Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Afterward, I spend my evening rebelling against the winter routine I’d fallen into and walk home. It’s dark out, but the day feels too nice to let it slip into mindless, forgotten oblivion. The blooming flowers and leafing trees deserve the utmost respect as nature takes its springtime course. And I, too, deserve the same opportunity to start over, leaving winter’s bleakness behind. Spring has always been my favorite season. What’s not to love? New life is emerging all around while the sun warms our days.
In summer, life is in full swing, but it gets too hot to always enjoy. In fall, everything is starting to die. Winter is the worst of all, though. Everything is dead. The irony is that Jim died in April, just as life is reborn all around us.
I keep walking but pick up my pace. I thought I was over this. I’m not over this! This is new! I was starting to come out of the darkness after the breakup. I was starting to move on, and I was making a good go of it. Just as my chest was starting to feel whole, his death ripped my heart apart again—this time cutting deeper. Why did he have to die? The pain is magnified more than should be allowed. He’s not a saint because he’s dead. He hurt me. A pathetic whimper from deep within my chest slips from between my lips. Hold it together. You’re almost home.
I slam the door behind me, leaning against it for safety, for security. My hands press against the solid wood until it hurts. Blinking away the weak tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes, I take a deep breath. Memories can hurt, but I’m determined that those memories won’t hurt me anymore. I can’t let them. It’s not worth it. I can’t change what happened. I can’t change the past. I need to focus forward, not behind.
A hot bath is in order. I fill the tub and slip into the burning water, knowing it will alleviate my thoughts of the burden of this moment as it warms me from the outside in. I sip a glass of wine and use my toes to play with the faucet. My brow and mind relax as I watch my skin turn pink where the water engulfs me. Within minutes, I find this was a much-earned reward. I start to sweat about the time I see my fingers pruning. I don’t like to linger and see my skin like that. I always get out at this point, not wanting the reminder of growing old.
It’s easy to go about my night. I’ve developed a knack for shutting off unwanted thoughts. When the alarm buzzes in the morning, I’m surprised at how the time flew. I feel positive. Today is a good day. Tomorrow is Jim’s funeral, but today is a good day. Today, I will sign a new client. I can’t be stopped, not today.
I arrive at the office earlier than usual, skipping my daily coffee shop stop. Rachel arrives, singing her usual chipper greeting, then gets to work. I want to ask about her date. I really do, but something stops me. I think it’s the realization that I don’t think I can handle her talking about a happily ever after with a guy I felt a connection with.
She tends to go overboard with the guys she dates, a common reaction from a woman who puts all of her eggs in one basket. Beyond wanting her dates to work out, to turn into something more meaningful, she needs them to. At twenty-seven, soon to be twenty-eight, Rachel Russo’s desperation is starting to show in her once-cheerful expression. Her biggest problem is herself. She has a teenager’s mentality regarding men and chooses the wrong guy for the wrong reasons. She doesn’t give them the credit they deserve. It’s still a game to her even though she doesn’t want to play it any longer. I feel for her, although she’s quite inspiring in her quest to find her future husband.
These thoughts make me feel like such a bad friend that I remain quiet, losing myself in the appraisal in front of me.
A few hours after my poor psychoanalysis of the modern woman, Rachel jumps up and makes an announcement. “I just got a potential new client.”
“Congratulations!” I smile and stand to stretch my body, which feels stiff from melding into the gray office chair all morning. ”What is it?”
“The Bennett estate here in Manhattan.”
I gulp as the pain of the knife in my back is turned and jabbed just a little deeper. “Bennett? As in James Bennett Jr.?” My throat is dry, and I struggle to form words, much less say them.
“Yes, but don’t tell me you’ve been working with them. I just received an email, but if you’ve been working—”