Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“And once a year you come to the ballet and you let yourself remember what you sacrificed.”
Her smile dims, and I wish I could put the words back and never have spoken them.
“What about you?” she asks.
“Well, I work in the family business too.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Are we supposed to enjoy what we do?”
A flash of pity crosses her reflection. It’s not a look I’m used to. Few people pity me. “I really think we are. I don’t think most people do though.”
“Right. So I guess I’m like most of America. I’m very privileged, in lots of ways. I have a job and I’m very lucky. That’s the way I try to see it at least.”
“But sometimes you don’t see it like that?” she asks. “Working in a family business is hard. It strains relationships that should only be about love and support, and they become about money and…”
“Expectations,” I say, and the word sits heavy in me. “About the next generation. Legacy.”
She bursts out laughing, and I smile at her, warmed by her response. “I don’t think our family thinks much about the next generation and legacy. I think we’re much more about making sure everyone who should have paid has paid and ensuring we can survive another winter.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was insensitive. My family’s concerns are nothing compared to yours.”
She shakes her head and places her hand on my arm. I feel it heat my entire body, like her touch is breathing new life into me. “You weren’t at all. I was being insensitive. Just because we’re not worried about the same things doesn’t mean your worries aren’t valid.”
“It’s different,” I say. “You’re right. I suppose we still operate within certain constraints. Except yours are dictated by bills and payments and mine are dictated by… expectations and…”
“Expectations of who?”
“My mother and father.”
“And you don’t want to disappoint them?”
“I really don’t. Or my ancestors. My grandfather and his father before him and then his before him. I come from a line of men who worked hard to give me the opportunities I’ve been afforded. Now I have an obligation to pay it forward and make sure future generations of my family have those same opportunities.”
She raises her eyebrows. She must think I sound like a spoiled brat. “That’s quite the burden.”
She’s not being sarcastic. Her tone is comforting and soft. There are plenty of people who would be eager to tell me how spoiled I sound. It’s a first-world problem and I know it is. I feel ungrateful for being so miserable about my situation because I know most of America would love to be in my position.
“But you feel guilty for letting it feel like a burden.”
I huff out a half laugh. I wasn’t expecting her to say that. “That’s exactly how I feel. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that.”
“I understand why you wouldn’t want to share it. You don’t want to appear ungrateful. But my dad has a saying that if you don’t allow yourself to feel sad, just because there are people who are worse off than you, then you can never be happy if there are people in the world happier than you.”
I chuckle. “Wow. That’s…”
“It makes perfect sense, right? If you feel a lack of freedom because you haven’t chosen your path, then that’s entirely understandable.” She slides her hand into mine, and it’s as if she’s connected me to an electrical charge. I feel her warmth across my entire body. She hasn’t touched me since I pulled her away from my mother, and I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be the guy holding her hand.
Telling her things is oddly comforting. It’s as if we’re reconnecting after years apart. It’s like I’ve known this woman a thousand years and I’ll know her a thousand more.
We wander in silence for a few minutes. Her thumb strokes my wrist, my fingers wrapped around hers. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more perfect evening.
“How long are you staying in town for?” I ask eventually. I want tonight to last forever, and then I want to see her again tomorrow and do it all over again.
“I leave the day after tomorrow,” she says.
It’s like someone’s punched me in the stomach, and I fight for breath.
“Really?” I ask, hoping I misheard her. “The day after tomorrow?”
“Three thirty out of Newark.”
“Say you’ll have breakfast with me tomorrow morning,” I say. “I’ll pick you up from your hotel. Where are you staying?”
She focuses on the path right in front of us. “I can meet you back here. Maybe that restaurant where we just got our beverages.”
“Sure. But I can pick you up,” I say. “Are you in Manhattan?”
The air shifts. I’ve said something wrong, and I’m not quite sure what.
“Yeah, just in Times Square, but I can meet you at that place back there,” she says.