Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“We both know your mother would never let those dolls leave the great state of Maine. They’re practically her pride and joy. Other than you, of course.”
“You don’t miss a thing.”
“You’re right,” he says as we descend the sweeping staircase that deposits us in the marble foyer. “And one of these days, you might realize it’s both the best and the worst thing about me.”
.
Slade—
Happy birthday. I hope you did something fun. Okay, I’m lying. I hope it felt like any other Thursday, but knowing your mom, she probably made it feel like some kind of presidential inauguration. No offense to your mom. She’s actually pretty great. I just worry that she’s giving you the impression that you’re the center of the universe.
Best,
Campbell (age 14)
Campbell—
Who the hell signs their letter with “best?” How old are you? I told my mom what you said. She wasn’t very happy. Just kidding … I would never tell her that because she’s a saint of a woman and who are you to criticize how she raises her only child. If that’s any indication of what kind of mother you’re going to be, then our future kids are screwed.
Worst,
Slade (age 15)
Slade—
I’ve gone fourteen whole years without thinking about having kids with you. Thanks a lot for the reminder.
Best, best, best,
Campbell (age 14)
PS—I’m going to be the BEST mom someday … just wait.
Campbell—
Just so you know, there’s a difference between confidence and delusion. I hope our children inherit my sensibility.
Slade (age 15)
Slade—
Your mom sent us your junior prom photos. You actually clean up nicely. I was shocked. The girl on your arm looked like she didn’t want to be there though. What’s up with that?
Campbell (age 15)
Campbell—
Her name is Claudia Berenson and she actually passed away last week. It was a Make-a-Wish type of thing. She wanted me to take her to prom before she died.
Slade (age 16)
Slade—
You need to work on your dark humor. It’s … I don’t know … off? That wasn’t remotely funny. Why did she look so miserable though? I’m curious.
Campbell (age 15)
Campbell—
I don’t know? Maybe you can ask her yourself? I don’t give a flying fuck. She was lucky I took her at all. I had to turn down at least eight other girls and two of them don’t even go to my school. Anyway, her number is 561-555-7583 if you want to be a weirdo and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.
Slade (age 16)
Slade—
WOW. You actually gave me her real number. I thought it was going to be some pizza place or something. She’s actually really sweet. And she told me what a douche you were to her all night. Congratulations on ruining a nice girl’s junior prom by showing up plastered off liquor you stole from your parents and then puking on her shoes. Hope it was worth it.
Campbell (age 15)
Campbell—
WOW. You actually called her? And you’d drink too if you had to marry you in nine years.
Slade (age 16)
Slade—
I hope you didn’t strain that big beautiful brain of yours too hard coming up with that lame response.
Campbell (age 15)
12
Slade
“Campbell!” My mother squeals when she sees my fiancée. Literally squeals. “It’s absolutely wonderful to see you, darling.”
She rises from her chair, dressed in her usual uniform of a Pucci house dress and coordinating head scarf. From the looks of it, she took the time to put on some makeup today as well, adding some color to her complexion and making her appear healthier than she actually is.
The two of them embrace, and it’s strangely like seeing my past and my future collide.
“How was your flight yesterday?” Mom asks, cupping Campbell’s face the way she used to when we were kids. She always used to fawn over Campbell, lavishing the Wakemonts with compliment after compliment about how sweet-natured and lovely Campbell was and how if she had ever had a daughter, she’d have wanted her to be just like Campbell.
I always thought she was blowing smoke, saying things that people say out of politeness.
But over the years, I came to realize she meant every word.
“It was great,” Campbell tells her with more enthusiasm than I’m used to from her. “How have you been? Feels like haven’t seen you in ages.”
Mom takes Campbell by the hand, leading her to the living room where a plate of pastel macarons and her favorite Baccarat tea set—which she always reserves for her favorite visitors—wait for us.
While the two of them catch up, I excuse myself to take a work call in my father’s study. My mother would think it’s in poor taste, but right now she’s so caught up in all things Campbell that I doubt she notices my absence.
“Slade.” Oliver scares the shit out of me when I hang up.
“Jesus Christ. How long have you been sitting here in the dark?” I click on the lamp next to the leather Chesterfield. “You look like ass.” The scent of stale cigar smoke and yesterday’s liquor fills my nostrils. “You smell like ass too.”