Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway, as I lie on my bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the trompe l'oeil ceiling of my cute little furnished Parisian apartment.
It’s not like I didn’t get any presents. Flip sent me a pair of noise-canceling headphones that he describes as “sick.” Lucy—who is still working for me part-time in New York—sent me a box of exquisite chocolates and a card that sings a song: “Happy Birthday, Sexy Beast.”
She gets me. Also, she’s still grateful that I flew her to Paris for a week of “business” that mostly involved her sightseeing and shopping between our “meetings.”
Only Mark’s gift is still waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I told myself I wouldn’t open it before my birthday. It should cheer me up the day that he was supposed to arrive.
But it’s already past midnight and it’s starting to sink in that today is going to be a lonely day. I’d cleared my schedule in order to spend time with Mark. Oscar and Felicity and my other friends have made plans without me.
Hell, my birthday isn’t really the problem. I was already lonely. I miss Mark all the time, except when we’re yammering on the phone. But the six-hour time difference is killing me. I’ve sat up way too late so many nights just to hear his voice. Last month, I even nodded off in the middle of one of our calls and woke a few hours later with the imprint of my phone on my face.
I’d blearily taken a selfie of that for Mark’s amusement. But then I didn’t hit send, and not because I’m too vain to send him a photo where I look, like, super not hot. But the symptoms of our separation are depressing.
So I try not to dwell on it. I try not to point out that we’ve got six more months to go. And I love our phone conversations. I know more about Mark now than I ever knew about Garrett. My boyfriend is a great listener, and a thoughtful conversationalist.
Some nights, it seems like enough. But some nights, I miss him so fucking much that it hurts.
And then? Some nights his daughter breaks her arm because I’m bending his ear about my stupid birthday.
So that was a low point. If he hadn’t been on the phone with me, snapping pics to send my way, she might not have fallen off those monkey bars. My long-distance relationship is actually a danger to children. Yay me.
It’s possible that I’m slightly depressed.
Is thirty-one too young to have a mid-life crisis?
My phone chimes with a text, and I snatch it up, even though it’s early evening in New York, and Mark told me he’s making cookies with the kid, so I doubt it’s him.
The message is a birthday greeting from . . . my New York dentist? Well, that gives me the warm fuzzies. He’s throwing in a twenty-five percent discount on whitening too.
I roll off the bed with a groan, and pad into the kitchen. I grab a knife out of the block and use it to slit the tape on Mark’s present. I’m opening this sucker right now. Maybe it will cheer me up.
Inside the box I peel back some tissue paper decorated with . . . are those eggplants? I let out a snort of laughter. See? Mark is already lifting my spirits.
There’s a card on top of the gift, with Mark’s handwriting on it: Can’t wait to be there with you. Please wear these. I lift the card to find a pair of boxer briefs in cerulean blue. They’re knit from something soft. Is that silk?
And the waistband says PROPERTY OF MARK BANKS in a continuous loop.
Hilarious! I’m definitely taking a thirst-trap selfie with these on. And underneath the briefs there’s something in crisp white cotton. When I unfold it I find . . .
A polo shirt. I laugh again, and when I shake out the shirt, another little card falls out. Laugh if you want, but you’ll look hot in this too. Besides, what else would you wear when we play tennis this summer?
That’s when the ache hits me hard—right in the center of the chest. I miss him. I miss his kiss. I miss hearing him tell me that I snore. I miss his snore. I even miss his most boring gray polo shirt.
And the navy one too.
Fuck my life. Why am I in Paris when Mark is in New York?
What am I even doing?
I know there are rational answers. I wanted this job. Our relationship is still new. Blah, blah, blah. But those things just don’t seem important enough tonight.
Alone in my kitchen, I drop my jeans and my underwear and put on the silky briefs. Then I shed my shirt and pull on the polo.