Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Jillian hurries around to the front of the desk, and the three of us crowd together as Lily flips through the pages of me with pussycats and puppies. Jillian’s hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and I curl my fingers into fists to refrain from touching it. With her this close to me, it’s a five-star feat of resistance that I somehow don’t bend my nose closer to sneak a whiff of her shampoo.
As we flick through the pictures shot in Miami, Jillian’s breath catches, and one syllable seems to escape in a faintly sultry, “Oh.”
Lily cocks her head, her eyebrow arched in question.
A splash of pink races across Jillian’s cheeks. “Oh, these are so fantastic,” she says, her tone as cheery as can be.
Lily taps the November photo. “Yes! Fantastic! These are my favorites. You look so happy, so relaxed.”
I chime in, speaking the full truth. “I was very happy.”
Jillian’s eyes flutter closed for a brief second. “They’re all great.”
When we reach the December shot, Lily shuts the calendar. “I want to have a little party in a few weeks to celebrate. Maybe a fun little photo op at a local restaurant. What do you say, Jillian?”
Jillian nods, her tone crisp and cool. “Yes, that sounds like a great idea.”
Lily leaves and Jillian turns to me, her shoulders sagging, letting out a deep exhalation. “I felt like I was caught stealing.”
“But you weren’t,” I say under my breath.
“I know, but it felt like we were close. And I don’t know how much longer I can pull this off.”
I can’t argue with that.
28
JILLIAN
It’s official. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet in my office from pacing from the window to my desk. It’s a five-foot-long stretch, and the effort is all the more amazing considering it only took a day.
For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve mastered the art of pacing, along with stressing, along with worrying. I’ve also considered entering myself in a lip-synching contest because I’ve spent so much time mouthing words silently as I pace. For instance, consider these potential winners.
“Lily, I need to tell you something wild…”
“Well, it’s kind of a funny story . . .”
Ugh.
I sigh so deeply, the sound of my frustration burrows underground. But I meant it when I told Jones I’m not sure how much longer I can pull this off. How many secret dates, stolen moments, or hallway encounters can my nerves sustain?
Or my conscience, for that matter.
That’s the bigger issue, and in the last several hours it’s been an insistent drumbeat, telling me to do something, say something.
I don’t know if Jones and I will ever amount to anything, but I admire Lily. I respect Lily, and I don’t want to keep lying to her.
I want to find a way to come clean, no matter what awaits with him—if anything—on the other side.
I sink down in my desk chair, swiveling to the window and the view of the San Francisco skyline, the cresting hills of Pacific Heights, the choppy dark blue water of the bay, and the brilliant rust-colored bridge that majestically spans the seas.
I’m lucky to have this view.
I’m lucky to have this job.
I’m lucky to have this wonderful life.
Am I going to risk it all for a guy?
How could a man be worth it? Is it even possible that this feeling in my chest—this sense of champagne and wonder when he’s nearby—is worth gambling what I’ve worked so hard for?
My throat catches, and I swallow down another lump as I reach for a framed photo on my desk—a picture of my mom and dad lifting wineglasses at the camera as they shot a selfie in Florence for me.
They went to Italy a few months before her heart attack, rode bikes across Tuscany, visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When they learned of my very first promotion with the Renegades while traveling, they shot this photo for me. Running my thumb over the glass frame, I want to ask my mom what to do.
I wish I knew what she’d say. She was so wise, so smart, so balanced.
I could ask my dad for his opinion. But I’m afraid I know what his answer would be. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a softie.
In the end, I need to make my own choice. My stomach hurts, like a stone lives inside me, wriggling around, painfully pressing against my ribs.
You make your own luck.
I’ve always loved the idea of luck.
But luck is capricious. Luck does what luck wants. Luck knows no consequences. And luck can turn south in the blink of an eye.
Luck can bring on a heart attack unexpectedly. Luck, or more specifically, bad luck, can upend a perfectly normal life and a happy marriage, leaving one party missing his other half, his soul mate. I tear my gaze away from the photo before my eyes turn too watery.