes, reaching for an olive as well. There’s a competitive tone, even a territorial one, in her declaration.
Something flames up in me—a thick plume of jealousy as she sets a hand possessively on his forearm.
Get off him.
But immediately, deep shame washes over me. He’s not mine. I need to stop entertaining this crush with my supposed strategy.
I need to stop feeding it.
I need to stop feeding it, or it will never die.
All through dinner, I fasten on a proper smile and I play the adult game, talking to everyone else.
Not Bridger. Not Vivian. Not Dad. Just the three other guests, until finally, they’re gone. Vivian is the last, waving at Bridger as she leaves.
“Good night, Vivian,” he says, evenly. It’s a friendly tone, one I instantly recognize. It’s the way he spoke to me after my crash. Then at the send-off party. It’s the way he’s talked to me since I’ve known him.
Until the party the other week, when we stole behind the tree and he asked me questions.
When the door snicks shut, Vivian’s gone. It’s just the three of us, so I slide into chore mode along with the two business partners. As we ferry dishes to the kitchen, my dad gives a big-eyed look to Bridger.
“So, what did you think of her?”
Bridger gives an I’m going to let you down smile. “I’m not sure we’re the right fit,” he says.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
“I wasn’t suggesting you get married,” Dad says with a laugh.
“What’s wrong with marriage, Ian?” Bridger counters, baiting my dad as he returns to the table to pick up stray forks and glasses.
I hope this clean-up lasts forever. I’m dying to hear the details.
“I suppose it’s fine for some people, but I don’t think of you as the marrying kind,” Dad says, now loading the dishwasher as I rinse the plates.
“If she were right for me, maybe I’d be the marrying kind,” Bridger says to my dad, a teasing note in his voice as he hands me a plate to rinse.
I take it, giddy to hear him talk so freely. I stay silent so they’ll keep going.
“So when you meet the right woman, you’ll be down on one knee?” Dad asks him.
Just like you, Daddy.
“I guess we’ll see when I meet her,” Bridger answers.
“Okay, mate. What are you looking for in a bird?”
Bird. Jesus. I stop biting my tongue, chiming in at last. “Dad, maybe consider saying ‘woman.’”