Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
You’ll get through this, Banks. You made it through English lit class, too.
When I answer, Bridget’s weirdly cheerful voice sing-songs, “Hey Mark! I’m here for the little cutie.” As if trading our kid back and forth like a tennis ball is just a super-fun time.
Her upbeat attitude grates on me. Her life is a super-fun time, I guess. She has a new man, Morgan, and a new apartment that’s nicer than the one we shared in this building, before I moved to another unit.
Whenever she shows up, I gird my loins and smile, so I don’t poison our child with my bitter attitude.
“We’ll be downstairs in three minutes, Bridge,” I say, as I check the time. God, I hate saying goodbye to my baby girl. Every single time, it sucks.
I end the call, scratch Blackbeard behind the ears, then grab our bags, and hold Rosie’s hand as we head down two flights of stairs. Outside it’s a warm June morning on our tree-lined block. Even though my rent bill here in the Flatiron District makes my eyes bleed despite my decent Wall Street salary, I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the city. I can walk Rosie to school a few blocks away, and that’s one of my favorite things to do.
With a squeeze of her little hand in mine, I remind her that I’ll call her every night.
“You better! Eight forty-five on the dot. That’ll be thirteen hours and fifty-five minutes from now,” she says.
“Show-off,” I say with a laugh, ruffling her hair as we reach my ex-wife.
Bridget tucks her chestnut strands behind her ears. “Hi Mark. Looks like you’re ready to get a suntan and relax on the beach.”
That’s not what I’ll be doing, but I don’t bother to correct her.
I’m civil to Bridget. I don’t look forward to seeing her, though. Not because I’m heartbroken. I’m not. Our marriage grew lackluster over the last few years. But I did what was expected of me. I got the highest paying job I could find, and I stuck it out.
She didn’t, though. And I’m angry. I’ll always be angry.
Even if we didn’t marry for love, I did love her. We married because it was the right thing to do once she was pregnant. I stayed with her because loyalty matters. You should do what you say you’re going to do.
Like show up on time.
As Bridget takes Rosie’s hand, a sleek black town car pulls over to the curb. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Before anyone opens the door, I know, I just know, that it’s Asher. He said he’d grab a Lyft and swing by, but of course he can’t just arrive in a white Nissan from a ride-share app. He has to do everything with style. My jaw ticks while my pulse spikes. Because even though it kind of irritates me, I also kind of like the town car.
Story of my life with him.
The back door swings open, and Asher unfolds himself from the car, and . . . fuck me.
He looks so damn good in vacation mode. A tight, cool blue, short-sleeve button-down hugs his arms, and he’s got it tucked into trim shorts. He whips off aviator shades.
Of course.
“Good morning, Mark and you must be Bridget,” he says, introducing himself to my ex, then turning his gaze to my kiddo. “And it’s good to see you again, Rosie the Slugger.”
My daughter beams. “You heard about my double too?”
She sounds utterly enchanted.
Know the feeling, kid.
“I hear you’re a superstar on the softball field, which is all kinds of awesome.” He bends down to her level, his eyes locked on hers. “But have you taken up football yet? Or soccer, as Americans call it? You need to think about soccer, too.”
“I have been thinking about it. I want to try it.”
I motion to Bridget, lower my voice. “He used to play in Europe. Premier League.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding intrigued. “That’s like the major league in Europe.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, and for a second, I sound a little impressed even to my own ears.
Bridget shoots me a curious look, like how do you know all this? But I don’t share with her.
I know because I do my homework. After I met Asher, I looked him up online. Read his Wiki, checked out his stats from six years as a striker. Fine, I even watched a highlights reel.
Including a short interview with a French TV station after his team won the championship, and his face was shining with sweat, his hair slicked back, his jaw covered in a short beard. He looked elated as he talked to the reporter in French.
No clue what he said, but it sounded hot coming out of his mouth.
“. . . And when you score a goal, it’s the best feeling ever. Bet you like it more than a home run,” Asher tells Rosie, and he’s a magician too, casting a spell on my little girl.