Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Probably,” he surprises me by agreeing. “But we didn’t really get that far in the conversation.”
“I see,” I say, understanding. “She wanted to know what would happen to you.”
“That’s the thing, she already knows,” he says. “I’ve told her from the very start that worst-case, I get deported back to Dublin and can’t ever come back to the States.”
“She probably didn’t love that.”
“No. But in the past, we’ve always talked about it in a speculative way. It was never a real possibility.”
“But it’s real now.”
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “It’s a little more real. A part of me has been mentally preparing for it, and I wanted to prepare her for it too.”
He’s been mentally preparing to be deported?
I have a million questions, but I stay silent, letting him gather his thoughts and say what he needs to say at his own pace. He turns all the way toward me, shoving his hands even deeper into his pockets, looking heartbreakingly vulnerable.
“I asked if she’d come with me if it came to that,” Colin says quietly. “I asked if, hypothetically, she’d move to Dublin and start a life with me there.”
My chest feels like it cracks a little in pain for him, because I already know Rebecca’s answer from the fact that he’s here and from the look on his face, but he says it aloud anyway.
“She laughed,” he says. “She said she had no intention of throwing away everything she worked for to move to a place like Ireland.”
His eyes are wounded. “What does that mean?” he asks. “A place like Ireland? She’s never even been to Ireland.”
We’ve established that I’ve never been particularly fond of the future Mrs. Walsh. And right now, I’m feeling something much stronger than dislike. But my feelings aren’t what matters right now.
“That sucks,” I say with a slow nod. “It really sucks. But keep in mind that you’ve been asking a lot of Rebecca lately. Her fiancé is living with another woman. Her fiancé is looking at being deported. Her ex-boyfriend is partially to blame for that. If I had to guess, I’d say Rebecca’s probably not thinking too clearly. None of us say the right thing when we’re mad and scared.”
“You do,” he says, surprising me.
“Hardly,” I say, meaning it. “I just haven’t been mad or scared in a while.”
“Are you sure?” he asks softly.
My breath catches, because I have a sense that he can see all the way inside me to my biggest fear these days: losing him.
I force a lighthearted shrug. “Life is short. I just don’t really see the point in wasting any more time than necessary being angry or fearful.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “I’ve noticed that about you. It’s …”
“Weird?” I supply.
“Refreshing,” he counters slowly. “I was going to say it’s refreshing.”
“You’re getting much better at the compliment game,” I tell him. “But seriously, give this thing with Rebecca a day or two. I think she’ll come around.”
I pick up my purse, and he frowns. “You’re leaving?”
“We’re leaving,” I say, lifting his briefcase off the floor and handing it over.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to lunch.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” I say, leading him towards the elevators.
“Where?”
I sigh. “There’s an Irish pub around the corner, and I’ll tell you right now, we are ordering Guinness from the bar, and I don’t want to hear a single peep from you about how it’s 11:32 a.m.”
The elevator beeps, and I move to step into it, but Colin grabs my hand and gives it a deliberate squeeze.
He lingers just for a second, then drops my hand before I can register the unexpected show of affection, much less analyze what it means. He steps into the elevator, holding the doors for me as I follow him.
“What was that?” I ask, feeling fluttery.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Chapter 35
Wednesday, November 4
“Hold on, coming,” I mutter, wiping my damp hands on my blouse since the dish towel had an unfortunate incident involving a carton of chicken stock, and I haven’t gotten around to getting a fresh one yet.
I tend to go all in when I cook, so I answer the knock at the door on autopilot, my brain still distracted wondering how much the dish will suffer because I forgot to get ginger from the store.
But all thoughts of my stir-fry scatter to the wind when I open the front door. “Oh. Hello.”
Up until this point, I’d thought Rebecca’s icy scowl was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. But nope. This facsimile of a smile she’s pointing my way is much, much worse.
“Hi, Charlotte,” she says in a sugary sweet tone. She presses her hands together in a pleading motion. “I’m so sorry to stop by unexpectedly like this. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, stepping aside and gesturing her to enter. “But Colin’s not here. He’s—”