Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
A year ago, we officially opened the Bellisario Gallery. I sold off my father’s company, and Sloane quit her job, and between the two of us, the place has been a smashing success so far. It doesn’t hurt that we managed to snag the exclusive Halcyon contract . . .
Either way, we’re both living the dream in every way imaginable.
And at the end of the day, life is too short to spend it doing things you don’t love with people you don’t love.
Some days all this feels too good to be true, and I’m certain a rug will be pulled out from under me at any moment, but I try not to get too caught up in those thoughts. Sloane and the kids have a way of reminding me to focus on the present, and not the unpredictable, ever-changing future.
Life is fleeting.
And precious.
Sloane taught me this trick—if I’m ever feeling anxious about the future, stop and pretend like I’ve just traveled back in time with the sole purpose of living this day all over again. It forces me to stop and view my current situation as if I’ve been given the onetime gift of being able to reexperience or relive a good memory. It’s a strange little exercise, but I find it never fails to bring me back to the present moment.
Taking out my phone, I tap the camera icon and pull up some photos for Eames. He’s only ten months old, but he loves seeing his reflection in the screen and swiping through the various images of his favorite people. He squeals and claps when we get to one of him with his sisters at the Central Park Zoo last month.
“You have a beautiful little family,” an older woman sitting across from me says with a wistful look in her eye. “I’d give anything to go back in time, relive the days when my kids were that young. It goes by so fast.”
“Thank you,” I say, leaving it at that. I’m not about to go into the past six years of my life with a kind stranger, but I appreciate her sentiments.
Sloane and the girls return a few minutes later, paper bags and drinks in hand. They sit down and divvy out the food, handing me a sandwich and a bottle of water.
“That was quick,” I say.
Eames reaches for his mom—not surprisingly—and she scoops him into her lap.
“One day you’ll be his favorite, you know,” she says with a wink.
“I don’t know about that,” I tease.
“Oh, let me get that for you,” Sloane says to Marabel when she spots her struggling to open the wrapper to her granola bar. We’ve both learned with the girls that there’s a fine line between being too much and not enough. Sloane has never wanted to replace Emma and always makes a point to include her memory whenever it feels natural, but she also knows that sometimes the girls need her more than they realize. It’s a balancing act, and I don’t know how she does it, but she makes it look like a cakewalk.
“As soon as we land, it should be time to check into the Airbnb, and then I’ll get the code,” Sloane says. “I’m so excited . . . this’ll be the first time we’re all under one roof with our families.”
I can’t say that I’m over the moon about living in the same house with Margaux, Ethan, their twin terrors—I mean toddlers—and Sloane’s mom, but it’s one of those things you sign up for when you say “I do.”
I’ve only met Sloane’s mom a handful of times over the years, seeing how she doesn’t like to travel, but she’s always been kind. She’s certainly no monster-in-law, and she’s significantly less self-involved than Emma’s parents were.
“Theodora wants us to FaceTime her Christmas morning,” I remind Sloane.
“Where is she this month?” Sloane asks.
“Greece. I think . . .”
My aunt finally retired at the end of last year. At first she was worried about what she was going to do with all that extra time on her hands, but it didn’t take her long to figure that out.
“What time does your mom land tomorrow?” Sloane bounces Eames on her knee as he giggles, gripping onto her hands for dear life. She’s been so busy keeping him entertained that she hasn’t even touched her food. I throw back the last couple of bites of my sandwich and take him so she can eat.
“Eight o’clock,” I say. “Somewhere around there.”
“I can’t wait to see her again,” Sloane says. “She hasn’t seen Eames since he was two months old. She’ll hardly recognize him, I bet.”
“She said she’s bringing something special for you . . . she wouldn’t tell me what it is, though.”
Sloane places her hand over her heart and tilts her head. “She’s the sweetest. I love her.”