Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
This could be it.
I drop my gaze to the box in her arms, knowing that dress will be a little small for me, not to mention my brothers will peel with laughter at me trussed up like Cinderella, but…
She didn’t bring the tux back. Does that mean Clay’s wearing it?
She pats the bag hanging around her neck. “I’ve got makeup, hair stuff… Let’s do this.”
I can’t help but smile a little. I wonder how many times Clay’s tried to call or text the past couple of days. Will she want me there?
Oh, fuck it. Fuck it all. There is no tomorrow.
Krisjen heads past me, toward the stairs but stops and eyes Aracely. “Aracely, right?” she asks. “It’s going to take two of us to get her boobs into this dress. I’d appreciate the help.”
I laugh under my breath at Ara’s pissed-off expression at a Saint ordering her around. Normally, I’d take her side over one of St. Carmen’s, but Krisjen has the mettle to hang over on this side of the tracks.
I head up the stairs, both of them follow behind me.
“So, uh…Army…” Krisjen starts.
But I cut her off. “No.”
“What?”
What do you mean, what? I know what she wants. “I said no,” I state again.
Army needs a woman badly, but I’m doing this as much for her as for him. He’ll just turn the poor girl into a babysitter he sleeps with.
She groans as we dip into my room. “Fine.”
THE LINE RINGS in my ear, Liv not picking up now or the last ten times I’ve called since getting the packages this afternoon.
She’s blocked me. I could start another social media profile—one she hasn’t blocked—on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter, but I don’t have time right now, and that would be a new level of low and pathetic.
I just want her to want to talk to me. I don’t want to stalk her.
I’m going over there. I’m done. I need her, and she loves me. I know she does.
Standing up straight, I hold out the phone, snapping a selfie as I tip my hat with my other hand. I post it, tapping out the caption, “This could be it. I won’t let you go.”
She may have blocked me, but I haven’t blocked her. She’ll see it.
I post it just as a figure heads toward me out of the corner of my eye, and I look up, seeing my dad. He approaches in a black tux, his dark hair combed, and his crisp, white shirt making his skin look tan. He smiles gently, carrying a clear case in his hand as his eyes fall down my matching tux. His eyebrows rise to his hairline.
“I know, I know,” I mumble, hearing the hall fill up beyond the stairwell where I hide. “Mimi will freak when she sees me.”
He leans into the wall next to me, and I know he wants to talk, but I have no ambition. We haven’t really spoken since my phone call the other night, and even though I feel a little guilty, I don’t know why.
Maybe because we’re all in pain, and I expect my parents to be stronger than me. They aren’t, and I’m still debating on how mad I should be about that.
I’m still not apologizing, though. I’ll save that for Liv. She’s the only thing that’s important right now.
“Actually, I was thinking you don’t look the same,” he finally says. His eyes drop to the boutonniere in the box, his mind far away and his jaw tense. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry that we just couldn’t seem to pull it together. There’s almost nothing worse than having your children see you completely fuck up.”
My dad was around for a while, but the house felt less and less like a home, and my mother only wanted her grief. I understand how it hurt my dad. How he felt alone.
He just forgot I was there, too.
“We’re supposed to show you how it’s done,” he whispers, and I can hear the tears choking his voice. “We broke, and I didn’t know how to fix it.” He turns his head toward me. “I didn’t want to escape your mother. I wanted to love her.”
“Do you still?”
He doesn’t falter. “Still.”
There’s hope, then. I’m not the only one making mistakes, and no matter what, I still love my parents. Even now.
Maybe Liv still loves me.
Mrs. Wentworth saunters through the door, girls in their white gowns filling the hallway behind her, pulling on gloves, and squealing as they rush from one room to another, getting ready.
The director slows in her steps, looking me up and down. I stay there, not standing up straight.
“Your escort isn’t here,” she informs me, looking to my father, as well.
My father is supposed to walk me into the room, but at the end of the stage, Callum is supposed to take over. The symbolism of a father passing the jewel of his house onto the next man in her life like you pass a well-baked pie...