Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“She was brokenhearted because she thought she loved me.”
“Maybe she did.”
I shake my head. “You can’t truly love someone unless you know everything about them.”
He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on a black coaster. “I’m sorry, Flynn.”
“For what?”
“For suggesting you wait to tell her about your past. From now on, you should have a twenty-four-hour rule.”
“A twenty-four-hour rule?”
He nods. “As soon as you think you like someone, friend, romantic interest, whatever, tell them about your past within twenty-four hours. The ones who stay are the ones who matter. But be prepared because most won’t stay. That’s okay. Life isn’t a popularity contest. You’ll feel safer and more content if you keep your circle small.”
“I bet you have a lot of friends. All rich people do.”
“No.” He laughs. “They don’t. In fact, the wealthier you get, the smaller your circle becomes. Having more means you have more to lose, more for people to steal. Show me a really rich person, and I’ll show you someone who has no real friends.”
“You know, you’re proving my point.”
“Oh?” He lifts one eyebrow. “What’s your point?”
“A wealthy life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
He barks a laugh. “I’ll grant you that. But love is. Finding someone who is your home, your partner in this life, is pretty amazing.”
I deflate. What else is there to say? He’s not me, even if we’ve had similar experiences.
“Get Callie her tea. She’ll want to hear all about the orchestra. Put a smile on your face and make her believe it was the best night of your life. Can you do that? I’ll pay you eighteen dollars an hour to do that.”
“Yes, sir.” I stand.
“Did you just call me ‘Sir’?”
“Yeah.”
He slides on his reading glasses and focuses on his computer screen. “There’s hope for you after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Flynn
Callie is on the covered balcony instead of in her room. She peeks open one eye when I set her tea on the table between the two loungers.
“It’s going to rain,” I say. “Not a great morning to watch the sunrise. Are we going to Pilates?”
“Yes. After you tell me about the orchestra. How did June look in her dress?”
I stretch out my legs, grateful we’re going to Pilates instead of practicing three hours of silence. “She looked nice. Thank you for doing that for her. For us.”
“Nice? Not beautiful? Elegant? Stunning?”
“Yes, all of those.”
“Did you like the orchestra?”
“It was fine.”
“Flynn, give me three better words than fine.”
“I didn’t graduate from high school.”
“Three other words for fine,” she repeats.
I sigh. “Good. Okay. And, uh … entertaining.”
“Where were your seats?”
“In the front row.”
She lifts her head. “Wonderful. I’m so glad you had good seats for your first time. The orchestra is such an emotional experience.”
“Mr. Rawlings said you thought June looked familiar.”
“How did this conversation come up?”
“Who does she remind you of?”
Callie sips her tea. “Why do you ask?”
“If you’re asking me why I’m asking you, then you probably know. Did she tell you?”
I ready myself to snap at her if she tries to say, “Tell me what?” But she doesn’t say that.
“There’s an edge to your tone, Flynn.”
“Probably because I’m feeling a little edgy this morning.”
Callie turns, letting her socked feet touch the ground. She bows her head, mug cupped in her hands. “People who don’t care, don’t get edgy. They don’t get angry. They don’t fight.”
“I never said I don’t care.”
“What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?” She looks up at me.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, then I would not have asked.”
I focus on the gray sky, stained with hints of purple and blue, rejecting the sun’s attempt to break through.
“We all have stories, Flynn. Some people are an open book, others are a diary with a lock and key. Relationships take time and work. Years of patience. Love is an invitation into someone’s heart. But you have to think of it like someone inviting you into their home for the first time. You wouldn’t charge past them to explore every room and rummage through every drawer. Maybe the first time you visit, they don’t invite you past the foyer. Perhaps you get invited into the kitchen for tea, but you pass a room along the way with a closed door. And you’re curious what’s behind the door, but you don’t kick it down, and you don’t get angry with them for not giving you access to everything all at once.”
“When did you know?”
She frowns. “I suspected when we met. But I knew the day she tuned my cello. She hasn’t put out new music or toured in years. Art is passion in form. If she’s stopped following her passion, I have to believe she has a few closed doors.”
When lightning flashes in the sky, she turns to watch it. “I know I have doors that I’ve closed, locked, and thrown away the key.”