Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“You did know, then. You knew, and you still went through with it? You know no guy carries around a photo on his phone if the girl isn’t important to him.”
She doesn’t respond. What more can she say that won’t make her sound worse?
“Liz, how long before she caught you?”
“We’d been together for two months at that point.”
Dammit. Charlie suspected as much or more but never had it confirmed.
“Please don’t hate me, Charlie. I’m sorry. I’ll tell your friend or girlfriend, whatever she is, if you want. I feel terrible since he died and—”
“No! You won’t talk to her—”
“Please forgive me. I hate when we fight.”
“You hate when we fight?” I laugh. That idea is preposterous. “We’d have to be on speaking terms to fight.” This whole conversation worsens my headache and makes my chest hurt for Charlie. They’ve damaged her, and I’ve been thrown into the mix for being related. I don’t know why I need more details, but I do. Everything Liz has told me is what I’d expected, but I need confirmation. If she’s smart and cares about repairing our relationship, she’ll answer with the truth. “Did you continue to see him after being caught?”
She hesitates, but then answers, “Yes.”
I hang the phone up and slump further down onto the seat. After being dropped off in front of my building, I go to my apartment, reliving every moment of the night.
It was bad enough that she was forced to spend time with Don and Katherine alone. That’s no picnic, but then to recognize Liz from one of her most painful times in life? Yeah, that’s gotta hurt. She was quiet on the ride home. I thought she was trying to forget the last two hours of torture, but she wasn’t. Her mind was reeling, in overdrive, and plotting her escape.
She fed me lies. All lies. I could see it in her eyes. The words were surface, a defense mechanism. Although I know deep down it’s not how she feels, her comparison of me to Jim and then calling herself a runner-up . . . that hit deep.
I float through my nighttime routine, unaware if I’ve brushed my teeth or changed my clothes. I find myself under my covers and thinking, replaying the car ride and how she felt in my arms. I tried to take the bad away, feeling if I could have held her tight enough, it would have disappeared, and I would see her smile again. I wanted to believe that could happen. She’s made it apparent that I can’t protect her that way because she’s not here, and we’re not friends now.
I think back to the reading of Grace’s will and remember the look on my family’s faces, the surprise and shock on mine. It was quite the turn of events in and of itself, but to have Charlie hit with her past during dinner was even more outrageous.
I wish I could take back the entire night. I wish it was four o’clock again, and we decided to blow off the dinner and stay on the couch all night. It wouldn’t have changed the will. I’m so stupid for going to my parents’ and for taking her, exposing her to all that.
Her couch is our haven, our bonding spot, our place. It’s where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s where cupcakes and beer are a perfectly acceptable lunch, and somehow it makes sense to play chick flicks after horror movies. It’s where we aren’t just friends buying groceries at the store or a platonic coffee at the corner. It’s where we get to be who we want to be without having to define us to anyone else.
And that’s gone now.
I toss and turn for hours. My sleep is restless, and I’m upset from the loss. I feel it deep within me, maybe more than I should, considering how long we’ve known each other. But I don’t care about that. I only care about her, so I get up and get dressed though it’s just turned five o’clock.
After I knock on the door just above the closed sign, it swings open, and Tony stands there smiling. I grumble. It’s too early to be chipper, yet Tony’s outlook is contagious, so I return the smile and greet him properly.
“Morning, Tony.”
“Good morning to you. So what brings our illustrious New York writer out at the wee hours of the day? Oh, wait! Let me guess.” After he flips the sign over to display open, I follow him toward the counter.
The smell of hot, fresh bread fills the small shop. It’s stronger than usual in the early morning. I lean against the counter, needing a strong cup of coffee to keep me on track with my mission.
Tony starts his round of guessing. “Considering it’s Sunday, I’m thinking it’s either some investigative, undercover-operation-type news piece or it involves a woman.”