Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
My breath stalls in my chest as his words ring in my mind. I can’t shake them. I almost can’t move on from them.
I expected a reaction from him—a guilt trip or a charge of overreaction. I hadn’t considered that he would want to resurrect something he’s simply let go.
He says he doesn’t want a divorce, but is that really true? Is he panicking because he hasn’t had enough time to sit with the idea of ending things? Or does he mean it when he says this isn’t over?
Could things go back to the way they used to be?
I wonder, I’m scared, that it’s the same phenomenon that occurs when a nasty person dies. No one goes to their funeral and talks about the awful parts of their life. No one says, “Uncle Joe was an asshole who cheated on Aunt Nancy and gambled away all their money.” It’s never that. It’s always tears and tales of all the good things that person did—even if they have to practically make them up.
Is that what it would be if I gave in? Would I get a couple of good days with my family, if I’m lucky, and then go right back to the life I’ve been desperate to change? Am I effectively in the funeral stage of my marriage, remembering all the good parts before I bury it forever?
“Fine,” he says, running his hands down the length of his crimson board shorts. “I’ll pick. You are hot as hell, Lauren Reed.”
His tone is thick with intent, and his gaze settles so heavily on mine that I can barely breathe.
“If I wasn’t already married to you, I’d be figuring out how to be,” he says. “And since I already am, I’m figuring out how to stay that way.”
I look across the water, my cheeks matching the hue of his trunks.
He gives me a moment to let that sink in to my brain before he moves on—thankfully, in a different direction.
“You know they’re not coming back, right?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “What do we do?”
“Well, Dad was right. That trail over there will practically take us to the back door of the cabin.”
I turn to him. “I’m not really feeling a two-mile hike in this heat.”
“Wanna camp out here with me, then?” He grins. “There’s not a ton of room for you to fake sleep. Keep that in mind.”
“Says the man that pretends to be asleep every night we’ve been here.”
“I’ve been reading the room.”
“Sure,” I say, nodding sarcastically.
“When you roll onto your side and basically play dead, I take the hint. It’s called ‘giving you space.’”
“You’re really good at that.”
“What? You don’t like it?” he asks.
“I think I’ve made that abundantly clear.”
His lips twitch into a smirk. “Noted.”
A fire heats in my belly, and I squirm in my seat.
“What else don’t you like?” he asks. “What else do I do that bothers you?”
I snort.
“Come on,” he says, goading me. “We have time. Give me a list. Get it all off your chest.”
I consider blowing him off. I also weigh the option of diving from the boat and swimming to shore. But the intensity in his eyes and his repeated requests to fix our marriage break me down. Not that I think he’ll follow through with it, but more to make him stop playing this game with me.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler and sitting back down. “I’ll humor you.”
He smiles.
“What does Jack Reed do that bothers me?” I say before taking a long drink. “Where do I start?”
“God, you’re beautiful.”
“That.” I point at him. “That bothers me.”
His brows pull together. “That I give you a compliment?”
“That you’re insinuating that I’m that easily won over. That I’m so pathetic that you can tell me I’m pretty and I’ll forget all about the rest.”
“Okay. Continue,” he says, like he’s not sure if I’ve had heatstroke.
“It bothers me that you don’t see me as a whole person with hopes and dreams of my own.”
“And?”
“And I hate when you tell me not to handle things because you’ll do it, and then you don’t.”
“Like what?” he asks.
I stretch my arms out along the side of the boat. This amuses him for some reason, and he mirrors my position.
“Like when you tell me not to hang the mirror in the foyer,” I say.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
He laughs. “Lauren, it’s a fucking mirror.”
“That I have to see every fucking day. It matters to me.”
“You and ladders have proven, repeatedly, that you aren’t friends. I apologize for wanting to save your life.”
“I didn’t ask you to save my life. I asked you to hang a mirror. A year ago. When you don’t do it, I have to because it can’t sit there leaned up against the wall forever. It’ll get broken.”
He nods, holding up a palm. “Okay. What else?”