Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” he asks, turning the conversation toward something light.
“Walking home from work. What are you doing up still? It has to be close to midnight.”
“I planned to try to call you all day but I couldn’t break away earlier. I had to finish a scene.”
“Did you drive into Sedbergh?”
There’s no other way he’d have cell reception.
“I’m sitting in my car outside Martin’s shop,” he admits with a little laugh.
I’m hit with a pang of sadness. I can picture him there clear as day. I want to be in the passenger seat. I want to be able to reach for his hand.
An ambulance whirls past me, its siren blaring, and I wince and apologize.
“It’s fine,” he promises. “I can still hear you.”
I’m walking faster now, in a rush to get home. He can hear me, but I’m having a hard time hearing him and I don’t want him to think we should try again another time. I’m desperate for five minutes with him. “I can’t believe you called.”
“It’s been hard to catch you at the right time. I’m working like mad.”
“Why are you doing that to yourself?”
“The faster I write, the sooner I can come get you.”
“You’re ridiculous.” But I’m smiling ear to ear.
“You think I’m kidding?”
I shiver.
My apartment is just up ahead. The building is nothing to write home about. It’s a third-floor walk-up, not bad actually compared to so many other apartments around the city. I picked it based on its proximity to InkWell. Nothing beats a quick commute.
I sandwich the phone between my shoulder and ear while I fish my key out of my purse.
“Tell me about your day,” Nate prods. “Tell me anything. I’ve been so entrenched in writing I feel like I have nothing to tell you beyond what I ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
I tell him about the book I’m reading for work, a domestic thriller from a new up-and-coming author.
“I’m tearing through it. This writer’s voice is so clear and fresh, and there’s a romantic element to the story that doesn’t feel trite. I’ll read more of it tonight after dinner.”
“What are you cooking?”
After updating him on my stove woes, I tell him I’m going to order Thai.
He groans. “I’m jealous. That’s the only thing I miss about the city, the restaurants.”
“You still have your apartment here,” I point out.
“Yes, and like I mentioned, I could see myself spending some of the year there, maybe late spring through early summer. Or fall. I love the city in October. Do you like the city in October?”
I laugh, knowing what he’s hinting at. “I talked to Joy about working remotely.”
“What did she say?” he asks, not bothering to mask his hope.
“To give it a few weeks.”
“A few weeks. Okay. That should give me enough time to wrap up this first draft.”
I laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Have you had second thoughts, Summer? Is this…”
“No, Nate,” I say, hurrying to cut him off. “I—I…”
I can’t get the words out.
Silence stretches, and then Nate finally replies, “Me too.”
CHAPTER 27
SUMMER
There’s a knock on my apartment door later that night.
“Coming! Hold on!” I shout, fighting with the zipper on my wallet.
It’s the Thai food I ordered after I hung up with Nate. It’s here faster than I expected, which is amazing because I’m starving. My mouth salivates over the yellow curry I’m about to inhale—
I whip the door open and Emma stands outside my apartment wearing a red wool jacket and coordinating silk scarf. My sister’s blonde hair is styled in a new, sleek bob.
I haven’t moved because I’m not sure she’s actually here. She’s perfect enough that she could be a daydream.
“Emma?”
All I want to do is rush to her and wrap my arms around her and squeeze.
She goes rigid, shocked by the intensity of my hug. Then she lets her purse fall to the ground and she wraps her arms around me too, tightening her hold until we’re both having a hard time catching a full breath. When I pull away, tears swim in both of our eyes.
“Well…could I come in?” she quips.
“Yes. Of course.” I step back to let her walk past me and then I peer out into the hall. “Where are Lincoln and the kids?”
“They’re hanging out at home.”
She came all the way to my apartment—trekked over here by herself—to surprise me? Why?
Emma is a busy mom and a busy physician. She doesn’t have time to pop over on a random weeknight.
Of course, there’s a chance she’s here to talk sense into me about leaving Andrew. There is always the potential for our relationship to continue the way it has for years—her telling me what she thinks is best and expecting me to fall in line with her recommendations.
I’m not as worried about that as I would have been in the past. I’m done apologizing for who I am and what I want out of life. I’m done shrinking myself down, staying quiet, making excuses to appease my parents and siblings. Their expectations have crushed me my entire life, making me feel like my pursuit of something different was a pursuit of something criminal.