Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
As soon as my boss requests something, I nod of course, sir, and let work take over.
I've been an executive assistant for the last half a decade. Since I put college on pause to help my family.
It wasn't what Dad wanted, but he didn't really have a choice.
I've worked in half a dozen offices. Some are quiet. I sit, wait to be called upon, constantly ready, rarely engaged.
Here, I'm busy. Mr. Billings is a venture capitalist. He's always running to a meeting, requesting research on a company, planning a trip overseas.
He brings his personal assistant on trips. She's seen every major city in the world, though she claims she spends most of it jet lagged inside of conference rooms.
I shouldn't covet her life. Sure, once upon a time, I wanted to see the world. I wanted more than my family's tiny shared apartment in the Bay. I wanted to defy my parents' expectations. To go into a creative field instead of a practical one.
But that was before Mom died.
Before Dad got sick.
Before paying bills became my greatest challenge.
Now, I want to survive. Everything else is gravy.
When I was still in high school, I had time for myself. I studied enough to ace my classes; I worked at my aunt's restaurant, and I nabbed the lead in the school play.
My parents didn't mind my afternoons with Shepard.
Even when it became evenings and weekends. And every single Sunday.
I thought they'd object—school is more important than boys—but they saw something I didn't.
Another ticket to success.
He wasn't richer than sin then. Just the son of a successful family. And the smartest guy in the math class at our very expensive private high school (I was there on scholarship).
He was smart, funny in a direct way, sweet in a Shep way.
It's hard to imagine now.
It's hard to remember.
I sneak a glance on my cell phone. The details of our meeting, in an email, sent by his lawyer's assistant.
No personal touch.
No signs of weakness.
But there, in the photo buried in an old folder, the two of us at homecoming dance.
His arm around my waist, his smile wicked, his blue eyes bright.
And me, in a red dress that matched his tie, struggling to stand in my uncomfortable heels, bursting with happiness.
He was so charming.
We were so happy. Yeah, we were kids with big dreams and small scars.
Or maybe that was just me. I always knew Shep was hiding a darkness. Before I even met him. He had a reputation at our school. For brooding behavior and fits of anger.
He was gentle with me. Most of the time. But sometimes…
He got angry for no clear reason. Or he avoided me for days. Then he turned up like nothing had happened. Like we'd spent all that time madly in love. Or he snuck his parents' liquor. Stayed at parties until he was wasted.
Then it wasn't sometimes. It was always.
He drank. A lot.
I used to think that was it. His only secret. He didn't want me to know he was out of control. He didn't want to admit he was out of control.
But now…
I'm not so sure.
Now, Shep is sober.
But that darkness of his is still there. It's closer to the surface. Stronger than ever.
And now he wants me as his wife.
No, what was it he said?
He needs me as his wife.
But why? He's been sober for a year. He's had every chance to approach me, apologize, ask me to dinner.
Why does he suddenly need to marry me?
The second I'm finished with work, I take the subway to the hospital.
It's the tail end of visiting hours, but no one stops me from heading straight to my father's room.
He looks up at me with his usual weary smile. "Jasmine, sweetheart, don't worry about me." He calls me by my American name now. He has since I started dating Shep.
"I'm not worried," I lie.
He shakes his head of course, you are.
I set my bag on the scratchy green chair. Lay my raincoat over it. It's May now. The weather is getting warmer, but the sky is unpredictable. Sometimes, the grey clouds fade to sun. Other times, they break into heavy rain.
"You're working too hard," he says.
"Only as hard as you would."
"It's seven. Have you eaten dinner?"
"I'll eat at home."
"You're getting too thin." He motions toward the cafeteria. "You need to eat."
"Or I won't attract a good husband?"
He smiles softly. "Your mother would say that."
"She'd be delusional. Everyone in New York is thin."
"Men like a little something to hold on to."
"We are not discussing this." I appreciate the intent—I need to eat eventually—but I don't need anyone's opinion on my body. Especially not my father's. Ew.
He shifts tactics. "I understand. Your standards are high now. She was such a great cook." His eyes get fuzzy. Far away. Like he's lost in dreams of Mom. "Nothing compares to her food. But you have that in you too. You can learn. If you cook. And eat."