Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Erol Cross thinks he can just swagger his way back into our lives lookin’ all Jack fuckin’ Reacher and rewrite my story, and I’m just gonna go on record right now and say that’s not the case.
It’s just not the case.
My story has a big fat copyright sign on it. It belongs to me, and me only. And he can’t have it.
But the ownership of my story—absolute as it is—doesn’t solve my current problem. Because my current problem is that Cross is in the middle of writing his story as well. And since he’s mine, and has lived with me all his life, and has watched me carefully craft my story as he grew—using costumes, and jobs, and anything else I could get my hands on—well, how could my boy not aspire to bigger things?
He does, after all, possess a matching set of ‘bold’ genes.
And I can respect that. I can. I do.
I see the draw of his secret-spy father. I absolutely get it. Underground cities runnin’ military operations? It’s a very exciting story. Especially since Cross’s story, so far, has consisted of singing old-timey hymns in the children’s choir under a big ol’ tent.
Which isn’t enough for Cross Harlow. It’s just not enough.
The sad part of my actualization is that it’s coming a couple of days too late.
Yes. This is my true problem. I’m late to the game. It started without me and I’m behind a few points.
But doesn’t everybody love an underdog?
Just as I’m thinking these words I glance at the clock and realize that it’s dinner time. Seven-thirty. And when I step over to the window and look out, there’s nothing to see because the whole town is home right now. Sitting around their table, chatting about their day, and just being a family.
I turn, glancing at my own dinner table. Which is depressing because it’s empty. I haven’t eaten all day, but I’m not hungry. I just miss my son and want him back.
Noon tomorrow. Sixteen and a half hours until I can see him again.
The roar of a truck pulls my attention back to the window. Amon is here. His truck slides into the driveway next to mine and as he gets out, I walk to the door, open it, and step out onto the porch.
Because I have made up my mind. I know what I have to do.
“Rosie!” Amon rushes up to the porch. He’s just about to open his mouth and say something when I put up a hand. A look of confusion crosses his face, but it’s enough to make him pause. And this pause is all I need.
“I need you to know something, Amon. And I need you to just… not say anything and let me get it out.” Which spurs him into trying to reply, but I push my hand forward, causing him to pause again. “Just hear me out. Because my life has taken a turn here, Amon. In many ways. It’s not just you, either. It’s Cross—before he was kidnapped—and me, as well. You see, my boy was flashing me all the signs. He was giving me all the warnings. And I was just turning my cheek to him, pretending he’s still a child who can be molded into the person I envisioned him to be. But I can’t. It is time now for me to let go.”
“Are you saying”—Amon’s brow is thoroughly crinkled—“that you’re not going with Erol?”
“Oh, I’m saying that and much more.”
“But… Cross, Rosie. You can’t choose me over Cross.”
I walk towards him and place my hand on his chest. “I’m not choosing you over him. I’m choosing me.”
Amon starts shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Will you marry me, Amon?”
His smile is so immediate, it lights up my whole life. It is enough to illuminate the darkest black hole. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”
“I did. You see, there’s only one way out of this and that’s together.”
“But what about Cross?”
“Oh, I didn’t forget about Cross. This is the selfish part of my proposal because while he might not choose me over his exciting secret-spy-thriller daddy, you and me are a whole different story. And that’s the best part. We get to write a brand-new story.”
He chuckles. “Did you just admit to using me to lure your son back home?”
“I did.”
“Well”—he smiles real big—“my answer is yes, of course. I will marry you, Rosie Harlow. And I am happy to be used as bait for a young boy who craves adventure in order to lure him home. But I’m gonna have to say no here, Rosie, you do realize that, right?”
“No? No to which part?”
“You can’t ask me to marry you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because that’s my line. As the potential groom, I have one job and this is it.” He points to the ground with his finger. “This is it. You stole my line.”