Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I’m interested. How did you get the job in the first place?”
I sit back, trying to remember how it all began. It feels like forever ago. “I was an undergrad. I was thinking about teaching, or even going to law school. Then I went with Jed to the job and internship fair on campus. I think I just got caught up in it. He said if we both got good jobs right out of college, we could move to the city. I loved Sarah Lawrence, but it felt too much like home. I wanted to get away. New York City was new and so far removed from Madison County . . . I thought maybe I’d forget about my mom. No, not my mom—just my grief, I guess. I wanted to put it behind me finally.”
The server takes our plates. Ben’s silence suggests he wants me to go on.
“I applied for a few internships, a couple of jobs, and the bank said yes.”
“They chose you.”
I shrug.
“But you could have said no if you wanted to teach,” he adds.
“It was a great opportunity,” I say. That’s what my guidance counselor at the time had said. “The entry-level salary was more than I’d have gotten teaching, even after years in the classroom. Jed got a great offer from a big law firm, and he was so excited we’d both be starting work and earning a good salary. It made sense.”
“Were you excited?” he asks.
I twirl the stem of my wineglass. “Is anyone excited about starting work? Why do you want to know all this stuff anyway?”
“You like to please people,” he says like it’s the explanation I’ve been looking for. Except that’s hardly a revelation to me. But does it make me so different?
“Everyone likes to please people.” It comes out a little more defensive than I intend. I like people I’m with to be happy. I’ve seen too much sadness. If I can help turn the dial up on their joy, why wouldn’t I do that?
“Maybe,” he replies. “To some extent. But do you ever decide what you want, or do you get bundled along with everyone else’s decisions?”
His question is harsh, but I know he’s not trying to hurt me.
“I said no to you the first time you asked me to be your fiancée.”
He nods. “You did.” He smiles, and it’s so warm and genuine, it confirms my instinct that this line of inquiry comes from a place of caring and kindness. “When a perfect stranger asked you to go away with him for a weekend, you said no.”
“Why do you care that I don’t have the job I thought I wanted out of college?”
He nods, considering his response. “It’s a good question. And I’m sorry, I’m not meaning to cause offense.”
I bite my cheek at his apology. It’s unexpected and it gives him a vulnerability that makes me ache.
“You’re a beautiful, clever, funny woman with a strange name, Tuesday.” His gaze meets mine. I feel like he wants me to say something, but I’m not sure what. “I just want you to be happy. I want you to choose something, someone, who’ll make you happy. I’ve . . . enjoyed our time together.”
I swallow, finding it difficult to listen to him describe me, and even more difficult to hear about him describing someone else in my future who will make me happy.
“I’ve enjoyed our time together too,” I say, hoping I’ve found the right words.
He nods as if he’s disappointed, but I’m not quite sure why. My heart rate picks up, like I’m nearing the end of an exam and there’s no way I’m going to get to the final questions. I want to slow down tonight, take him back to my room. Make the next eight hours last a month. Draw out these final moments together.
“When do you go back to the US?” he asks.
I blink, trying to hit “Reset” inside me so I can figure out what day I’m on. “A week. Your health check is on Monday. That’s the last thing I have to finish before Mr. Jenkins makes his decision.”
“His decision about whether or not you have a job at the bank.”
I frown. “Yes. That’s what this whole trip to London has been about. You know that.” Is he talking in code? I’m clearly missing something. I sigh. “I feel like you want to say something but you’re not saying it.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “I have lots of conflicting thoughts in my head right now, and I’m trying to work through them.”
“Why don’t you, you know, say them? Then I can help you sort through them.”
He holds my gaze for a second, then two. “I don’t want to . . . influence you.”
“Influence me how? I feel like you’re building up to tell me something and it’s making you nervous.”