Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I know I sound confusing, but I’m confused myself. It’s the same woman I’m fascinated by—the same woman whose prose captivates and endears me. And yet, she’s also playing at celebrity in the most charming way.
I wish I had a better way to explain it, but I’m enjoying watching her so immensely, I have to remind myself that it might look weird if I stare at her without blinking with a garish smile on my face for the whole two hours of this meet-and-greet.
In the interest of human-ing correctly, I find other things to look at every few seconds or so. The people in her line. The old-timey photos of the town on the walls. The wear of the wood floor. They’ve all got character, that’s for sure.
It’s not until a man in cowboy boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt approaches the table, a blond woman with snug but conservative clothes on his arm, that Brooke balks at all.
Silent and gulping, she stares at the pair for such a long moment, I start to worry that if she doesn’t take a full breath of air soon, her skin is going to turn blue.
I glance down at Benji, who is resting but awake beneath the table. He shows no signs of concern, but without even thinking, I step up beside Brooke, dive right into the middle of the silence, and insert myself. It’s a crazy thing to do in every aspect I can consider, and yet…I can’t stop it from happening.
“Hi, folks. I’m Chase Dawson,” I say with a smile, holding out a hand to the man first and taking his large, callused one in my own. “Brooke’s editor.”
He glances to Brooke and then back to me. “Jamie Carter. I’ve known Brooke since grade school.”
Brooke snorts then, catching both of our attention, and my eyes flit to hers to find them nearly wild. “Yeah. I guess you could say that, huh?”
My brows draw together, and Jamie shifts on his boots and wraps his arm around the woman next to him.
Brooke looks directly at me, explaining, “Jamie is my ex-husband. Mary Katherine is his new wife. And all three of us went to school together, starting in the fifth grade when Jamie’s family moved here from an hour away.”
My forehead becomes nothing but eyebrows as the situation’s complication spills out all over the space between us. Jamie and Mary Katherine are silent, but Brooke’s broken into a rolling laugh that borders on hysteria. I put my hand on her shoulder in an effort to calm her down. I mean, she has every right to freak out, but the sound of Scar’s hyenas in the Hometown Recreation Hall is starting to garner a few looks from the crowd.
I gently squeeze at the flesh and bone there, instilling as much comfort as I can into the pads of my fingertips.
And it works, as she pulls herself together remarkably quickly, shaking her head infinitesimally before directing attention to Jamie. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I know this has to be weird for you too, but I really do appreciate you coming. You too, Mary Katherine. Says a lot about your character, truthfully, stepping out to support your husband’s ex-wife with a smile. Thank you both.”
Jamie’s voice is quiet, almost rough, as he answers. “You know I always wanted to support you, even if I didn’t understand how best to do the job of it. I figure it’s better late than never.”
It’s the strangest thing, but in that moment—while Brooke’s ex-husband, whom I assume she devoted years and years of her life and heart to, is laying an apology at her feet—my brain can only come up with one, brilliant, emotionally shallow piece of insight.
It seems exes run amok these days, but at least this one’s not drunk.
Brooke
Jamie Carter, my ex-husband, and his new wife are here, being nice and, beyond that, sentimental in the middle of my Hometown public appearance.
I haven’t been anywhere close to this memory lane in years—haven’t even driven past it. But now, I’m smack-dab in the middle of what feels like an ex-couple counseling session in the psych building at the end of that winding road, while Chase Dawson, the dreamiest man I’ve ever laid eyes and occasional hands on, looks on from about six inches away.
When I thought I wasn’t prepared to be out here doing this, I had no idea just how right I was.
Dear God, I was really not prepared for this at all.
“You know I always wanted to support you, even if I didn’t understand how best to do the job of it,” my ex-husband says quietly, a familiar coarseness in his voice. “I figure it’s better late than never.”
What does one say to something like that when the person’s new wife is standing right beside them when they say it? It doesn’t feel romantic or longing, at least, but I don’t know what it’s supposed to be besides that either.