Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Edward is about as likely to help with that science project as Garth Brooks is to perform at the Apollo.
“Well, Edward had a long day,” Soledad finishes with a smile as natural as my lashes. “And may have overlooked a few things.”
“Hmmmmm,” Hendrix grunts.
She really should patent that hmmmm. It’s the most accomplished monosyllable I’ve ever met.
“Well, I have the care and feeding of my housewives tomorrow,” Hendrix says and sighs. “The producers want me on-set to ensure no butt implants are harmed in the making of this next episode.”
We share a cackle, and I relish the simple ease of authentic friendship where I didn’t expect it and the evening breeze on my face. Georgia clings to summer as long as possible. August’s bright green leaves still trim the trees lining Skyland’s streets, but soon they’ll be varicolored, the wind propelling them from the branches like a confetti cannon. In just a few weeks, they’ll blanket the cobblestones under our feet.
I fish the keys from my purse and click the remote to unlock my car as we walk to the parking lot.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” I say, reaching for Soledad.
Hendrix’s arms enclose us both, and our little triumvirate huddles together, our perfumes and spirits mingling under the warm glow of the town’s gas lamp streetlights.
“I love you guys,” Soledad whispers, eyes bright. “There’s nowhere I would have rather been than with you on my birthday. Thank you for making it special.”
“I love you crazy broads too,” Hendrix jokes, giving us an extra squeeze before releasing us. “Next year we are hitting up a strip club. This is Atlanta. How you gonna not go to a strip club?”
“I’m open.” I grin.
“Yassss!” Hendrix high-fives me.
“Maybe next year,” Soledad’s mouth says, while the wide-eyed look she sends me says neverrrrr.
I climb into my car, chuckling as I picture staid Soledad and up-for-anything Hendrix in Magic City, tossing ones. I’d be in the middle enjoying the show onstage and off.
“Y’all still coming to Food Truck Friday tomorrow?” I ask through my rolled-down window.
“For sure,” Hendrix says. “I’ll be wrapped on set by then.”
“Can’t wait.” Soledad opens her door and climbs up into a Suburban. She looks so small behind the wheel of that mammoth machine, but with three girls and their gaggle of friends, she can never have enough passenger space. “See you then.”
The drive home is short, barely enough time to reflect on the day’s events. A year ago, I could not have envisioned feeling this way. Feeling this good. A night out with new friends who feel like the sisters of my heart. Our business, not long ago on the brink of failure, restored, thriving, booming.
And then there’s Josiah.
A shiver skims my spine, the memory of his fingers whispering across my bare skin when he zipped me up, coaxing to life parts of me long dormant and neglected. I’ll probably always be attracted to him. Like I told Hendrix, he’s fine as hell, but I can’t let my body’s natural response to a beautiful man with whom I have a complicated past, and offspring, fool me into thinking things should have turned out differently.
We were good together. Very good, in fact. Then shit happened. So much life-altering, earth-shattering shit, and not only were we not good together, but I couldn’t imagine things ever being good again. It’s time for us both to move on.
When Josiah and I dreamed of our restaurant over cartons of cheap Chinese, late at night while he was finishing his MBA, we didn’t talk about living in an affluent neighborhood like Skyland, but as I drive past all the custom-built houses and three-car garages, I realize we got it. The garage door to the house we renovated together lifts. In the last gasping breaths of our marriage, it became unbearable to be in this house with him. How many nights did our arguments echo through the halls? But after the divorce, I couldn’t bear to be here without him. It felt wrong and empty. To be fair, at that point, no place felt right. Not even in my own skin.
I rid the house of all our wedding pictures, but Josiah is indelibly stamped on every square inch, from the freestanding tub in our bathroom, to the large open kitchen, and the high-ceilinged family room. Every light fixture, paint color, down to the smallest detail, we carefully chose together. The only thing we never anticipated was losing each other in the process of gaining everything else. We executed every phase of our dreams right on schedule.
Graduation. Check!
Marriage. Check!
Start a business. Check!
Baby one. Check!
Baby two. Check!
Baby three…
I shake off the thoughts like shackles and pull into the garage. I made the right decision for us all when I asked for the divorce. I have to believe that. Anything is better than the volatile pressure cooker our lives became at the end.