Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Damn it, she’s making it pretty darn hard to see the benefits of just taking off out of here. I thought I could spare her if I left now. I thought I’d be doing the right thing. Setting her free to live her life feels like the generous, non-asshole thing to do. I’d talked myself into getting a divorce and letting her live her own life and moving on while I live mine. I’d already decided it was the best thing to do on a scale of how to not fuck with her life anymore.
Was I wrong? Am I wrong? It only takes two point seven nine seconds of soul-searching to admit her argument has some validity. It makes a lot of sense. Do I really feel like leaving? No. Do I have to leave? Yes. Do I want to come back here, not for this city but for Weland? Yes. Yes, I absolutely do.
I’ve traveled, I’ve searched, and I’ve gone all over the world. I’ve lived a good portion of my life already. I’ve built a music empire, and I have more money than I know what to do with.
But do I know what family is? Do I know what love is? Not really. And no. No, I don’t. But what if I had the chance? What if I had the chance right now, and I let it go?
Sounds like what every good song is based on.
It also sounds like the exact opposite of what I want my life to be. I don’t want to live one of those regret songs. One of those I had the perfect woman, and I let her go, so I’ll spend the rest of my life aching for her songs. I want to live every cheesy country song instead, minus the pickup truck and the tractor. Or with the pickup truck and the tractor, if that’s what Weland wants.
“Sterling.” She takes my hands, and her eyes fly to mine. “You can go, but for the love of all things cheese, and very few things in life are better than cheese, please come back. I spent four years of my life trying to make sense of this, and now it does. I don’t want it to stop making sense. If you’re not in my life, it’s going to be incredibly senseless. I’m not saying this because I want perks of your cash or because I want you to make my songs famous. I’m saying it because I want you. I want you to kiss me up against the wall while the dog eats our meatballs. I want you to take trips to the vet with me to find the perfect probiotic because the dog’s farts are hot death without it. I want you to take all those death glares from my dad and brother and turn them into something to laugh about one day. I don’t want you to ever sleep on my couch again, and not because we’re putting on a show for your evil cousins. Maybe one day they’ll change. Maybe they’ll come around and not be so evil, although I seriously doubt it, but we can keep the door open and keep hoping.
“Honestly, I want more orgasms because the ones you give are really good. They’re the best kind of good. I want more of you. I want more of your kisses. I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you. Even if it’s not possible every single day, that’s okay. You’re my husband, and even if we get a divorce, and you’re no longer my husband, that’s okay too. I don’t need you to be married to me in order for me to want to spend time with you. I want to keep seeing if this will work because I’ve never in my life met anyone that I felt like it could work with until I met you. I’ve written songs all my life, but you make me want to write songs about you. And that’s a thing because I’ve never, ever written songs about a real guy. Just pretend guys. And I knew nothing about love. I want to do it for real. I want to sing them to you. I want to sing them for you.” Her eyes flood with tears again, and then those big, crystal droplets spill over. “I guess if you don’t see it working, then fair enough. But if you do, then give it a shot. Give every cheesy song lyric a chance to become true for us and then some.”
This time, when her hand lands on my arm, it causes a volley of goosebumps to form. The hairs there prickle to attention and stand up when I shiver. She’s the first person who has ever really looked at me and seen more than the money, more than my job, and more than what I can offer materially. She’s the only person who has looked at me like I’m more than a job, more than a burden, more than a chore, and more than something to compete with.