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)
Out of politeness, I peruse a rack labeled 9-12 months and I manage to select a handful of outfits despite not knowing what season my future child will be born in or if these clothes will ever be put to use.
“Think layers,” she tells me. “Babies need layers, no matter the time of year. They can’t regulate their body temperature like we can.”
I nod. The number of babies I’ve ever actually held I could easily count on one hand. Growing up, I never babysat because I was too busy with tutors, riding lessons, extracurriculars, camps, and travel. All of my cousins were my age. And so far, none of my friends have had babies. If someone handed me a screaming infant right now, I wouldn’t know the first thing about soothing them.
“I think we’ve done enough damage for the day,” Delia announces after handing off another armful of clothes to the saleswoman. “I can’t wait for Slade to see this. He’s going to be tickled about that adorable little suit I picked out. Looks just like a miniature version of something he’d wear to the office.”
I’ve never heard or seen Slade utter a single word about babies.
Ever.
If he gets “tickled” at the sight of these baby clothes, I’ll eat my fist.
We’re halfway to Slade’s, her trunk filled with two grand worth of baby clothes and accessories, when Delia falls asleep next to me.
“Maybe she’s had too much excitement for one day,” I say to Broderick, keeping my voice low.
He smiles and nods in the rearview before returning his gaze to the traffic ahead.
It isn’t long before the houses we pass grow familiar, and he turns onto the gated road that leads to Slade’s street. For the first time, I attempt to picture the two of us raising a family together, in that three-level monstrosity of a house where the pool and cabana take up so much room in the back yard that there’d be no place for a swing set. Not to mention the proximity to the ocean, which can’t be safe. And all the white. White everywhere. A toddler would ruin that house in an hour, tops.
Broderick pulls into Slade’s circle drive.
I’d say bye to Delia and thank her for the millionth time today if she weren’t sleeping so peacefully.
“Thank you,” I tell him as I let myself out. Heading in, I pass through the front door of my future home, stride across my future foyer, and find my future husband waiting for me in his study because he’s never not working. “Hey.”
“You’re back,” he says without looking up. “How was it?”
“It was nice,” I say. He glances up, drinking me in. At least I think he is? It’s hard to tell in this dim lighting. Also, I’m exhausted. I could be imagining it. I’m tempted to ask him why his mother is under the impression that he adores me—but something stops me. “Think I’m going to head upstairs and crash for the night.”
I’ll bring it up another time …
.
Slade—
I’m studying abroad in Paris this semester, so if you don’t hear from me for a while, please know that I’m having the time of my life reading all the Sarraute, Queneau, and Herbart I can get my hands on instead of your hate mail.
Campbell (age 16)
Campbell—
Please know that in your absence, I sincerely look forward to not receiving your obnoxious excuse for letters.
Slade (age 17)
14
Slade
“Thanks for showing me around,” Campbell says the next evening when we get home. We’d just finished dinner a few hours ago when she requested a tour of Palm Beach. “Just don’t quit your day job anytime soon.”
“What are you talking about?” I kill the engine of my Aston Martin.
“This is the slip where we keep our family yacht,” she says in a deep, monotone voice, mocking me. “We have boathouse privileges in the south marina. And here’s my gym. Happy to add you to the membership. That’s my favorite restaurant. I have standing reservations there on Thursdays. My uncle Oliver lives up that road over there …”
“That’s not what I sound like.”
“Mm hm,” she teases as she follows me into the house. “As much as you claim to love living here, you showed zero enthusiasm while showing me around. I thought you’d be more, I don’t know, excited? Like … this is where our yacht almost capsized three winters ago and this restaurant has the most melt-in-your-mouth caviar this side of the Atlantic and Oliver bought his house from the guy who invented Pop Tarts. Those are just hypothetical examples obviously.”
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be entertaining?” I place my keys on the leather tray by the entry table. “And caviar shouldn’t melt in your mouth. It should burst.”
Turning to me, she cocks her head sideways, her full lips bunching at one side.