Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Including the parts that contain information about Robert.
This could be my new life … or not. For a moment, a thought wriggles into the crevices of my mind: What if it doesn’t work out with Magnolia? The permanence of it all steals my complete attention and I don’t even realize Asher’s gone until Griffin tells me to snap out of it.
“Shit.” The word is muttered under my breath. Running a hand down my face, I apologize.
“It’s fine. You’ve got a lot on your mind.”
Taking in a deep breath and forcing myself to exhale slowly, I stare at the front doors to the bar before agreeing with him.
My gaze is snapped back to him when he asks, “Did you tell your mom?”
“And give her a heart attack?” Is he fucking crazy? “No I did not.”
My reaction only makes Griffin’s smile broader. “Probably best to wait.”
“Yeah,” I say and it’s the only word I can give him.
“When do you find out again?”
“Up to seven days.” That’s the third time I’ve told him so far today. I bite back the thought that nearly slipped out unbidden: I hope she’s mine. I don’t know where it came from, and the thought is scary as hell.
“I’ll wait to know for sure before I tell her anything,” I tell Griffin and he nods agreeably.
“Fair enough.” Then he adds, “You never did answer my question.”
“What’s that?”
“Did Mags text you back?”
I ignore the hairs raised at the back of my neck by hearing her nickname … the one Robert used. I can’t hear it without thinking about him as he sat across from me at the table.
“Yeah,” I say then pull out my phone from my back pocket and bring up the text messages. Me to her: I’d like to meet her if that’s okay. Her response was immediate, leading me to believe she’d already thought a lot about it: Come by tomorrow night.
“You want to come with me tomorrow?” I ask him and Griffin lets out a laugh.
“Renee already invited me.”
It takes great effort not to shake my head at his response.
“What if I am her dad?” I ask because I just can’t help it. It’s all I can think about.
Griffin’s response is far too lighthearted for my frustration and impatience in wanting to know the truth. “Well then you lucked out in a way, missing the dirty diapers.”
“I didn’t plan on this and I’m dying inside not knowing.”
“Imagine how she felt.” His comment is the most serious tone he’s taken today.
“What?”
“You’re feeling all sorts of ways right now. Imagine how Magnolia felt. Not knowing but having to do it all on her own. You can suck it up for a week.”
“Well damn.”
His hands go up in defense as a crease settles between my brow. “Don’t be mad at me,” he adds.
“I’m not mad, I’m just lost.”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
If I’m not the father and Robert is … there’s no way I have a chance with her. Scolding myself for sounding like a damn child, I attempt to shut up the voice in the back of my head that keeps thinking: it’s not fair.
None of this is supposed to happen this way.
Magnolia
“Your worthiness is never on the table,” I whisper beneath my breath, my eyes closed and my head tilted back. It’s a mantra from some self-help audiobook I listened to years ago. “Your worthiness is never on the table.” I think it came from The Power of Vulnerability by Brené Brown. I need to search my history and listen to it again. The only thing I took away from it was the saying: Your worthiness is never on the table. Promotions and other degrees of success may be, but my worthiness of love, including self-love, never is.
Blowing out a deep breath I open my eyes and state, “My worthiness is never on the table … even if I’m scared.” The last bit is whispered as I look back down to Brody’s text message where a single line stares back at me. I’ll be there.
Ignoring the swell of emotions, I take another sip of bottled water and look around the room. With all of these packages coming in for the event this weekend, the gallery is in chaos. Lord help me. With my fingers playing with the ends of my hair, I let out an uneasy sigh at the sight of boxes piled high into tall stacks on either side of the doorway. Martin, a.k.a. my hero on days like these, needs to get in here and manhandle these cardboard suckers to the back. My pathetic semblance of upper body strength has already lost this war and I know we’re expecting another dozen or so shipments today and tomorrow.
Everything from the upcycled plates and artsy champagne glasses, to spotlights for the featured artists is packed in those boxes. Every little detail has been carefully considered and for the first time ever, I didn’t need approval for these purchases. Typically we have a budget and I make the arrangements, but every bit is cleared by Mandy before I can spend a cent and reserve a darn thing.