Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
My parents wanted me to go home with them, and Kyle wanted me to move in with him, insisting I’ll be moving in once we’re married in a couple of weeks anyway. But I turned them down, wanting to go home to my own bed. I know my parents mean well, but my mom will hover, and Kyle… well, I still feel off. I keep hoping I’ll feel something with every kiss, every touch, but instead, I keep questioning why I’m marrying him. I must’ve loved him, right? Or I wouldn’t be marrying him. And I didn’t completely lose my memory, so I remember him proposing.
It was six weeks after we’d been dating. I had gone out with Kaylee, Layla, Bailey, and her wife, Cynthia, for a girls’ night before Layla was due to give birth.
I stepped into my foyer, and the only sound was the humming of the refrigerator. I set my purse on the counter and stripped off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper before washing my face and changing into my pajamas.
After checking my social media accounts, I went through my photos from that night to make sure I could post a couple. As I was swiping through the pictures, I stopped on the one of Layla and me. She was glowing, her hand on her big belly. Instinctually, my hand went to my own, and I wondered what it would be like to be pregnant. To carry a life inside me for nine months and then after giving birth, hold a precious little miracle in my arms that I get to spend the rest of my life loving.
My thoughts went to my mom and how close we used to be. For the first several years, it was just me and her—and my aunt Naomi—against the world because my bio dad didn’t want us. And even when Easton—the only dad I’ve ever known—came into our lives, and she had three more kids, she always made sure to make time for me. Our relationship had always been special, and we were always close, until I found out that my sperm donor was a piece of shit rapist who made her life a living hell for years. I don’t know why finding that out changed things, but it was the start of me pushing her away. Maybe it was the guilt I felt for being the reason she suffered, or because I wondered if when she looked into my blue eyes—the same ones as my sperm donor—she saw him in me. If she would’ve had a better life if it weren’t for her getting pregnant by him with me. She’s never once made me feel that way, but it didn’t stop me from thinking those thoughts anyway.
After that, I spent more time in LA than New York, insisting on going on long-ass tours and avoiding my family. I no longer felt like I was one of them, like I belonged. I felt like an outsider, dirty and tarnished.
And that’s when it all started—me stiffing guys. At first, I didn’t realize I was doing it. I would date someone, and when it didn’t work out, we would break up. But with every breakup, the media speculated. I would write a song, and they would tie it to one of the guys. So I started paying attention, trying to figure out where it was all going wrong… I would nitpick them. They weren’t neat enough, not ambitious enough, or they were too ambitious. I didn’t see the same future they saw, didn’t fall in love when they did. I didn’t want to take the next step when they did. They would say I love you, and I couldn’t say it back.
As I sat in bed, staring at the photo of Layla and me, I realized I was broken. I pushed everyone away, from my parents to my siblings to men. So instead of going to bed, I called Kyle and asked if he was up for company.
“I’ll come to you. I’m still at the office anyway.”
He showed up a little while later, and I clung to him, not wanting to be broken. Wanting to have what my parents have, what my siblings have. We spent the night together, and the next morning, when he shocked the hell out of me by proposing over breakfast, instead of running, I said yes.
“Kendall,” Kyle says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I can stay here with you. They don’t mind me working from home.”
Home… this isn’t his home. This is my home. And in a couple of weeks, I’m supposed to give it up to move into his. The thought causes a bout of anxiety to rush up my spine and neck, landing in the dead center of my head, where I’ve been getting frequent headaches.