Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
What I’d felt before her birth, my insecurities, self-loathing, and hurt—they weren’t cured by those days. But the sense of perspective I felt when we were allowed to take her home certainly helped. Everything else seemed so unimportant, so inconsequential, after I’d bargained with God and offered my life for hers. I’d do that again in a heartbeat—and it was that love that made me set my baggage down.
Have I forgiven myself for my part in my mother’s death? Not entirely. But I have reached the point where I recognize I might’ve been the knife, but I wasn’t the hand.
I look forward now, not back, trusting that life is made in the living of it, through both the good and the bad. And that love is made in the doing of it. And if Matt’s love has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t love someone for their perfection. You love them in spite of everything they’re not.
It’s a lesson that’s been hard to learn, and I guess I’m still learning it. There are moments when old patterns creep back in. Sometimes when we argue—and we do argue, because we’re not perfect—I can feel myself closing off. Drawing away. But then I remember it’s just a moment. An experience. It doesn’t mean it’s the end of us. That I have to go it alone.
And when he tells me he loves me, I remind myself I’m worth his love.
“You gonna read that or what?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” I glance down at Letty’s phone. And the online edition of a newspaper? A gossip column, judging from the byline.
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
Gather round, little cluckers. Let us bow our heads and reflect.
Stop all texts and close down email,
Silence the notifications on your phone.
Our time, our opportunities, have passed.
Bring out the mourners, for he is gone . . .
From the market, at least.
“What the . . .” I glance up. Letty is smiling a real smile now. “What is this? Reads like really bad funeral poetry. Who died?”
“Read the rest.” She puts her fingers to her mouth as though to suppress the chuckle that makes the flowers in her hair tremble anyway. “It’s hilarious, I promise.”
So eyes down, I scroll.
It’s a sad day indeed for London’s single gals, as the last of the Maven Inc. bachelors is no more.
“No more . . .” I murmur, lifting my head to scan the crowd below.
“Don’t worry—they’re all there. Present and accounted for.” Letty sounds so amused right now. “None of them have fallen off the terrace and suffered a terrible death on the rocks below. At least, I haven’t pushed them,” she adds, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Let’s try to keep it that way. I’d like to keep your brother around for the next fifty years or so.” A subtle thrill shimmers through me.
“Read the rest,” Letty demands.
So I glance back and read a little more.
The dark-haired and mysterious Matías Romero is to be married this morning, so we’ve heard.
“What in tarnation?” I say unironically as I hand back her phone. “Is this for real?”
“I knew he wouldn’t have mentioned it! I’d like to say he’s a dark horse, but personally, I think he’s more like a donkey.”
“Flattering!” I laugh a little. I mean, he does have that ass.
“There’s no accounting for taste, no offense,” she adds with a grin. “But the thirsty ladies of London are really into him. You should read some of the comments—they’re a hoot!”
“He has a fan club?”
“Yeah, but he’s last on the list of three. Which, to my mind, makes him the equivalent of the weird-looking, slightly bruised melon left in the produce aisle.”
“Not nice, Letty,” I playfully chastise. This family’s love language is torturing each other. And I am here for it!
“Weird how they think he’s a catch.”
I’ve opened my mouth to respond—to defend my man’s honor—when the sound of his voice makes us both turn.
“I am a catch.”
I get a little excited hitch in my chest when our eyes meet. Hello there, handsome.
He stands, framed by the terrace doors, so suave in his wedding suit of pale, lightweight linen. A matching vest skims his trim waist, and his white shirt is open at the neck, his face tan and his hair a little long. The perfect length for fastening my fingers in.
His boutonniere is in honor of our daughter. Maeve, the queen of roses. And in his hand, he’s holding . . . a folded newspaper?
“You, a catch?” Letty’s dismissive snort breaks the spell between us. For some reason, she mimes reeling in an invisible fishing rod. “Like an auld boot when you’re expecting a rainbow trout.”
“I feel like I’m missing something,” he says, sounding mildly confused.
“I was just showing Ryan your fan club news. We haven’t gotten to the comments yet.”
“What?”
“That stupid column—the one that’s been chasing you Maven boys.”