Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I’ve always felt protected on this street. Kingston Lane has been my home. Whether that had anything to do with Blake and his undying friendship, or Carol and her gossip, or Winston and his bad jokes, even Barry . . . I’ll never understand.
My new house is not far from here, about six blocks. I couldn’t afford to stay in this area, but I’m close enough that I can still walk here if I want to, and I guess for now, that will have to do. My long-term goal is to get back to this side of the suburbs one day.
Who knows: if this move doesn’t go well, and I don’t stay in touch with my friends here, I may even end up moving home to be closer to family.
I considered it for this move, but . . . the thought of breaking all ties was just too much to bear.
“Oh . . . get off it,” Chloe spits. “Look at her in a fucking bikini. Come off it, poser.”
She holds the phone up, and I take it off her and study the picture. Sam Holland the genius supermodel is wearing a white bikini and water-skiing behind a boat. “She can water ski?” I scoff. “Is there anything this bitch can’t do?” She’s tanned, with abs and quads and biceps, totally toned. “How can you be this gorgeous and be a fucking doctor?” I scoff in disgust.
Juliet takes the phone off me and studies the picture too.
“Jeez, she’s buff,” she whispers.
I imagine Blake and her rolling around in the sheets, and I just want to throw up.
I pass the phone back in disgust. “Don’t show me anything else. I don’t want to see it. Screw Blake Grayson; I’m done with him.”
She keeps scrolling while I sip my wine. “Oh crap, she used to go out with that hot politician.”
I snatch the phone back off her. “Who?”
I put the last of the dinner plates into the box and tape it up.
I’ve been packing up my house and keeping myself busy, trying to forget all about a certain person who we shall not name.
Three weeks until the move.
You know, it’s the strangest thing—when I was trying to fix myself, I always had it in my head that once I got better and found who I was again, Blake and I would have a chance.
But now to know that I was too late . . . by a few weeks.
If I’d gone two months earlier, would he have been single? Would he have considered my offer?
So many what-ifs, and not one damn answer.
Some days, I win. I have my ducks in a row, and I’m looking forward to the move, and Daisy and I walk for miles.
Some days, I can’t get out of bed for my hatred of the entire male species.
To make matters worse, the dating pool at my age is not a pool at all. It’s more like a muddy puddle. There’s no plenty of fish in the sea, just mangy, three-eyed tadpoles.
I slump down onto the kitchen stool and take out my phone and scroll through to Blake’s Instagram. No new posts.
He hasn’t posted for two years. I really wish that he would, because damn it, I’m dying not knowing what’s going on in New York.
So, of course, my next move is to do something completely toxic and unproductive: I scroll to his girlfriend’s page to see if she’s putting up any more posts of my beloved.
She hasn’t. No posts in the five weeks since I left there.
I wonder, did he tell her about our night together?
I doubt he would have.
When I was in my fix-myself era, I went on a few dates with people and did the deed a few times, more because I felt like I needed to than because I wanted to.
And honestly, sex without Blake really isn’t that great.
At all.
Just like he promised, that damn piercing of his has ruined me for all other men.
Maybe having a life partner isn’t in my future. Maybe I’ll be an animal mom instead of a human mom.
That’s okay. Nobody could love me more than my little Daisy does.
My mind flicks back to the night that Blake gave her to me in the basket, on the most magical Christmas Eve of my life.
I smile sadly at the memory.
You know what? I was blessed, because at least I got to know what it felt like to be loved by a man like him, even if only for a short period of time.
I’ll be okay, whatever happens, and screw him—I’m not looking them up anymore.
They can move to the moon to start up a new hospital for aliens, for all I care.
I tape up another box and get back to work. Why the hell do I have so much kitchen crap?
Knock, knock.
Henley appears. “Hey, Bec.”