Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
It’s not home. Indianapolis doesn’t have the Gold Coast. It doesn’t have the surf breaks of Byron Bay. Doesn’t have my cousins. It doesn’t have the same air. The air smells different down there. If I were Mum, I’d jump on this opportunity in a heartbeat.
“She’s going hard on you, huh?” I murmur when my dad comes up beside me to grab another beer.
“Yup. I might need to tag you in later, buddy. Get you to plead our case.”
“I don’t know if that’s gonna help. She really doesn’t want this.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “What’s more important to you? Happy wife or happy you?”
“Ah, the age-old question of navigating any marriage. You’ll find out one day.”
“Maybe.” My tone remains noncommittal.
“Oh, are we still sticking to the vow?”
I snicker. “It wasn’t a vow. It was just drunk talk. You caught me on a bad day.”
Although I have to admit, there were a lot of bad days after everything that happened with Shannon. I remember the one he’s talking about. I got loaded with some teammates after the last game of a weekend exhibition. Dad caught me as I was sneaking in at four a.m. and trying to tiptoe up the stairs with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. When he asked if I’d been out with a girl—I think he was hoping I was—I delivered a whole drunken tirade about how I would never love again or get married because “all that love stuff” only ends in crushing heartache.
“I was eighteen,” I remind him. “I was very dramatic.”
“One of the few times I saw you lose your chill,” he says quietly.
“I thought I would marry her.” Shrugging, I refocus my attention on pouring Helen Walker’s wine.
“And that didn’t pan out. But we heal, Beck. We heal, and we move on, and we put the broken pieces back together.”
“And we enjoy our bachelorhood,” I say lightly. “In my case anyway. In your case, you need to start sucking up to your wife, old man.”
I give him a good-natured clap on the shoulder, then return to the table and hope I didn’t appear too eager to leave that conversation.
By nine o’clock, the Agharis and D’Agostinos are gone, leaving me alone with my parents and the Walkers.
I don’t know how I got roped into this. A twenty-one-year-old man nursing a beer, watching football, and listening to two couples bicker. One of them is in their eighties, the other in their forties, yet they’re both acting like they’re in their teens.
The Walkers were only trying to help at first. Mum had started sniping at Dad again, and Albert made the mistake of bringing up a prior marital fight between him and Helen as a lesson for my parents about how to resolve conflict. Turns out the Walkers’ fight is not resolved, because now they’re arguing about it.
Fun times.
“Are we really going to rehash this?” Albert grumbles. “Now? We put this fight to rest, Helen!”
As much as I don’t want to enable their behavior, curiosity gets the best of me. “What was the fight about?”
“Yes, Al. What was the fight about?” Helen’s voice drips with a sweetness that makes my stomach tighten. “Why don’t you tell everyone what you said to that woman?”
“That woman?” I echo. I can’t look at Dad because I know we’ll both bust out laughing.
“Tell them what you said,” taunts Helen.
Albert growls under his breath. “How the hell am I supposed to remember what I said? It was twenty years ago!”
I nearly choke on my beer. Dad is trying to distract himself by cutting another slice of pie. I glance at Mum, whose lips are pressed together to contain her laughter.
This fight happened twenty years ago? The way Helen’s been going on, it sounded like this mistake that almost destroyed their marriage only occurred the other week.
“You know damn well what you said,” Helen clucks. She looks at my mother, as if requiring female solidarity for this part. “We were at our friends’ anniversary party, and he told Donna Henderson she looked ‘radiant.’”
I stare down at my pie.
My father clears his throat. “Sounds like it was a long time ago, Helen. Perhaps—”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she cuts in, waving her hand. “It’s not too late for Albert to explain himself, is it?” She turns back to her husband. “Well, Al? I’m all ears.”
Poor Albert looks like he’d rather fight off a rabid ostrich. “Helen. I was only being polite. She was the hostess.”
“You never told me I looked radiant.”
“I tell you you’re beautiful all the time!” he protests, glancing around the room for backup.
None of us dare to meet his eyes. Helen isn’t hideous, but I wouldn’t exactly call her beautiful. More like…not displeasing.
Helen’s face turns red. “You called me ‘decent’ last Christmas, Albert.”
A strangled sound escapes my lips. Oh, Jesus Christ.