Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Oh shit.
Despite Jasper’s fuckup being beneficial to me, because now Markie is mine, the story feels like I’m watching it in real time. And picturing this scene … I know where this is headed. And if Jasper were here, I’d rip his fucking head off for fun.
Drake nods, validating what I’m thinking. “Nettie asks her about the hat. She said it belonged to the guy she’d been seeing, and he'd left it there the night before. You get the picture. It all went downhill from there.”
I imagine it did. What a fucking prick.
It’s no wonder Markie’s wary of men. And it’s no surprise she’s distrustful after hearing that bullshit.
“Men have consistently disappointed me over the past … decade, if we’re being honest. Come to think of it, besides my dad and grandpa, I’m not sure a man has ever not disappointed me.”
My pulse quickens as I consider what else she’s gone through.
When I hold her, I love how she melts into me. It’s like she’s relieved, like she’s been carrying around heavy armor and can finally set it down. And I’ve also noticed that she seems to value the post-sex moments, when we’re just lying in bed or the bath, as much as the sex itself.
My girl likes to come, but she also likes to cuddle. She likes to be comforted even though I don’t think she’d ever ask for it.
Now that I think about things, knowing her history with Jasper, a lot more about Markie makes sense.
The way her body molds to mine, the way her breathing evens out against my chest? She feels safe in my arms.
She can finally breathe.
“Fuck that guy,” I say, pulling myself back to the conversation with Drake. “Hey, how’s your dad?” I need to move this conversation along. “Is he doing any better?”
“Yeah and no. It’s dementia, so there’s really no getting better.”
I frown, wondering if I shouldn’t have brought it up. But we used to talk about his dad a lot, so I feel like it’d be rude not to ask.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He sighs, frowning, too. “You know, that’s really just me being pissed about the whole situation and not necessarily true. He is on a few new medicines, and they’re helping some of his symptoms. His sundowning episodes have decreased, which is a huge help. Nighttime was when things were starting to get ugly, and Mom was really struggling, not sleeping—all that jazz.”
I recall Drake telling me about some of Ed’s episodes and how quickly he was deteriorating. We had a long talk about it one night over Pad Thai. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry. Hearing him talk about his idol not remembering who he was or any of the memories they shared together was fucking heartbreaking.
“My sister Elodie moved in with our parents,” he says. “I volunteered to move them in with Gianna and me, but Mom thought it was best to keep Dad in the house he knew. And that makes sense. Plus, it helped my sister out. Everybody won.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Lisa brings us plates and our pizzas, checks our drinks, then scoots off to answer the drive-thru window.
We sit quietly for a few minutes as we eat, and my mind drifts to Ed.
If there was ever a father I’d want to emulate, it’s Ed Bennett. The way Drake talks about him makes him out to be Superman. He was always there, supportive, and a source of advice for his son. Drake laughed once and said it was great growing up with a dad who knew everything, and he wasn’t sure how people made it with a father who didn’t. My own father wasn’t a walking source of knowledge, but he did teach me a lot in the eighteen years that we had together. I can only imagine what I could’ve learned from him if I’d had him as an adult.
One thing I always knew, without a doubt, was that he loved me unconditionally. It sounds like Markie knew that kind of love, too. Yet …
“Come to think of it, besides my dad and grandpa, I’m not sure a man has ever not disappointed me.”
Her words haunt me today, tugging at my heart and my head. I hate that she feels that way. I hate that it’s such a part of her existence that she can speak it freely, like it’s an accepted part of her life.
There’s nothing I can do to erase the shitty behavior of other men, but I can validate her feelings. She’s right to expect more from men, especially ones she allows into her life, and she should expect to be adored and treated like the Pickleball Princess she is. Even if I’m only her fake boyfriend and our fake relationship has a timer ticking away with an end in sight, I’ll be damned if I don’t demonstrate to this amazing woman how a real man would treat her.