Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“It was a long time ago.” His gaze focuses on the salt and pepper pots on the table between us.
“But still that must have been difficult for you.”
“It was. She was…the best. And so beautiful and vivacious and also incredibly sad.” His entire body droops as he talks about her and I wish there was something I can do. “I was ten when she took her life.”
I hold my breath, desperate not to make a sound when what he’s just said might be one of the most shocking things I’ve ever heard.
“When I became a father, her death hit me again like a wrecking ball,” he says. “How could someone so young, with so much out in front of them get to a point of such hopelessness that they don’t want to exist anymore?”
He glances up to meet my eyes.
“Deacon,” I say.
He shakes his head, like he doesn’t want me to say anything. I reach for his hand, but he slides them under the table. A waiter interrupts us to top up our wine.
I hope he doesn’t regret telling me. I wish I could say something that would make him feel better about sharing. Does he think he’s shared too much? Is it too painful?
“Life’s tough,” he says.
“For some more than others,” I say.
“How’s the new job?” he asks, clearly wanting to change the subject, but I don’t want to talk about work when he’s shared what he has.
But I can tell from the lines across his forehead and the pain in his eyes that telling me about his sister has almost been too much. He needs the conversation to move on.
“It’s great really. It’s been easier to adjust than I expected. Has New York been home to you long?” I ask. I wonder if anywhere other than Woolton would really feel like home to me. I can’t imagine feeling like New York was home.
He pulls in a breath, his jaw softens, and it’s as if a layer of sadness has been wiped away. “I’m not sure. I live here, so I suppose that makes it home.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought that he’s not sure where his home is. But maybe it’s not funny. Maybe it’s sad. Or maybe it’s not sad, and it’s actually quite freeing to think that anywhere you live is home.
Somewhere in the back of my head is a voice that tells me that tonight, this dinner, with this man, is important. Life-changing even. That it will have me seeing the world in a slightly different way for the rest of my life.
“How old are you?” I ask, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Thirty-two? How long have you lived in New York?”
“I’m thirty-seven. I just take excellent care of my skin, so I look thirty-two.” He grins.
“I need details on your moisturizing regime,” I say. “I’m thirty-six.” I don’t know why I offer the information, but it feels like another secret. Thirty-six and single. I don’t have a daughter to go home to and I don’t think I ever will.
He doesn’t say I don’t look it, but I’m not offended. How could I be? He’s already told me he’s attracted to me.
“I’ve been in New York fifteen years.”
“Where are your family, your parents?” I ask.
“My parents are back in the UK. In Oxfordshire. They’re retired.”
“Are you close?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
Maybe that’s why I feel like I could never permanently leave Woolton. I have so many deep ties there. I guess that’s what home is—the place where your connections are deepest. But the idea that I might have a home outside of that place…that New York could be my home…well, the idea feels like a sprouting seed in my brain.
Before I know it, we’ve finished our food and our wine and our waitress comes over and asks us if there’s anything else we want.
There isn’t, but I’m not sure if I want the evening to be over. No, I am sure—I don’t want it to be over.
Deacon doesn’t make a move to leave. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. Maybe he can see I’m an open book.
I shift in my seat, thinking I should be the first to leave. But Deacon slides his leg between mine and I freeze. It’s just the graze of his suit-covered leg, but it feels like he’s claimed me in that moment.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“A thousand things,” I answer. My brain is such a jumble of thoughts, I don’t know what to pull out and tell him.
“Tell me one.”
My cheeks heat as I start to wonder how bold, how brazen I should be.
“Say it,” he says, his voice thick and deep.
“I’m pleased I got stood up tonight.”
He nods. “Careful. You might start to enjoy New York.”
I hadn’t told him I wasn’t enjoying it. Can he see that in me? Does he see how conflicted I am about being an ocean away from everything I know?