Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“We’re two different people. It’s not hard to understand.” I steel my voice. “Not everyone’s compatible. If they figure that out upfront, it saves a lot of grief.”
“Uh-huh. Is that according to you or to her?” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “You can’t just make grand declarations with love, Holden. It’s not something you control.”
“Love? Come on. We talked. She told me what she wanted, and I can’t work with it any more than she can meld into our lives. I have to put Kit first. She needs stability, not any fickle, emotional crap. Hell, we both do. Cleo’s a young woman. She’s figuring out who she is, finding her future. She wants to see the world, go to art shows and big retreats. That’s fine, but it means the writing’s on the wall.”
Mom cocks her head. “Oh, honey. Do you really like her that much?”
“How many times do I— Mom, it’s not like that.” I shake my head furiously.
“Well, this trip seems like the perfect chance to talk it over. I mean really talk to her. Nothing ever looks perfect on paper, you know. Love thrives on compromise, and for the right one, you’ll find a way.”
“I’ll stay single, and I’ll be happy. There’s nothing to sort out.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. But if you ignore your feelings, you’ll regret it. Lord knows you don’t need more of that.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I snarl bitterly.
I inhale roughly, telling myself she’s just being her pushy, loving self.
My folks are old hats at this. They’ve been together so long that ironing out their differences is basically just instinct.
Nothing like a brand-new relationship with a woman who’s farther apart than the Earth and the Moon.
I won’t ask Clee to sacrifice her dreams for me, and I won’t risk Kit’s structure.
What I want shouldn’t be a factor.
Not even if it’s a cinnamon-haired fairy with a white stripe who was named after Egyptian royalty.
Stay strong. No more second-guessing.
If I give in, if I let myself get jerked around, this will just hurt everyone more.
Mom’s right, love damn sure isn’t orderly.
And she’s right about regrets.
Whatever happens, I’m going to regret the hell out of this awkward time of my life, when I met the wrong girl at the right time, and I couldn’t take the gamble.
23
BIG PAYDAY (CLEO)
Can it just be over?
I don’t know how I held back the tears when I gave Kit the textured project we’ve been working on. A thank-you wrapped in a guilt trip, I guess.
Missed rent money—but so what? I couldn’t imagine selling it off to a faceless buyer who’d never grasp the true meaning. They wouldn’t treasure it the way it deserves.
Kit will.
I also couldn’t imagine hanging on to it and staring at it until my eyes bleed. Remembering everything that happened in an old house in Portland during the biggest, happiest accident of my life.
Holden. Kit.
The way we felt like a family.
Even if it’s basically a tombstone for my feelings now, it belongs with them. I’d rather have Kit and her emotional wall of a father staring at that scene, remembering our time.
Now I’m on the charter jet to NYC, and with Kit gone, there are fewer reasons to hide the distance. It’s written in the silence between us.
Holden sits up front with the pilot, and I’m in the back. The rest of the plane yawns between us like a luxurious white prison.
The fireproof briefcase with the egg sits at my feet, safely locked up.
Holden didn’t even fuss when I insisted on carrying the secured suitcase one last time. After all, what could happen on the plane?
I pick up the briefcase and pull it on my lap, opening it with a press of my finger to the sensor. A green light flashes and the lock clicks.
I push the top open and stare inside with a sigh.
How can something so beautiful be so terrible?
The jeweled egg sits inside the velvet interior like an armed bomb. Glinting diamonds, layered white spiraling through deep sky blue and gold accents. It reminds me of kintsugi, the Japanese art of fixing broken items with gold. Their imperfections only make them more beautiful.
The thought makes my throat close bitterly.
Hesitantly, I trail my fingers along the smooth, textured surface.
I know I shouldn’t touch it, but eh.
This feels like the only time I’ll ever touch it before it’s behind glass for good.
Of course, I can visit the museum anytime, even during off hours for my own VIP visit. I don’t know if I ever will.
It might be the most stunning treasure I’ll ever see, but there’s a harsh gravity only I can sense.
A heaviness that runs straight to my heart. Bad energy and worse vibes.
I wonder if PopPop’s feelings with this object were ever half this complicated.
Sighing, I jerk my hand back, then slide the briefcase back on the floor. Holden watches me from his perch at the front of the plane.