Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Oh no.”
He nods. “Yeah. She’s been trying to set me up with every single woman in the Northeast, from her hairdresser to the remaining single daughters of their friends.”
“Having a girlfriend gets her off your back,” I conclude.
“Bingo.”
I blow out a long breath as I consider this. I should be freaking out by the very suggestion, but instead I find myself intrigued. The chance to find out more about where Matt came from, what shaped him . . . it’s appealing.
“No hard feelings if you say no,” Matt says. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you as a . . . friend.”
The way he hesitates over the last word does something funny to my stomach, as though he wants to be friends but isn’t sure it’s possible.
It’s possible.
“You know, for future reference, you really should have brought two dozen ‘favor’ flowers for this kind of ask. And maybe jewelry.”
A slow grin starts to spread over his face. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes. If nothing else, to save all those other women from the agony of being fixed up with you.”
And to save myself the agony of knowing you’re dating someone else.
“Thank you,” he says in relief. “Seriously, thank you. And I’d love to tell you you won’t regret it, but in the interest of honesty, you totally will.”
I laugh. “Candor appreciated.”
He takes another sip of his drink. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Let you get back to your evening.”
I nod, but instead of feeling relieved that he’s leaving, I feel a little melancholy at the thought of it.
“You can finish your drink,” I say, just as my phone starts to buzz again.
I walk to the counter and pick it up, turn it to “Do Not Disturb,” then set the phone aside.
For a long minute, we say nothing. Finally, I look up at him. “Rochelle is my mother.”
He studies my expression, then nods. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath. “And I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Okay,” he says without hesitation.
It’s the perfect response.
“Cannon?”
“Yup.”
I look down at my wine. “Juno and I were going to order takeout. I was thinking Chinese.”
“Okay?” This time it’s a question.
“You can stay. Eat with us. I mean, if you want.” I look up.
“Okay.” This time it’s not a question. And it’s paired with a happy grin that makes my heart feel like flying.
19
MATT
Saturday Evening, September 30
You know how snobby people talk about the distinction between old money and new money, as though it’s a thing?
It’s definitely a thing.
I know, because I grew up surrounded by the latter.
Neither of my parents grew up rich. My mom’s solidly middle class from Boise. My dad’s the son of two schoolteachers in Oklahoma.
They met in New York when my mom was a flight attendant on a stopover and my dad was staying at the same hotel, celebrating getting his first job offer from an investment firm. (My knack for numbers comes straight from the old man.)
A one-night stand turned into a long-distance relationship, which turned into an engagement, which turned into the fanciest wedding Boise had ever seen, courtesy of my dad moving quickly up the Wall Street food chain.
They’d moved to New York, done the requisite big-city couple thing for a few years as my dad got more firmly established in the financial scene. My dad doesn’t talk much about those days, but my mom claims they were wildly in love, the kind of all-consuming love that makes you blind to reality.
Eventually, Mom’s biological clock started ticking (her words not mine, because I’d prefer never to think of it), and they’d moved to a Connecticut McMansion, i.e. a cookie-cutter, pristine new-construction house that looked almost identical to all their neighbors’.
I’d been born shortly after. Shortly after that, they moved to another McMansion, this one slightly larger. I’d spent most of my youth there, and when I left for college, they moved to yet another house, this one in a gated community and bigger than the other two combined, never mind that it was just the two of them.
And here’s where the “new money” cliché comes into play: my parents spend money just to spend it. Or maybe to let other people know they have it? I’ve never really been able to figure it out. They’ve never kept a car longer than a year. It always has to be the newest model. My mom gets a new Dior purse every season, plus a matching wallet. My dad doesn’t just have a Rolex, he collects them. And talks about them.
You think I’m being hard on them? Perhaps. After all, I never wanted for anything. My first car was a brand-new red BMW convertible. For my eighteenth birthday party, my parents flew twelve of my friends and me to Aspen for a ski trip.
The money doesn’t bother me. Neither does the way they spend it, not really. It’s the fact that somewhere along the line, they let money replace morals. And integrity.