Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“I don’t need to try it to know I’d hate it.”
Trevor arches a brow. “You tried cock. Turns out you liked that a lot,” he says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Not even remotely the same.”
“True, true. Cock tastes better than a pumpkin spice latte. But PSLs are a close second,” Trevor says.
“You don’t like it more than my cock,” Liam points out to Trevor with a flirty grin.
“Of course not, love,” Trevor says, then gives Liam’s arm an affectionate squeeze as we head to the cart.
A pang lodges in my heart. I wish I could do that with Nate. Just…play.
Do.
Be.
I try to shake off the longing, but why would this day be any different than the last fourteen?
“C’mon, try it,” Liam urges, and my thoughts return to my drink order. “I dare you to.”
Nate always said I was daring. Our night in Vegas proved that to be true, but our bedtime adventures did as well.
Why won’t I try a pumpkin spice latte, then? Americans love them. Brits love them. The whole world does.
But I don’t feel much like my daring self these days.
I order a tea.
When we find a nearby bench, resting our bikes against the back of it, Trevor lifts a brow my way. “You not trying something new is a bit of a red flag, mate,” he says, too observant.
“Is it?” I ask evasively as I take a drink.
“Are you missing your hubs?” he asks.
I knew the query was coming. I haven’t seen them since the night at Coffee O’Clock and haven’t given them the truth of the situation.
“Well, here’s the thing.” My chest tightens as I come clean. “Nate and I got drunk married and had to stay married for work, but we always planned to get divorced after a reasonable amount of time. Too fucking bad I fell for him for real.”
Trevor’s jaw hangs open. “Are you taking the piss out of me?”
Emotions crawl up my throat. I wince, wishing I could swallow them down. “Unfortunately no. And now, I need to get over him since we’re getting quietly divorced in,” I say, then look at a watch I don’t wear, “seven days.”
Trevor sighs, full of all the regret in the world. “That’s awful. And you’re right. You don’t need a pumpkin spice latte. You need to get pissed.”
They take me out for a trivia night, and I don’t drink, but I do get every damn question right.
On the way home, I want to brag to Nate about my trivia victory. He’d tease me, rightfully so, and I’d love it.
But I resist. Maybe soon I won’t feel that desire. Maybe soon I’ll feel more like myself.
When I return to my flat, my favorite memory of this place swells up like a big wave.
I’m picturing the night Nate came over. Missing him more than I imagined.
Guess I’m gonna need a bigger boat for all these inconvenient feelings.
The next day at work, I have a Zoom meeting with Ilene and the rest of the sports and documentaries team.
“Time to plan the coverage for our next football game in Europe,” she says from the New York offices of Webflix. “Now, we learned a lot from the first one, and I have plans to make this one bigger and better.”
She launches into the details of the game in four weeks in Vienna between the Vegas Pioneers and the Miami Mavericks, and the workload sounds like it might take my mind off my husband.
We get down to business. “We need to start coverage right away. Hunter, I’m sending you to Vegas in a day to begin the shoot.”
I perk up.
I could call Nate.
I could see if he wants to meet me for another night in Vegas.
Or I could swing down to San Francisco.
But then again, we laid out the ground rules for a reason—so we wouldn’t get hurt.
I can’t make the decision for Nate, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him. Is texting him that I’ll be in town making that decision for him?
I don’t know, so I don’t call or text.
39
NEW NORMAL
Nate
When you lose a football game, you try to put it behind you.
Focus on the next game.
That’s my plan—live in the here and now.
And here and now, my sister’s making conversation with the easy-on-the-eyes hipster-lumberjack-sommelier who’s cracking open a bottle of chardonnay here at the wine bar in Napa.
His name is Ren and he’s been chatting up my sister this Monday afternoon. Amy’s in town for work – she runs a PR firm that’s been expanding into book publicity – and I already practiced with the team in San Francisco this morning, then drove up here to see her.
He slides a glass to Amy. “Let me know what you think,” he says.
“I will,” she replies.
After he hands me a glass, he heads to the other side of the bar.