Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Joseph snickered, added too much sweetener to his coffee, and lifted his mug. “This sounds like a telenovela. Have you been watching Jane the Virgin again?”
“I wish this were a show. A show wouldn’t leave my stomach in knots.”
He arched an eyebrow. “This really happened?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Wow,” he breathed out. “I feel as if you’ve been spiraling over this for a while now.”
“A little over fiftysome hours.”
“And where are you landing on your decision to engage?”
I bit my bottom lip. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking the older, wiser man in the coffee room.”
Joseph laughed. “Age has nothing to do with wisdom.”
“Yes, but you seem to be full of both.”
He narrowed his eyes, glanced at his watch, and then said, “I have thirty minutes before my first client. What happened?”
I told him the story. The whole story about Gabriel and me and our past together. I told him about the good days and the worst nights. He listened to me intently, not breaking his stare. His attention to every word always made me feel safe around him. I was certain that was how all his clients felt, too.
“I see.” He brushed his palm against his chin. “Now I ask you, are you looking for a friendship response or a therapist response?”
“Friendship,” I said. “I know what you charge per hour, and you’re out of my budget,” I half-joked.
“Well, as a friend, I say this… My advice doesn’t matter.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What? Why not?”
“Because it’s not my life, and I haven’t lived through the string of struggles and joys attached to your situation. Therefore, my input would be from a place that lacks the emotional depth and understanding that your heart needs to make this decision. You could ask a million people what their advice would be, and their words wouldn’t matter because it’s your situation, not theirs.”
I sighed. “That is therapist advice. Good advice, but therapist.”
He shrugged. “My friendship and therapist advice intertwine at times.”
I scrunched my nose and grumbled before slapping my hand against my face. “Okay, but if you were just to humor me with your thoughts on what you would do in the fictional world where you were walking in my shoes?”
“First, I have a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you miss your friendship with him?”
“It was ages ago.”
“Time doesn’t determine whether a friendship can be missed.”
I nodded. “I do miss the friendship.”
“And if you didn’t connect with him, would you regret it?”
“I think so, yes. For the rest of my life.”
“Then, if I were in your shoes…” He paused and sipped his coffee. “I’d be saying hello again to my old best friend.”
A wave of chills raced over me as the words left his mouth, because that was exactly what I thought, too. I thought if I didn’t take the chance to connect with Gabriel and see if he really didn’t recall everything that went down between us, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. Because if I had the chance to see him, to see the old version of him that I’d missed for so long, I’d take it.
“Thanks, Joseph,” I said, hopping off the countertop.
“Mm-hmm, but you know what I’d also do?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“I’d tell my husband all about the situation and make sure you both were on the same page.”
I grumbled. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
Good advice—I just wasn’t certain I was ready to talk to Henry about it.
During my lunch break, just to make sure I had all sides covered, I called my best friend, Rosie, to update her on the situation. Getting her point of view would be very helpful, since she’d known both Gabriel and me since high school. Plus, Rosie seemed to live in a state of delusion that I sometimes needed instead of Joseph’s realistic mind.
Rosie and I met at a restaurant between both of our jobs. Unlike Joseph’s, Rosie’s reaction was a bit more animated.
“Oh my gosh, you’re kidding me!” she gasped as I sat across from her in our booth. She slammed her hands down on the wooden table and her blue eyes all but bugged out of her head. Her strawberry-blond hair danced across her shoulder blades as she remained in complete and utter shock.
She’d changed her hair since I’d last seen her. Which was only last Tuesday. We’d been meeting up each week for the past two months to plan her upcoming wedding to her fiancé, Wesley—the one individual who made my fiercely independent friend who didn’t believe in relationships believe in love and marriage.
The older Rosie grew, the more she looked like her mother, a very beautiful Asian woman who had straight black hair. Ever since Rosie had been a kid, she’d liked to dye her hair to look less like her parents. It drove them wild.
“Like, your Gabriel?” she questioned.