Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I gazed toward the kitchen. The main living space was open-plan. “What’s cooking? I don’t smell anything.” I turned back to George. “Are we doing takeout? Oh, and hey!” I hugged him, relieved when he hugged me back, because he was acting kind of weird. Usually the first thing he did when he saw me was hug me. George was six feet four, an entire foot taller than me. We shared an apathy for working out, and I loved that he wasn’t muscly and intimidating. He gave good cuddle.
“So yeah, hey.” He squeezed me and then set me back. “Let’s talk.”
Dread filled me as he took my hand and led me to the sectional.
We all knew what “let’s talk” was code for. My heart raced.
Once we sat down, I blurted out, “Are you breaking up with me?”
George’s mossy-green eyes were his most attractive feature. I loved staring into his eyes. Usually. Not now, while they filled up with pity.
Yuck.
“Hallie, you’re great.” He gave me a condescending smile and a pat on my hand. “You’re cute, and you’re fun, and the sex is definitely in my top three, but you’re like the kind of girl I enjoyed dating in college, you know. You get into hilarious situations that make us all laugh, and you’re always up for a party.”
I was?
I couldn’t remember the last time I partied.
College, I think.
“But I’m thirty this year and . . . uh . . . well . . . I work for very important clients, and I have to attend a lot of serious, sophisticated events, and, uh . . . well, that’s not really your thing.”
I gaped at him, stunned. “Not my thing? I organize those events.”
“Exactly!” He grinned as if pleased I understood.
Understood what?
I understood crap!
“You plan parties for a living. Who does that? And you can’t tell people what you’re really thinking because you want everyone to love you. You eat things you hate eating to please people who actually couldn’t give a fuck if you eat their awful canapés, and you end up in these mortifying situations because you can’t say no. Yes, it’s funny, but it’s also embarrassing for me. I need a wife who is serious. A wife with a backbone. A wife with an impressive high-powered job who gets what that’s like and understands the seriousness of my work, you know. And, um, I think we’ve lasted this long because you are very giving in the bedroom . . . but I can’t keep following my dick. It’s time to grow up.”
Did he just say what I think he said?
I sprang to my feet, so outraged I felt like I was choking. I could feel my face darkening with furious, fiery blood and a lack of oxygen.
I was fun and cute and giving in the bedroom?
I embarrassed him?
He’d dated me this long only because I was giving in the bedroom?
For a start, three months wasn’t that long, and we’d barely seen each other for one month. Oh, and my people-pleasing bothered him? Really? What the hell did he think drove me to give in the bedroom when he never ever gave back?
No, sirree, he did not.
I’d wasted my best stuff on him.
Only for the condescending asshole to tell me I wasn’t good enough to be his girlfriend?
You are a pompous . . . selfish . . . mundane . . . “Little man!” I yelled the last part of my thoughts out loud.
George blinked up at me in shock. “I’m six four,” he replied inanely.
I raised an eyebrow and crooked my pinkie finger at him. “Yes, and in proportion you are not.”
He gaped, his voice high-pitched as he threw back, “Uh! That was hurtful, unnecessary, and just confirms I’m right to break up with you.”
I had been hurtful? “You just told me I had no backbone, that I embarrass you, and that the only reason you dated me was for sex.”
“That last one is a compliment!”
My head exploded. “I have to leave.” I spun around, tripping over the corner of the damn sectional as I tried to make my escape.
“I think that’s best. You really are too sensitive, Hallie.”
Choking back the words I wanted to say because I knew he’d just turn them around on me, I slammed out of his apartment. My fury kept me warm as I marched through the chilly spring evening to the subway. I got off at Church Avenue, and it wasn’t until I was safe inside my apartment that I announced in a strong, forthright manner to the empty room, “George, you are a patronizing, derogatory, condescending, toxic man-child. And you’re bad in bed!”
Wishing I’d had the guts to just say it, no matter his reaction, I promptly burst into tears.
The tears weren’t for George. I could never miss someone who had spoken to me like that. No, the tears were pure frustration. With myself.