Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
It was such a fun night. I haven’t had a textathon like that in ages. I had to smother my laughs behind pillows so I didn’t wake Becca.
Will he text me again tonight or be out on a date? What’s his normal routine? His habits? I’m so curious, but it’s none of my business.
“You’re not taking Warren,” Sara says in a no-nonsense tone. “But we do have a solution to solve your problem.”
I chuckle. “Let’s hear it.”
“We’re going to have a contest.” Sara throws that line into the room and sits back as if her work is done. “We’re starting it tonight.”
What? “Whoa, whoa. Hold your horses. We’re gonna what?”
“Have a contest.” Rebecca scoots to the end of the sofa and plants her feet on the floor. “I know it sounds a little unconventional, but it’s honestly brilliant.”
I must be hearing things.
“So let me just …” I start again. “You’re having a contest to—what?”
“To find you a honeymoon date.”
I stare at them.
“You’re untrustworthy when it comes to picking men for yourself—hence Warren and Eton,” Rebecca says. “So Sara and I decided to do you a huge favor and pick one for you.”
Pick one for me?
Rebecca smiles sweetly. “Let us run a contest for a date to your honeymoon.”
I need a drink for this.
I’m on my feet. Before I know it, I’ve gone into the kitchen, poured a shot of the only liquor Rebecca has on hand—rum—and downed it.
“Just think about it,” Sara says, appearing at my side.
The alcohol burns my throat. “Oh, I am.”
The scary part about this whole thing is that it’s not a bad idea. Does it smell a little desperate? Yes. Impulsive? Also, yes. It teeters on the edge of looking like a scorned lover, too, if I’m not mistaken.
But on the other side of all of that is an altogether different vibe—one that’s playful and carefree. One that shows I’m not heartbroken over Eton or hiding in my room with a pint of gelato.
One that I don’t exactly hate.
“Think about it,” Sara says again. “You don’t want to go alone—not really. And you’re not sure whom to ask, probably because you’re even scared of your choices.”
I give her a look.
“So live a little,” she says. “Have some fun with it. It’s a four-day trip. What can it hurt? It’s not like we’ll pick some rando you don’t know or dislike.”
“We have it all figured out,” Rebecca says. “We wrote a little paragraph that we can put on Social—”
“What?” I yelp, cutting her off. “You want me to make a post on social media for a date to my honeymoon? For the world to see? Are you out of your mind?”
Sara sighs. “What are your options here? Do you really want to stay in some expensive room by yourself and have all that space to think about Eton?”
“We know you, Ashley, and you think you’ll come home reinvigorated to take on your life. But you’ll really come home sad. Somehow. Because only you could turn this opportunity into a sad fest,” Rebecca says.
I narrow my eyes. “Thanks a lot.”
“Truth hurts,” Sara says with a shrug. “Now, are you in or not?”
She crosses her arms and stares at me.
I hate that they’re right, but they honestly know me well.
I’m not like Sara. I’d avoid sexy cabana guys instead of being open-minded and on the prowl. I’m not a quiet soul like Becca. I won’t find peace and revitalization by sitting alone and freeing my mind from toxic energy.
Nope. I’ll be using those few days to scrutinize the past two years and feel angry about all I lost with Eton.
Does that mean I would come home sad rather than proud of my choice to end things? Ugh. It might. Sadly, it just might. And if it did, it wouldn’t just set me back six steps like Mom said Warren would—it would set me back a whole mile.
Fuck that.
I lift my chin.
“Just read what we wrote,” Rebecca says, shaking the notebook in her hand. The pages rattle in the air. “Then let’s talk.”
She thrusts the notebook at me. I take it while giving her the stink eye.
I sit at the table. My friends scramble into chairs too. They’re practically holding their breaths while I peruse their chicken scratch that’s slanted across the page. What kind of animal writes like this?
“‘Contest. Win a date to my honeymoon,’” I read aloud. I look at them. “This is ridiculous.”
Sara taps the paper. “Keep going.”
I sigh and look down at the paper again.
CONTEST: WIN A DATE TO MY HONEYMOON
I realize that a social media post isn’t the usual way of securing a date to your honeymoon—for obvious reasons—but here we are.
The wedding was canceled. But what’s not canceled is the nonrefundable, ten-thousand-dollar all-inclusive vacation at a luxury resort, and I’m not about to let it go to waste.