Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
He makes that mm-hmm sound parents love.
"Things didn't end the best with the two of us. I know I never shared the details, but I could tell you didn't approve."
He does it again, but louder and lower.
"I wasn't sure if it was my decision. Or if you didn't approve of his behavior. I know you think I overreacted moving to New York, but that wasn't about Shep." That was only part of it. "I wanted to be here. To go to Columbia." To get away from all those reminders of Mom. To somehow fill the hole in my heart.
I swallow the words that rise up in my throat. I still can't talk about Mom. I can't face how much I miss her.
I turn to Dad. Try to place his expression.
It's pure parental I'm waiting.
I clear my throat.
He makes another mm-hmm. He stretches this one out, so it just barely hints of distaste.
"The truth is, the first time I saw him here, I knew. That I missed him. That I'd always love him. I tried to deny it. I tried to believe something else. I was too proud to admit it. It's not that I made a mistake. I was right to walk away. But things have changed. I need him."
Dad stares at me.
I go to sip my tea, but my cup is empty.
Dad takes it, fills it, hands it back.
I down it in one gulp. Shit, that's hot.
I try to wait for him to respond. For another mm-hmm even. But there's nothing.
When I can't take it anymore, I set my cup on the table, and look him in the eyes. "Are you going to say something?"
"Does he make you happy?"
"What?"
His voice softens. That paternal tone he used when I would hide under my bed, terrified of thunderstorms. "Does he make you happy?"
"Does Shep make me happy?" I repeat the question without thinking. It's absurd. When did Dad get all these American values? "What do you mean?"
"Jasmine, sweetheart, it's a simple question. Does he make you happy?"
But…
I…
He…
What?
Of all the questions he could ask, that was the last one I expected. I take a deep breath. Turn over the words. Does Shep make me happy?
He did once. Now? I barely know the man he's become. I only have the last forty-eight hours. The strange offer. The limo ride. The meeting at his office. That throaty dare. You're going to beg for my cock.
My sex aches. So not the time. And not what Dad means. But that is something I miss. Something I need.
There have been other men. I've tried dating since Shep. There was one guy my sophomore year of college. An artist who saw the beauty in the world. He took me to museums and shows and made me feel like some kind of creative goddess, even when I was reading lines for a 101 class.
I thought I loved him.
Then Dad got sick and things got hard and he couldn't deal. Or maybe I pushed him away. I'm not sure anymore.
Even when things were good, when I thought I loved him—
There was always something missing. The sex was good. But only good.
I didn't shake the way I shake at Shep's voice.
That's not what Dad's asking. But it's the truest thing I have.
"He does." I let my head fill with thoughts of Shep's deep voice. His cocky smile. His inability to make tea.
"Are you sure?"
Maybe Shep hasn't made me happy yet. And, yes, I'm always going to resent this obligation. But maybe I can appreciate all the perks. Maybe I can focus on all the problems he's solved. It's not a conventional idea of happiness, but it's something. "I am."
"Then I'm happy for you."
After a short talk about the virtues of marriage, commitment, and grandchildren (I should wait, but not too long), Dad calls Shepard to the room. Makes him promise to take care of me.
Shep's smile is so broad I almost believe it's real. He beams. Acts every part the doting boyfriend.
Then we leave the room and something changes. He slides his arm around my waist. Pulls me a little closer.
My heart thuds against my chest. His touch is comforting and that's terrifying.
I want his love already.
I have another year of this. A year I have to survive without falling for him.
He doesn't have love to give. He proved that six years ago.
I try to repeat the mantra as we drive home. It's a limo this time, not the helicopter, but it's still fast.
New York is beautiful at night. The illumination of the city kills the stars, but it softens the sky too. Turns it to a shade of blue that only exists here.
The skyline comes into view.
God, I do love this city. I know I shouldn't, as a native Californian. I should hate the snow and the humidity. I should complain about the lack of fresh air and the inferiority to San Francisco.