Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“C’mon, Mom,” Spencer says, a frown creasing his face. “We’re all attractive, well-known men in this town. Any of us could get any woman we wanted.”
“Except maybe Mason,” Hartley proclaims while the rest of us roll our eyes.
“Boys, please,” Mom says, looking at each of us in turn until we go quiet. “I’ve never asked much of you, have I? This is important to me, and to our entire town. Besides, we have until Christmas to finalize the purchase, and that’s only five months away. This is the most efficient idea.” She smiles again, her eyes twinkling. “Just think of your brides-to-be as very special Christmas gifts from me.”
“But do I not get to choose my wife?” Mason sputters, his voice cracking in disbelief.
“Trust me, honey,” Mom says, taking his hand. “Mrs. Huckleberry says she’s already found an excellent match for each of you based on the information I sent in. Just let the girls come to town and give them a chance, okay? If it doesn’t work out, we’ll think of something else.”
We sit in silence for a while. I exchange wide-eyed glances with each of my brothers. As the oldest, I know they’re expecting me to say something.
I sigh. “When will they get into town?”
My mom beams at me as if I just won the lottery. “Good thing you asked, Matty. Yours will be here first.”
I arrive at the airport an hour before her plane is supposed to come in. With nothing else to do, I order a black coffee from the overly crowded Starbucks in the terminal. At least I can sip on something and read the newspaper in an effort to drown out my thoughts.
My thoughts, I must admit, are not exactly positive. I want to trust my mom; I know she means well. I know, too, that I’m closer to forty than Joy would like, and that it’s probably about time for me to settle down. I’m just not convinced that this is the way to go about it.
I sit in an uncomfortable chair facing the gate. I peer out the window but the plane hasn’t even arrived yet. As I cross my legs, I notice that the top one is bouncing rapidly. Shit. I’m experiencing an unfamiliar emotion: nervousness. I’m a chill enough guy, and it takes a lot to faze me, even in the courtroom. Still, the prospect of meeting the woman who might be my future wife has me pretty fucking spooked.
I attempt to read the newspaper, but the words seem more like unintelligible squiggles on the page. I take a sip of coffee but the liquid burns the roof of my mouth. Dammit. I don’t have social media, so I can’t even scroll mindlessly to distract myself. I suppose I’ll have to just people watch until my potential bride--Jenna, I was told her name is--arrives.
For a while, I watch as people disembark from an adjacent gate. Narrowing my eyes, I inspect each passenger as they walk by, trying to decide which woman most resembles my ideal mate. I haven’t dated for a while, but my past girlfriends all resembled each other: tall, blonde, athletic, the kind who wanted to drink green smoothies for breakfast and play tennis after dinner. They were lovely, but for whatever reason, none of them were the right life partner for me. I wonder if my bride-to-be will be like them, or someone completely different…
As soon as the thought meanders across my mind, Jenna’s plane pulls up to the gate outside. I sit up straighter, the newspaper forgotten in my lap. What is she going to be like? I can’t help but wonder again as the plane comes to a stop. This Holly Huckleberry woman has never met me; how well could she have matched me with someone? What if Jenna’s rude? What if she’s shy? What if she doesn’t drink, or doesn’t eat meat? A million different possibilities explode through my head, and I run a nervous hand through my dark hair. This could be a disaster.
People start filing out of the plane, slowly. I rise to my feet, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my suit pants. It feels inane to want to look good for her, when I don’t even know who she is. Still, no matter who she ends up being, I want to make a positive first impression. It’s the least I can do for her coming all this way.
My eyes dart from person to person, seeking out any woman who looks to be around twenty-five (my mom refused to tell me more than her name and age, and said that the rest was to be “a surprise”). I stuff my hands in my pockets as I investigate each potential face. I lock eyes with one woman, a short brunette with striking green eyes. She smiles at me, and I feel my heart leap absurdly, like I’m a teenager on a blind date. Jenna? As she approaches, she heads toward me, but ends up walking past me, further into the airport.