Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He pulls me close, tilts his head, then whispers, “I can’t stop thinking about how bad we were at Frogger.”
I swat his chest. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“I mean, we were terrible, Juliet. Awful.”
I tiptoe my fingers up his shirt. “Probably because you couldn’t stop thinking about kissing me.”
“Ah, that explains everything.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’ve wanted to since the second I saw you in Darling Springs,” he says, an echo of our first date at last.
The words thrum in my chest, making me more aware of every detail. The warm breeze, a summer afternoon, a heart that grows bigger. I kiss him, slow and tender and full of promises.
When we break the kiss, we resume our pace through town, passing the single-screen movie theater, its marquee advertising a Retro 2000s Night this week. “Hey, I wonder if they have a cheese and cracker night now?”
Monroe laughs fondly. “I’d almost forgotten you’d made that suggestion. If they’re smart, they took up Anonymous on it.”
“And if they did, my snack snob legacy lives on,” I say.
One night, we went there, but pre-planned our snacks. We’d lifted our noses in advance at the prospect of over-buttered popcorn and Junior Mints, opting instead to sneak crackers and cheese into the theater in my purse. Then we laughed and crunched our way through 1990s comedies on retro movie night, before we kissed as the credits rolled.
That week with him years ago was wonderful and poignant. We always knew it would end. Now, everything feels possible with Monroe. Now our days aren’t winding down. They’re unfurling in front of us, a red carpet into our future. “We should go tomorrow,” I say, squeezing his hand, like I’m sealing this plan.
“It’s a date. Since you did say practice makes perfect,” he says, then comes to a halt. I startle, then follow his expression as his gaze drifts upward.
Oh. We’re here.
We’re under the awning with its logo of the woman in the claw-foot tub.
“Huh. Didn’t realize we were here,” he says, and it’s cute. Truly it is how he tries to be all nonchalant about The Slippery Dipper.
“I had no idea either,” I say, letting him have this moment. This stroll down the memory lane of our once upon a time summer romance.
He scratches his jaw. “Maybe we should go inside?”
What does he have up his sleeve? He’s not proposing. It’s way too soon. I’m sure of that. Maybe he just wants to buy me a bar of soap? Reenact that fateful day more than eight years ago? That’s probably it since he seems in a romantic mood today.
“It’s always a yes with you,” I say.
We go inside, meandering only briefly before he says, “Let me get you something,” he says, then heads for my favorite scents. The vanilla and honey. And I was right. He grabs a small candle, sniffs it, then hands it to me. I waft some into my nose.
Mmm. “Nice.”
“Smells like you,” he says, then before I can even return the favor and beeline for the rosemary and shea butter, he’s at the counter, buying the candle from a red-headed man.
As Monroe asks how he’s doing, how his kids are, how the wife is, I wander around the store, sniffing a strawberry body spray, then a coconut grapefruit body wash as Monroe chats more with the man.
Outside the store, he hands me the wrapped candle. “Here you go. Open it.”
I already know what it is, but still I take it, undoing the purple twine, then the brown paper.
But there’s no candle.
Inside there’s a small box. From my sister’s jewelry shop. I blink, confused but intrigued. “You got me…”
I know it’s not a diamond. She doesn’t sell those. Still, I’m so damn curious.
“Open it,” he urges once more.
With a thumping heart and excited fingers, I tug off the top of the box. On a jewelry pillow, a silver chain sits, bright and shiny. Gently, I pull it out, and my breath catches.
It’s a necklace with a charm on it of a little house, like the cottage Eleanor gave us, the home that brought us back together. “Oh Monroe,” I say, a lump rising in my throat.
This man is so romantic. I don’t know why I’m surprised. He’s surrounded by it on our podcast, in his practice. But still, I’m thrilled and lucky that he is.
“It seemed…fitting,” he says.
I unclasp it. “I want to wear it today.”
“Yeah?” He sounds enchanted.
“I do.”
“Let me help,” he says, then moves behind me, as I brush my hair off my neck. Carefully, he drapes the chain around my throat, his fingertips dusting my skin as he hangs it just so, then as he links it together. “There. It’s where I fell in love with you.”
I shiver and smile all at once. “I know. I fell in love with you too.”