Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Now that I think about it, Callum Brooks totally fits the bill.
I need to make a mental note to ask Whitney about this. Maybe when she isn’t so emotional and complaining about her sore breasts.
Oh, well. Back to the perfect-husband drawing board I go.
Present
Rory
Mal conceded to two more days in Greece, but hell if he wasn’t Bitter Betty about it. We’re making the best of it by staying in bed all day, catching up on more sex, more seafood, and more of the sun on our balcony.
We talk about the songs he wrote about me (“How could you not know?” “How was I supposed to? You told me you were never going to sell them. Besides, listening to a hit song and assuming it’s about me? How bigheaded do you think I am?” “Well, your head is a little disproportionally large, but I’ve heard all movie stars are like that, so I suppose you’re in good company.”), listen to music, and use every napkin we get with the room service to sign more contracts between us.
In the unlikely event that we have a fight…we promise not to walk out on each other.
In the unlikely event that we have three boys and no girls…we promise not to have everything in the house blue and watch footie all weekend.
In the unlikely event Mal moves to New York…I promise not to allow him to wear tweed jackets and become the cliché tortured artist.
All those things seem important, but they’re still hanging in the air like stars, unreachable and far away. We don’t talk about what counts. About his secrets. About the mysterious calls he takes every few hours in the hallway.
We don’t talk about the fact that I don’t want to move to Ireland, because my life is in America, and he doesn’t want to move to America, because his heart is in Tolka.
We don’t talk about Kathleen.
Or Father Doherty.
We don’t talk about my nightmare.
At some point, Mal slips to the hallway to take another phone call, and I pick up my phone to text Callum and ask him how he is.
After I’m done with the message, I slide into my unopened text messages to face the Summer music. It’s more like a scream, if I get the vibe right, and what I see makes me want to throw up.
Summer: Please answer.
Summer: I guess he told you.
Summer: I NEVER meant to sleep with him, Rory. You have to believe me.
Summer: And I knew he loved you so much. Please, please forgive me.
Summer: Omg, stop! You were going to break up with him, anyway. You told me so a million times. In my mind, you weren’t even, like, fully together. It was always Mal you wanted. Pick up.
My mouth is slack when Mal returns to the room, looking around.
“Shall we pack up?” he asks with his fists balled at his waist. I force myself to look up and ignore the way my heart shatters like windows.
Boom, boom, boom.
“Three more days.” I muster a weak smile, playing dumb again.
That’s what Ashton said. Three more days. And he actually sent for Mal to come work with him today for an hour, to justify our stay here. I joined Mal to take pictures, and we broke the news about our wedding to Ashton, who was elated. But then again, he was also very, very high. I’ve a suspicion he would have been just as excited if I told him I’d bought a new keychain of the Temple of Hephaestus at the local market.
Yup. Ashton looked higher than an airplane. I remind myself yet again to tell Ryner he needs to send Ashton to rehab after this project is over. It’s obvious things have gotten way out of control.
“I need to go back,” Mal repeats his usual mantra.
“You do? Awesome. I’ll meet you there in three days.”
I read Summer’s last messages again and again and again. I’m tired of being kept in the dark. Mal stares at me with wild, white anger that I haven’t seen on him before. Heat rolls off of his body in waves that crash at my feet.
“Fine,” he spits.
“Fine.”
He grabs his suitcase, which is already packed and zipped, and blazes to the door. I’m still in bed when he stops, sighs, and comes back, looking wasted and empty. It’s like those ten steps away from me drained him completely.
“Please,” he says quietly.
I know what he is asking.
He is asking me not to make it any harder for him. To come without question.
I think about Callum sleeping with Summer.
About letting Mal do unholy things to me while I was still with Cal.
About cheating and being cheated on. I never thought either of those things would happen to me.
But I also know they happened for a reason.
They say once a cheater, always a cheater.
But I think sometimes things do not appear broken, but they are, and through the crack, bad things slip in.