Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“It’s just two more days. Think how much more exciting it will be when we finally go to bed Saturday night after the reception is over. And the next time you make love to me, I’ll be Mrs. Caine West.”
His eyes softened. “I do like the sound of that. Although I only agreed to wait until after the wedding. I never said anything about after the reception.”
“What did you think? We’re going to have sex in the car on the drive from the church to the restaurant?”
“I was thinking we could do it in the confessional, right after the priest says you’re stuck with me for the rest of your life.”
“That’s twisted on so many levels, even for you.”
Caine laughed. “I gotta run or I’m going to be late starting the exam. So give me that mouth and kiss me properly to get me through another day of celibacy.”
In one motion, he reached a hand around my back and squeezed my ass as he lifted me. My legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth melded to mine, the kiss hard and passionate. I moaned into his mouth as he backed me up to the wall and pinned me against it, using his hips so his hands could roam my body.
Yes, my soon-to-be husband definitely knew how to kiss me properly.
After he begrudgingly left my apartment without getting laid, I looked around at the sparse furnishings I had left to pack. Since we’d decided I was moving into Caine’s place, we’d been taking stuff there over the last month. Pretty much the only things left to box up were my wall of framed pictures, my books, and some personal things in the bathroom. I took on the books first and then moved to the wall.
I’d added some new pictures to my display over the last year: Caine and me at my graduation from grad school. I was facing the camera, smiling proudly about getting my degree, and Caine was looking at me with the same proud smile. Me and the crew from O’Leary’s on my last night working there. Charlie had his arm draped around my shoulder. He’d been a hard sell on accepting that Caine wasn’t a violent criminal. Ultimately, one night after Caine and I were back together, I’d told Charlie my entire story. After so many years of keeping everything pent up, it was odd to share it openly—but the more I talked about it, the farther back in the rearview mirror those ugly days went.
I missed working at O’Leary’s, but I loved my new job as a musical therapist. I worked as an independent contractor for a school district, doing one-on-one therapy with autistic children. It was a job that felt more like a reward than a grind. Caine and I had dinner with Charlie every week at O’Leary’s. He might not be my employer anymore, but he was the closest thing I’d had to a father figure since my uncle passed away. In fact, Charlie would be giving me away in two days. I suspected Caine would be getting a good eye-squint warning at the altar from him.
Even though my research was done and my thesis published, we still kept in touch with Lydia and Umberto. The first Sunday of every month, Caine and I brought Murphy to visit. I wasn’t sure who got more from our visits—us or them.
I packed two boxes of framed photos, feeling sentimental as I folded the bubble wrap over each memory. The last one I packed was the photo of my mother on the swing in our yard. I brushed my fingers over her beautiful face through the glass. Thanks, Mom. Without her advice to seek the church, I might never have met Caine.
The small slide-locks that kept the back of the frame on and the picture in place must have moved when I took the photo from the wall. As I reached for the bubble wrap, the cardboard back of the frame opened, and something fluttered to the ground. It was a folded-up piece of paper. Thinking it was probably a receipt or the sample picture that had come inside the frame, I picked it up and unfolded it.
I froze when I saw the handwriting on it.
Because it was my own.
It was less developed and messier than it was now, but it was mine. And I knew exactly what it was—the letter I’d written to the fake priest sixteen years ago. Until that moment, I hadn’t remembered putting it behind Mom’s picture. I steadied myself and took a deep breath before reading what I’d written.
Dear Father,
I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you when I was supposed to. My stepfather found out we were going to run away and got really mad. He said if he ever caught the person who was going to help us, he’d hurt them. So I can’t come talk to you on Saturdays anymore, because I don’t want him to hurt you. But I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for the headphones and for telling me how to listen to music to make everything better. Thank you for listening to me even when I was too afraid to talk. But most of all, thank you for being my angel when God was too busy. I hope I get to see you again someday.