Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
My lungs have ceased to operate. “That is . . . breathtaking.”
He nods to himself, like he’s reminiscing. “They still go to the lake once a year on vacation. He has this wall in his office covered in picture frames. They hold the same snapshot of my mother where she’s wading into the water in the same spot she did when she was sixteen, but she’s a year older in each one. Think there’s around forty of them last time I checked.”
There is so much love in his expression that it makes my chest uncomfortably heavy, and I have to look down at the notebook. Not that I’m seeing much of what is written there. “He obviously loves her very much. They must be the exception to the rule.”
My words cause him to tilt his head. “What is the rule?”
“Take your pick. What goes up must come down. All good things come to an end. What can go wrong will go wrong.”
A line is forming between his brows. “You’re implying relationships always flame out.”
“I’m not implying anything. Statistically speaking, they most often do. The chances of them ending badly are too high to take the risk.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.
“Just . . . no?”
“No, I don’t agree with that. You can’t forgo the risk when the potential reward is so great. That’s why people do it. Fall in love and get married. Because if you get it right, you end up with forty pictures on your wall of the same woman. You have a person.”
What does that churn just below my collarbone mean? Maybe I’m just not used to anyone being this passionate when speaking about relationships. Especially a man. Sumner is a different breed. “Not everyone needs a person.”
He concedes this with a nod. “Maybe that’s true. But even if you’re strong alone, when someone wades into your lake and you feel something . . . if you choose to ignore it, maybe that strength is actually just something else in disguise.”
“Weakness?”
“Fear.”
SUMNER
Britta shoots to her feet, fumbling the notebook closed in her hands.
Dammit. I went too far.
I should have just agreed to disagree and stopped talking. My only excuse is that I’m frustrated. I’m married to this girl, and she won’t even spend time alone with me. We don’t text. We don’t share meals. Nothing. And believe me, I’m well aware that she stated her terms up front. The relationship is a business arrangement only. I have no right to be irritated, because she is proceeding exactly as discussed.
Problem is, I’m even more obsessed with her than I was three months ago—and that is saying a lot, because I have been blind to anyone but Britta since the moment I saw her slide a foamy pint of beer down the bar in Sluggers. This is the first deep conversation we’ve had in a good while, because she has built a forty-story wall between us, and I’m absorbing the weight of it like an eager sponge . . . and I went too far.
“Britta,” I say, lunging to my feet, the impulse to wrap my arms around her, keep her from leaving, blaring in my head. But in nothing but socks, I’m still a foot taller than her, and I remind myself that I’ll never use that size difference against her. Words. With women, problems need to be solved with words. My father taught me that lesson early and reiterated it throughout my life. It’s engraved in my psyche. “Will you please stay?”
“No, I remembered I . . . um. I agreed to cover a shift—”
“Look at me.”
She won’t. All I can see is the center part of her blonde hair.
My heart twists like a doorknob.
Start talking. Fast.
“Listen, I’ve known for three months that you’re not a relationship person. I don’t know why. I’m not aware of the cause, but it’s obviously a sore spot, and I prodded it anyway.” God, I have to fist my hands to keep from cupping her fragile jaw. “I apologize.”
After a beat, she gives a stiff nod, but she still won’t let me see her eyes. “Could we just talk about, like, astrological signs and where we went to high school?” She’s twisting the notebook in her hands, and I gently take it from her before she rips it in half. I don’t want that to happen after she put so much work into something that will ultimately benefit me. “I doubt the green card interviewer is going to ask about our outlook on marriage.”
“No, probably not,” I say.
I lower myself back into my seat, releasing a breath when she does the same. “I’m a Libra.”
Her throat works with a swallow, and she finally, finally looks at me again, a couple of shadows lingering in her eyes. What happened to this girl? I want to know. I want to know the root of what is hurting her so I can rip it clean out of the ground. “Aquarius,” she murmurs. “We’re both air signs.”