Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
And ass shots.
And almost naked shots.
And let’s not even touch on the fact that when I happen to see those right before he deletes them the whole “my body damn sure doesn’t look like that anymore” thought train blows its whistle so that all physical insecurities can board it at the exact same time.
But I deal with that train.
And I fucking stop it in its tracks.
Those are my hang ups.
He shouldn’t be punished for them, just like I shouldn’t be punished for his.
“Coño eso es diferente,” Tate quietly grumbles in Spanish, arms folding firmly across his white dress shirt covered chest.
“It’s not different simply because you want it to be.”
“It’s different because I don’t still have any sort of relationship with them!”
“You chose to fuck and forget them. They chose to fuck and not friend you. That’s between you guys.”
“Harper-”
“Daniel and I are friends, Tate. Nothing more. You know that. You see that.”
“I also saw you married,” he bites back, more pain than expected in his voice. “I remember the way he used to fucking look at you, and yeah, it’s probably because it’s the way I fucking look at you, which is why I can’t help but think that he still looks at you that way. That he still wants you that way. That he still…fucking…loves you that way.”
My shoulders slump on a soft sigh.
“Why’d you two split?” Tate cautiously investigates. “You’ve never told me.”
“Didn’t seem important.”
“And if I tell you, it is to me?”
“Then of course I’ll tell you.”
“Te oigo.”
“We split because we realized we were better off as friends.”
His expression instantly shifts in disbelief.
“Look, Daniel is a great guy-”
Tate’s grunt of irritation threatens to make me roll my eyes a second time.
“But we want different things out of a romantic relationship. He wants…,” the search for the correct words are accompanied by a hectic waving of the hand, “a puppy. Someone who is fine being wanted when he has time or feels like wanting them. Someone who doesn’t mind sitting at home while he’s working extra hours or writing for days in his study or is gone for a week here or there for a medical conference. Someone who accepts being a second-class citizen to his career and his close friends in the land of Dr. Wainwright.”
Sympathy sparks in his stare for the first time since he arrived.
“And I want a partner. Someone who not only wants to be in my life but is actively there. Someone who goes to the movies with me and gripes that I put too much butter on the popcorn.”
My boyfriend fights his instinct to smirk. “A little goes a long way, bella.”
“That’s popcorn shaming, and you know it,” I playfully tease prior to continue. “I want someone who takes the time to teach me about his favorite sport – the rules as much as the culture –. Someone who sends me a Tok that contains a dark history lesson on a word like ‘picnic’. Someone who always remembers to grab my birth control pills from the pharmacy despite the fact he hates that I’m on them.” Scooting my chair a little closer to him successfully receives a smile. “Someone who stops by my work on his way to his just to deliver me dinner and a flower he picked from the garden where he was most likely singing gospel hymns while pruning earlier in the day.”
The grin reaches his ears as his hands fall to his side to grip the edge of my desk. “Always.”
“Why is that?” I curiously inquire. “Why gospel music while gardening?”
“Growing up we mainly only did gardening stuff on Sundays. And while both of my parents had parents who were ‘your arse better be at Mass’ on Sunday, every Sunday, they themselves are more like sin on Saturday, say your Hail Mary’s at home Sunday type of people. So, once we moved to the states, Mom and I would sing gospel music while working on flower beds or weeding the yard, she’d tell me parables that basically were to remind me to always be a good person, and often mentioned towards the end of our time how our ancestors had no choice but to sing their communications due to their inability to read or write – because it was illegal – and to never forget that part of my history in the hustle and bustle of the others.”
Ugh.
His mother is like the mother to end all mothers.
Like so close to perfect it should be a crime.
I swear, when we have kids someday, I’ll be calling her for all the tips, all the time.
I offer him a soft smile in return. “Gospel music was the only music allowed to be played in my house on Sundays. Neither of my grandparents liked going to church – both claiming bad experiences from their early adult years – but both insisted on a day of peace with your spiritual side. I kept that shit going even when I moved away to college. It’d be the only thing I’d listen to on Sundays, which drove my dormmate fucking crazy if I had to drive us somewhere, but I didn’t care. I was honoring them.” Sadness unconsciously creeps into my expression. “I haven’t done that once since they died.”