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)
She stares at the ground as we continue our walk.
“I know it sounds old fashioned, but my mother has certain expectations of the woman I marry. So most of the women I date fit within some strict boundaries.”
“So they’re from certain families?” she asks. Her tone isn’t judgmental. Just interested.
I pull in a breath. “Yes. They have certain surnames.”
“Lineage.”
I don’t say anything. She’s not wrong.
“You want someone who’s the opposite of what your mother would like?”
I think about her question for a few seconds. I don’t want to answer right away. Not because I want to give her the answer she wants. I’m going to be truthful with her, but I’m not sure what my truth is. “I want someone I choose,” I say.
“Does that mean you automatically rule anyone out who fits what your mom wants?”
I let out a groan. It’s such a challenging question. But it gets right to the core of my issue with dating. “If I’m honest, I’m not sure. Everyone I take to dinner either fits or doesn’t fit. You know? If they fit, I sort of resent them. It’s impossible to find a real connection because all I can think is that they fit my mother’s criteria. And if they don’t fit, that’s all I think about too. This must sound wild to you.”
She starts to laugh, and it’s the sweetest sound I ever heard. “Kinda wild.”
Out of habit, I’ve been leading us through the park to the Bethesda Fountain. We get to the top of the steps.
“Wow,” she says as she looks out onto the fountain, lit up in warm yellow. “This is… Shall we sit?”
I glance around for a bench, but she takes a few steps down and sits right on the stone. I take a seat next to her and look out onto the fountain. I don’t think I’ve ever sat on the ground in New York. Not even as a kid.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your dating history?”
“Oh, I don’t have much of a history. A high school sweetheart who turned out to be not so sweet. He had anger issues. Although, he seems to have reformed. He’s married now. Two kids.”
“He was violent?” I ask, horrified at the thought.
“Never with me. But he used to like going out, getting drunk and getting in trouble. Anyway, that fizzled out after my mom died. Since then, there’s not been anyone serious. A guy who owns the local auto repair shop asks me out a couple of times a year. He’s older and…” She shrugs. “He’s a nice guy and all, but I don’t want to get into anything romantic with him. We had one date years back, but since then, I always say no. But he keeps on asking.”
I think if I was that guy, I’d keep on asking too.
“What do you do for fun?” she asks. The question takes me off guard.
“Fun?” I ask.
Her eyes flash wide and her smile is so broad, it makes me want to get closer to her—tell her everything. “Jack, don’t tell me you never have fun.”
“I’m a lucky guy. I have five close friends. They’re like brothers to me. When I hang out with them, I always have fun.”
“That’s so nice. I can tell you for free, having a real brother isn’t always so fun.”
“Tell me about him,” I ask.
“About Bray?” She dissolves into giggles. “You don’t want to hear about my brother. He’s bad-tempered before two cups of coffee. Messy as hell. Annoying on an hourly basis.” She sighs. “He’s a good guy. A kind heart. He really cares about the people who work on the farm. And actually, he cooks a great chili.”
I laugh at the description. It feels warm and familial. Like something I’d see in a movie.
“You don’t have any siblings?”
She looks at me like she’s taking me in for the first time, or as if she’s making some kind of mathematical equation in her head. She sweeps her fingertips over my forehead. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
“Did you just quote Henry IV at me?” I ask her.
“Actually no. The quote from Henry IV is, ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ So, I’m paraphrasing.”
“It’s like I’m sitting right next to CliffsNotes.”
She laughs and nudges me. “I always liked a tragedy. If you think about it, all the great ballets are so sad. Gizelle. Romeo and Juliet. Swan Lake.”
“You like the dark stuff?” I ask her.
She takes a beat, like she’s thinking. “I like that the stories create all this feeling in the dancer and in the audience and it connects them. And then at the end, the lights go up, and the dancers all take their bows. It’s all fine. None of it’s real.”
“Even though the endings might not be happy, it’s all okay?” I suggest.