Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Shit.
Lasagna is my favorite, and although I try to be an adult and not mooch off my folks, the temptation for a free meal may be too resisting to pass up.
“With garlic bread?”
Mom nods. “And Caesar salad.”
“Sold!” I sing-song, twirling in my chair. “You planned this on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Dad and I miss you!”
Obviously. “Why else would you be making a ten-pound lasagna for just the two of you?”
On the other end of the line, I see her holding up a box of flat noodles. “Well. To be honest, I was going to make two pans. One for us and one for the neighbors.”
“Mr. Wallace?”
“Yes, he and Chandler are expecting their second baby, and I thought it would be nice if she didn’t have to cook this weekend. He’s been doing a lot of traveling now that he’s retired.”
My next-door neighbor growing up was a professional football player and has since retired. He’s a sportscaster now, which makes him just as busy as he was before, with just as many television appearances.
We thought the dude would be a bachelor forever; grumpy, moody, and anti-relationship. Just so happens, all it took was the right woman to come along and turn him into a lovesick fool.
“When is Chandler due?”
“I think she’s thirty weeks, so a few more months.”
“That’s really nice of you, Mom, taking them dinner.”
Mom demurs.
Since I graduated high school and left for college, I haven’t lived at home. Frankly, my parents have never been more present in my life, making it a point to arrange dinners and help out with projects here. Dad did most of the trim work in the dining room, and Mom helped me decorate.
Correction: she did all the decorating, and I paid her back for it.
My phone lights up with a text from my client.
I peel my eyes off it so I’m not distracted. “Tomorrow?”
“Six?” Mom asks.
“Sounds perfect.”
four
elias
“Who hurt you to make you like this?”
“Pfft. No one made me like this.”
Molly Summervale thinks she’s so smart, doesn’t she?
I googled her to see what her deal was but didn’t find much—just a company website with a short bio. Nothing like the information about me that’s floating around the internet.
The metal slinky—a child’s toy—is cold and coiled in my hand as I move it back and forth between my two palms. I’m still stewing about our conversation hours after it happened, wondering why I even give a fuck in the first place.
I don’t.
My business is none of Molly’s business.
Then stop thinking about it, asshole.
This is about the fact that she slammed the door in my face because no one slams the door in my face. They do not hang up the phone on me. Sure, some of the professional athletes—who are used to everyone telling them yes—will do it from time to time, but that’s to be expected.
“Who hurt you to make you like this?”
Laura.
Laura made me like this.
I gaze out the window of the apartment I shared with my ex-girlfriend, the woman I thought I was going to marry and have babies with. Smart, funny, and brilliantly beautiful Laura—who had a penchant for cosmetic procedures, expensive purses, and being on camera as often as she could. None of that made me love her any less.
Her love of flashy, pretty things didn’t stop me from pursuing her. Her eagerness to cling to my arm during interviews on television only solidified her steadfastness and wanting to be by my side always.
When Laura would get introduced to my clients? Yes, she laughed a bit too loud, and yes, she fluttered her eyelashes too eagerly—but that’s just how Laura was.
I really fucking loved her.
Or—thought I did?
My sister couldn’t stand her and neither could my mom, but I assumed that once we got hitched, all that would change, and they would grow to love Laura the same way I did: unconditionally despite her “flaws.”
It’s not a crime to want to be in movies or to be a model, but I’d be lying if I said she fit in with the Cohen family dynamic. The truth was, Laura hated being at my parents’ house as much as they dreaded me bringing her there.
“Why are we going to your parents' house for the playoffs? Why can’t we go to the stadium and sit in a suite like normal people?” she’d asked the weekend of the football playoffs. It was the game that would determine which teams would go to the Super Bowl.
“Because it’s my parents’ house?” I couldn’t figure out why she was being so weird about it. Granted, they weren’t close, but my family is fucking awesome, and I loved spending time with them. “My mom decided she wanted to have a party instead of going out. No big deal.”
Wrong choice of words.
“No big deal?” Laura set whatever she had been holding on the kitchen counter and braced one arm on the granite countertop. “No big deal? This is the playoff game, Eli—of course it's a big deal. What will people think when we don't show up at the stadium, huh?”