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)
We sit down for the most awkward family dinner ever. I’m seated next to my new stepmother, who’s nine years older than I am. On the other side of me is my brother, who I can’t tell the truth to. I’m diagonal from the person who taught me how to lie. And I’m sitting across from the man I was stupidly falling in love with and can never ever be with.
I can barely look at Bridger throughout the entire uncomfortable meal.
But the good thing is, I don’t have to.
Because the narcissist is in the room. And Dad’s leading the conversation, regaling us with the story of how he gave the Pablo Neruda book to Vivian at their beach house.
“We bonded over Pablo Neruda on our first date,” he says, so pleased with their romantic tale.
The book he could barely remember.
“And then we stole away to get a marriage certificate and tie the knot in City Hall,” he adds, saying that they’ll plan a honeymoon for later this summer when Vivian can schedule another week away from the agency.
“We just couldn’t wait to get married though,” Vivian puts in.
Maybe she’s pregnant.
I don’t fucking care if she’s going to give birth to my half-sibling.
When dinner winds down, Dad clears his throat. “There’s a new musical opening this month. The Un-Gentleman. I know you two love Broadway so much,” he says to Bridger and me.
My breath catches and for a few hopeful, dangerous seconds, I imagine Bridger saying yes, I would love to take your daughter to the theater.
But then, what would I do if he said that? Would I tell my father what’s happened? That I’ve fallen for his partner? How would my dad handle that?
Badly.
Dad keeps going. “I thought the four of us could go.” He turns to Hunter with a you lost shrug. “I would invite you if you lived in New York, but you’ve left me for London once again.”
Hunter doesn’t take the bait. “Yes, Dad, I did.” Then he checks the time. “And I have to leave again. My flight is taking off in two hours.”
My father doesn’t wait for me to RSVP to the theater. He doesn’t wait for Bridger to either. “Great. The four of us will go,” he says like Make it so.
I don’t want to cause a scene. I don’t want to be a problem. I’ll just tell my father sometime this week I can’t attend.
There’s nothing for me to say here. Or do. And since Hunter is leaving, that’s as good a time as any for me to go as well.
I walk out with him and say goodbye to my brother on the street, our hug lasting longer than usual, me not wanting to let go, him seeming to understand how needy I am.
Then he’s gone. I almost wish I could hitch a ride in his luggage.
Instead, I walk home alone. Drops of rain start falling on my head. And a lonely pair of tears streak down my cheeks.
35
PEDESTALS AND PRINCESSES
Harlow
Ten blocks and an elevator ride to my floor later, my dress is clinging to me. My cheeks are wet too, but not from the rain.
Once I’m inside my apartment, I strip out of my damp clothes, toss them listlessly in the hamper, and trudge to the shower.
I didn’t bring an umbrella today. Didn’t think I’d need one. That was a rookie mistake. New York loves to surprise anyone who gets too complacent by dumping a truckload of water from the sky.
Rain in New York is a shadow, lurking around the corner. You can’t escape it. You just have to let it hunt you down.
I turn on the shower and wash away the last few hours of lies and hurt. I scrub off my own deception, along with my heartache. There was pleasure too, but that’s long gone. And for a while in his office, when he was kissing me like I was the only thing that mattered in the universe, I felt…hope and possibility.
Maybe that’s foolish of me, to feel so much from sex.
Maybe it was only ever sex to him.
An image of the Zara Clementine on my wall flashes before my eyes. I was never just sex to him. I know that.
What was I then?
I may never know.
When I get out of the shower, I run a towel over my hair and pull on a pair of black sleep shorts and a white tank top.
Freshly scrubbed, I head to the living room, sink down on the couch, and grab my tablet. I should read some news in French. Study up on the new trends in art galleries. Do something productive as an antidote to all my dangerous choices. Find something enriching so I don’t wallow in this…breakup.
Can you even break up with someone you were never truly with?
Yet another question I have no answer to. Instead, I go to Webflix and I tune into The Ultimate F Boys, a mindless reality show. Before I can get too lost in the world of beefy, bleached blond boys and bling-wearing, bosomy, bratty girls, my phone trills.