Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
The rest of the drive was not quiet. I didn’t think Fiona had the ability to be quiet. She spoke, asking questions. About nursing school, about when I planned to leave Jupiter, which school I wanted to go to, and what my plans were for the future. She seemed genuinely interested and somehow expertly skirted over subjects she sensed were sensitive to me. Like where I grew up. Boyfriends. Beau. Etcetera.
Fiona came across as direct, warm, teasing. But I couldn’t get over the idea that she was handling me with care. Like she could tell I was broken.
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Embarrassed? I wished I could embody the badass self-assurance that dripped from her seemingly poreless skin.
We pulled up to a small, well-maintained house that required a code at the gate to enter. The dense woods around the property gave it a cozy feel. A plethora of cars were already in the driveway. They were all expensive, but not flashy.
All the saliva in my mouth evaporated at the thought of the people I’d have to interact with.
Fiona patted my hand. “Don’t worry. They don’t bite. Not people they’re not married to, at least.” She winked then got out of the car.
Because I had no other choice, I followed her.
Though I was immensely nervous, I didn’t have the chance to feel self-conscious since the moment I walked in, people greeted me, thrusting food and drinks into my hands.
I took them, grateful to have something to do, and greeting everyone who, apparently, remembered my name. I hoped I didn’t commit the faux pas of forgetting someone’s. It was practically the same group that was at Clara’s birthday party, minus Calliope, the husbands, and the children.
“These are great,” Tiffany said to Avery, who was handing out drinks.
“You wouldn’t know there wasn’t any booze in them, would you?”
Tiffany's eyes widened, and her sweet face narrowed at Avery. “There’s no booze in these?”
“I put champagne in mine.” Fiona held up her amber-colored glass. “Anyone else want some?”
Fiona started pouring into Tiffany’s glass, averting whatever crisis had been about to unfold.
“Where did you get champagne?” Avery asked, her brows knitted together.
“Yes, this is meant to be mocktail night,” Nora reminded her.
“I got champagne from this bottle I brought,” Fiona replied to Avery, waving the bottle in question. Then she narrowed her eyes on her best friend. “Mocktails?” She shook her head. “I’m not a mocktail girl. Cock or nothing.” She waggled her brows. “In all senses of the word. My husband’s cock only.” She took a long breath. “And it may only be the booze I’ll be imbibing for the next nine or so months since I’m ovulating tonight and planning on getting pregnant the old-fashioned way… while shitfaced.”
She drained her glass to accentuate her point before pouring another and reaching over to top off mine. I’d only been sipping for something to do. Feeling awkward and not quite aware, I opened my mouth to protest, but the other women’s voices drowned it out.
“I thought you said you were one and done?” Avery asked Fiona, holding out her mocktail to be spiked.
“You said, and I quote, ‘anyone who willingly has more than one child is psychotic, masochistic, or a trad wife,’” Nora remarked with an arched brow. She was pregnant with her third child.
Fiona drained her wine. “Okay, I’m a fucking idiot. I long for morning sickness, hemorrhoids, vaginal tearing, sleepless nights, diaper blowouts, tantrums… I want to do it all again! I want to give June a big family, and I want my big, stupid husband to hold a newborn again. So fuck me.”
I sipped my drink again to stave off the uncomfortable feeling in my skin. That yearning. To live in that world. Really live there. To have a ring on my finger and a partner who adored me the way all of these women’s husbands did.
Oh, what a regressive longing. To be a wife. A mother. Didn’t I have much bigger dreams than that? Hadn’t I already tried that once and gotten trampled over? Wasn’t I still, technically, someone’s wife?
I downed my drink then helped myself to more. There was more than enough, now that the mocktails had been abandoned by everyone who wasn’t pregnant, and bottles of champagne were materializing everywhere.
The bubbles were nice. As was the conversation happening around me. I tried to engage in it, but my mind was elsewhere.
My mind was in Beau’s dining room. Not going over the credit card bills.
Staring at his grey eyes, gluing me in place. Hearing him say, “I do like you, Hannah, and that’s the fuckin’ problem.”
What did that mean? That he liked me?
Except he didn’t. I had a wealth of evidence to back up that fact.
And yet… There’d been stolen moments, glances, the brushing of fingertips in the kitchen. I kept going over those things, using them like petals on a daisy. He likes me. He likes me not. He likes me.