Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I’m reminded of her comment at the coffee shop the other day. She said not to complicate things, not to make it harder for her to separate real from fake, but none of this is fake. It never was to me … yet to text her and share these little details with her would blur the lines. It would complicate things. So even if I want to share this moment with her, I know I can’t.
Irritation over the situation pricks at my skin, but I don’t let the anger drag me down. I put that energy into ensuring the event will be as good of an experience for her as it is for anyone else. Navigating to the browser, I search for the hotel’s number and hit the call button.
The manager answers on the first ring—Sterlings always get priority service.
“Mr. Sterling, how can I assist?”
“The charity event next weekend.” I pace my living room, counting steps. “I need some special arrangements made.”
“Of course, sir.”
This is what wealth and having the perfect last name get you.
“Great. So the entrance needs to be completely clear. I want no crowds. And I need a private space set up with sealed water bottles, hand sanitizer, and the works. High-end stuff, nothing that looks medical.”
“Certainly. Anything else?”
I think of Salem, of all her careful patterns and needs. “Yes, I need the exact number of tiles in every room we might enter. Floor and ceiling. And make sure all the surfaces are sanitized. Three times.”
There’s a pause, then, “Three times, sir?”
“Three times,” I confirm. “It’s important.”
I go over the details a couple more times with the manager. Making sure that everything is perfect, safe, and controlled. The way Salem needs it to be. The way I need it to be for her. It’s the least I can do, knowing I’m dragging her into a mess that will most likely induce a panic attack and require, at minimum, a month’s worth of therapy.
When I finally hang up, I’m still irritated, but for reasons that I can’t change. I stare at my phone. At the dress website, which is still open. At the glove order confirmation. All that’s left is to ask her to accompany me. Of course she will go. All I need to do is tell her when and what to wear, but for me, it’s deeper than that. It’s personal.
For the first time in my life, I want something, someone who I don’t deserve, that I can’t really have. It’s no longer us practicing at the coffee shop. Meeting my family is tossing her into shark-infested waters. I won’t be able to hide all the fucked-up pieces of who I am anymore. So far, she’s only seen what I’ve allowed her to see. At the event, the veil will be pulled back. She’ll step inside my world completely, and I don’t know what she’ll think or make of it.
If she’ll be able to handle it.
We’re more alike than different, but I’m still terrified she’ll decide I’m not worth it and run when she sees all of the dirty, broken pieces of my soul. It doesn’t matter. What’s real or fake. What she sees or doesn’t.
The moment I tell her about the event, she sends me a thumbs-up. I don’t know why, but I stupidly expected her to say something else or react another way.
Me: You’re still going to be my plus-one, right?
My heartbeat thunders in my ears while I wait for her response. It comes a second later.
Salem: Of course. Fake girlfriend to the rescue.
I drop the phone onto the couch and sag back against the cushions, hoping I don’t mess this up and praying I will somehow find a way to make her mine.
The days pass at a painstakingly slow pace. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the bad to happen because you know eventually it will. By the time Saturday arrives, I’m a bundle of nerves. I try to rein in my anxiety, which is even worse than usual, with the knowledge that Salem will need me far more than I need her today.
I wake up early, shower, shave, and head straight to Salem’s house. Noah answers the door before I can knock, his protective brother stance only slightly undermined by his basketball shorts and bedhead. His gaze quickly roams over me before dropping to the garment bag in my hands, then ping pongs over to the distinctive blue box from the glove designer.
“You know it’s seven a.m., right? Most people sleep in on the weekends.”
“Your sister is not like most people. She’s up at six every morning,” I reply, and his expression softens. Of course I know her schedule. I know all her patterns now.
“Seven on Saturdays,” Noah corrects but steps aside to let me in. “Except today—today she woke up at five a.m. and decided she needed to rearrange her closet to make room for the dress you sent her.”