Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Their sweet interaction has me missing my own mom. The last time I saw her felt like an olive branch, the Paddington story something that bound us together. She even remembered who Winifred was after reading the note. I was given a glimpse into who she might be underneath the Stansbury title and the mother I always wanted. Neither has contacted the other. Did I let the circumstances make me think there was an opportunity? I don’t know, and it’s easier to get caught up in the life I’m living and the wedding we’re planning.
One of the pieces that ties us together is something I can’t wait to get rid of. Sosie Matthews has a much better ring to it.
I’m brought back to Keats’s big moment by a kiss to the head, and him murmuring that I didn’t have to wait in line to see him. As much as a part of me feels empty without my mom, I’m glad he has his again, so he doesn’t have to live with that void any longer. I reply, “I wouldn’t have met your mother if I hadn’t.”
It’s two worlds colliding when he looks between us, and the grin displayed on his face only confirms my theory. He deserves to feel whole. So do I, but hopefully that will come in time. “I’m glad you’ve met,” he says. “The three of us should have dinner next time.”
Giving my wrist a gentle squeeze, his mom says, “That’s a great idea.”
I won’t argue with having more family. If he’s happy, I am. “I’d like that, Ms. Matthews.”
“Call me Lori.”
Life is busy. Too busy, but the final wedding to-dos on my list are being checked off with the help of Marcy. Keats finished his list last week. It wasn’t a competition . . .
Being in a headspace I wanted to protect, I didn’t ask my mom to come dress shopping. I kept that for Marcy and me. But I was missing her leading up to the final fitting. I just didn’t know how to break the ice since months have passed since we saw each other. A text out of the blue seemed impersonal, and an email would be even more so. A call felt too in her face like I was putting her on the spot and guilting her into it. Ugh.
This should be fun, and the added pressure would ruin it. Keats is right. I’ll know when it feels right. If I’ve learned anything, timing is everything.
So I asked Lori to join us. She’s been a dream to spend time with, although not at all helpful with choosing which dress to wear for the ceremony and which for the small reception we’re hosting at one of our favorite places. She loves them all. I swear I could say I’m wearing my Doc Martens, and she’d tell me to go for it. She loves anything I toss out there. I even tested her by throwing a curveball and saying I could dye one of the dresses dark purple. Without missing a beat and failing the test entirely, she suggested purple stripes in my hair to match. I couldn’t even be mad at her. We’ve bonded like we’re related. And soon we will be.
But Marcy’s been my saving grace, my calm through the storm of this wedding chaos who pulls me back from monster bride behavior when Keats couldn’t be there for me. Like now, helping me with the dresses. Our friendship has only grown, and although she once asked if I knew any guys for her, there’s none I would set her up with. She deserves someone special and her very own poet.
With my dresses bagged and draped over my arms, I walk out of the bridal salon on cloud nine. “The combat boots would be a fun toss back, but I was thinking shoes that are pretty, sparkly, even sex—”
My mom looks as shocked as I am. Both of us stopped on a dime and stood frozen to the spot. The encounter brings a wave of guilt and shame as I stand in front of the woman who should have been here with me.
She spots Marcy and Lori and then tracks to the diamond sparkling on my finger before I can hide it. But I can’t hide the dresses hanging neatly in the black bags that clash against the white dress I chose to wear for the occasion despite it being after Labor Day. When words evade me, she says, “Sosie, it’s good to see you again.”
I’m too quiet, making myself uncomfortable. I straighten my spine and steady my voice. This shouldn’t be that difficult. We’re not starting from scratch. The conversation at the hospital was nice, but do we start over like it never happened? “Hi. It’s good to see you, too. I’ve been thinking about you.”