Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I don’t…” She looked off for a moment, huffed, retuned with a glare. “Why do you care?”
“Call me curious.”
“I don’t have any family, Curious.”
Under normal circumstances I would’ve laughed. Mrs. Blackstone had a sharp sense of humor and the willingness to wield it as a weapon. But these were not normal circumstances. And, more importantly, I was getting a strong sense that the shit was about to hit the fan and end up all over me.
“You don’t have family?” I couldn’t have heard her right. She had to have family, a big white one. Presumably living in Old Greenwich or Darien and they all spoke with lock jaw and vacationed in Martha’s Vineyard on their sailboats. The ice princess an orphan? Nah, not possible. Those two things did not jive.
She exhaled like she was growing tired of me. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it and if I was a betting man, which I was, I’d say it wouldn’t be the last either.
“What about friends? I wasn’t introduced to any of them.”
“Yes, you were,” she replied, subdued once again and standing absolutely motionless. I didn’t like it. What I liked even less was the sinking feeling in my gut. An ominous indication that somewhere along the way I’d fucked up again.
“No, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t. I was introduced to your assistant and his husband…” My voice faded as the pieces of the puzzle came together and the answer punched me in the sternum. “He’s your assistant, Sydney.”
“He’s also my friend. Are we done with the inquisition? Because I’d like to go home now. Thanks for the apology, by the way. I’ll treasure it forever.”
I was speechless. She’d robbed me of all my words. She’d also managed to make a liar, a fool, and a bully out of me. Not gonna lie, it was a personal low. I couldn’t seem to do anything right by this woman. In stunned silence, I stepped back, and Sydney didn’t waste any time putting as much distance between us as possible. I watched as she marched down the stairs with her head held high and her steel spine perfectly straight.
Ten minutes later, in shock and off-kilter, I walked down the same library steps. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I turned left and headed uptown. In the skyline I could see the Blackstone Building, better known as the Death Star in the family. My large loving family. With all our faults, we were tight. We were there for each other. If I started with the basic assumption that Sydney and I were strangers, I’d have to admit that I knew nothing about her. Only what I’d presumed to know, which was turning out to be off the mark by a mile.
I flipped up the collar of my tux, my shoulders hiked up as the cold air slapped me in the face. The restlessness was back and I needed to walk it off. But mostly, I needed to figure out what to do about my wife.
“What are you doing here?” she immediately said upon seeing me in her doorway. What was I doing here? I wasn’t absolutely certain. Only that my feet had carried me to Sydney’s place without conscious thought. Before I realized where I was or what I was doing, I was standing before her doorman and demanding he call her even though it was well past midnight. It was a miracle she’d let me up.
“I feel duty bound to point out that we are, in fact, married.”
As openers went, maybe not my best one. I’d fumbled my last attempt at an apology and really needed to score on this one and judging from her expression this was not the way to start.
Looking torn, she cocked a hip and scrutinized me. The red dress was gone, replaced by a faded Yale Law sweatshirt with the neck cut out and long pajama pants covered in tiny rainbows. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun and she wore no makeup. It should’ve killed my boner for her––the rainbow pajamas alone should’ve done it––but then the sweatshirt slipped down her bare shoulder, exposing the absence of a bra, and my body said otherwise.
“Married people tend to live together,” I added. She still wouldn’t budge. “We could stay at my place if you prefer.”
Dragging her feet, she moved aside to let me enter. Her place was nice. Whoever had decorated her apartment did a nice job. We had the same taste in furniture. Comfortable oversized pieces, natural materials, soft neutral tones. It had a large living room and an open kitchen, a wall of windows that overlooked Central Park.
“No paintings of clowns done by Malaysian blind kids?”
“Chilean orphans, thank you very much.” Crossing the room, she turned off the TV. “I see being a patron of the Guggenheim hasn’t taught you anything about art.”