Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“He’s moving to New York,” I lament. “Just watch.”
“How do you know that?” Dante asks.
“Because…I know.”
Later in the evening, some schmuck sets up a The Newlywed Game activity for Stephanie and Elliot in which they sit in the middle of the living room, back to back, while holding two paddles. One paddle has Stephanie’s face on it, the other has Elliot’s.
Cadence reads questions from a cue card. “Okay, which one of you is most likely to leave dishes in the sink?”
Instead of paying attention to which paddle they hold up in reply, I answer the questions in my head as if I were playing with Aiden.
“Who’s most likely to have a temper?” she asks.
Me.
“Who’s more organized?”
Me.
“Who has better hair?”
Aiden.
“Who snores the loudest?”
Sadly…me.
“Who makes the best breakfast?”
Aiden. His pancakes are perfect.
The game is too easy for me. I know Aiden better than anyone. I know which of us is more likely to do or say anything, but then Cadence switches to more romantic topics and suddenly I’m punched in the gut by the cold hard truth.
“Who said ‘I love you’ first?” she asks Stephanie and Elliot.
No one.
“Who made the first move?” she continues.
How much alcohol can I consume without ruining Stephanie’s night?
“Who is more romantic?”
I don’t know, okay?!
I’ll never know.
Chapter Ten
Maddie
The next day is an epic disaster as I try to put on a brave face for Stephanie while checking my phone every few minutes wondering if Aiden will reach out to me. He doesn’t. Not one time all day. I mostly manage to not cry publicly, but there are a few times I excuse myself to go back to the bungalow and wallow in isolation. Now, I’m lying in bed hugging the pillow Aiden used before he left. It smells like his cologne, and I shamelessly inhale like the scent might bring him back to me. With my other hand, I scroll through Facebook, rapid-fire skipping over the wedding and baby announcements that litter my feed. I’m going so fast, I breeze past a picture of Aiden before realizing it and backtracking.
It’s a little blurry, as if the person who took it wasn’t trying very hard. Even still, it’s easy enough to tell he’s standing in a bar with a group of people. They’re all about his age, some slightly older. They crowd around him and hold up their drinks in salute for the camera. Aiden is smiling from ear to ear. The caption reads:
Congrats, Aiden! NYT’s newest hire!
No.
That can’t be right.
He’s already accepted the job? Just like that?
He was only going for an interview. Sure, I assumed he’d get an offer and probably take it, but it wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.
I read the comments from all his family and friends. Everyone is congratulating him on his huge accomplishment. He hasn’t responded to anyone yet.
I guess he’s still at the bar.
I don’t want to cry. I really, really don’t, but well, tears slip out whether you want them to or not.
I toss my phone onto the bed and hug his pillow tighter before realizing what I’m doing.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I toss the pillow halfway across the room in an effort to distance myself from it.
Fuck Aiden.
Fuck him SO MUCH.
My phone starts to ring. Aiden’s name is illuminated on the screen in my room as if he heard me silently cursing him all the way in New York.
I don’t want to answer, not in this state, but the rings taunt me, echoing in the quiet room, bouncing off the concrete floors.
It’s just about to cut off and go to voicemail when I give in and swipe my finger across the screen.
Noise bombards me from all directions once the call connects: loud chatter, clinking glasses.
“Maddie?” he shouts. “Can you hear me?”
I sniffle, trying to dry up the last vestiges of my tears. “Yeah, I can. It’s just a little loud.”
“Sorry, I’m not back at my hotel yet. Some guys from the Times forced me to go out.”
“Cool,” I say, not making an effort to push the conversation along. It feels good to be a little petty.
“How’s the desert?”
“Oh…hot.”
He laughs, assuming I’m making a joke.
My passive-aggressive tone must not be evident. That’s probably for the best.
“New York is good,” he volunteers when I don’t immediately ask him the same question in return. “I had my interview earlier.”
“Yeah?”
“It went really well.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, ashamed of the tears collecting in them again. I don’t want to cry on the phone with him. I don’t want him to know how upset I am.
“Maddie? You still there?”
I hold the phone away from me and suck in a deep, calming breath. “Yeah, sorry, I think we’ve got a spotty connection.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. The cell service where you are isn’t great. I tried to call you twice today and the calls wouldn’t go through.”