Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Which was why he’d intentionally provoked the fight with my mother, I suspected. The Neil I knew—the one who hadn’t been going through withdrawal from a powerful, lifelong addiction—wouldn’t have done something so petty and destructive. Especially not where my family was concerned.
Unless this was the way Neil was without alcohol. That was an uncomfortable thought.
No way in hell was I going to start worrying about that this early into his sobriety. I went to his side and put my hand on his wrist carefully, to stop his hands and get his full attention. He turned to me, reluctant and ashamed. I didn’t let my gaze waver from his. “You could have told me. You shouldn’t have had to do this by yourself. Even if you did just want to see what would happen.”
“What happened is I discovered what a complete ass I am when I’m not drinking.” He exhaled audibly through his nose. Seeing Neil discouraged and disappointed in himself was enough to convince me that despite his self-assessment, the guy who’d been stalking around the house, complaining and snapping at me, was absolutely not the real Neil.
He went on, “You shouldn’t have to help me through this, Sophie. You’ve already put in your time.”
It took me a second to make the connection. “Helping you through cancer was not ‘putting in my time’. In sickness and in health, right? That’s not a one-time deal.”
“It still feels…unbalanced, at the very least.” But a corner of his mouth lifted. The gloom appeared to be lifting then his expression fell again. “I’m so sorry. Would you like me to speak with Rebecca?”
I considered. “No. We’re not going to apologize for doing what’s best for us. This is our life.”
“And here I am, driving another wedge between you and your mother.” He scraped the peppers into a prep bowl and reached for some parsley.
“She’ll get over it.” I shocked myself with the levelheaded way I brushed off my mom’s anger. I wanted her approval for this marriage, but if she didn’t give it… Oh well. “If she doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. I want you more than I want my mom to sign off on my life choices.”
“I should know better,” he said with a rueful smile. “I shouldn’t interfere between the two of you. We’re only given one mother. You’re lucky enough to have a good relationship with yours, as I had with mine. It would be unspeakably cruel of me to ruin it for you.”
Leaning against the counter, I studied his profile. There were signs of his grief every time he mentioned his mother. The vertical crease between his eyebrows appeared, and his jaw clenched, a little vein bulging below his ear with each heartbeat. I leaned up to kiss it, startling him.
“Don’t frighten a man with a knife in his hand, Sophie,” he admonished, but he smiled.
Back to normal, as quickly as that. I didn’t flatter myself to think that everything had been smoothed over for him by a five-minute talk with me. He had to get himself together for Emma and Michael, who were due in minutes. He didn’t want to spend the entire evening uncomfortably dwelling on an argument or his troubles.
When he’d been going through chemotherapy, I’d always ask for an end date, or a milestone. Once he’s able to come off the ventilator. Once he’s strong enough to eat. Once his cell count is this number, or he hasn’t run a fever in x-amount of hours. There was no timeline of symptoms for this disease, for healing these wounds. This could go on and on, remissions and relapses, forever. Or he could gradually get better.
When I said for better or for worse a few weeks from now, I still wouldn’t know which it would be. And that scared the hell out of me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By the end of April, the oppressive gloom of winter had somewhat lifted. With the wedding creeping up on us faster and faster, my schedule had started looking a lot less like a fashion magazine editor’s and a lot more like a trophy-wife-to-be’s.
Not that I’d let work slack any. I was still putting in totally crazy hours at the office. I’d only been home two nights in the past week, and only because I’d felt guilty for abandoning Neil with my mom.
No matter how busy things were at work—our online subscriptions were soaring, so we couldn’t stop producing steady, engaging content now—I still had to tend to the business of being a bride. It wasn’t as much of a chore as I sometimes made it out to be; when it came time for my dress fitting, I was pretty psyched.
“I can go with you,” Neil offered, sipping his morning coffee and looking at me over the rim of the mug like I was the silliest person in the world. “It isn’t as though we’ve strictly adhered to tradition thus far.”