Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
On her left ring finger.
A rock the size of a jumbo crayon tip.
It’s an engagement ring. Vince is engaged.
And my next diary entry just got a hell of a lot more depressing.
Chapter 3
Ian Fox
* * *
A man who’s confused about his wonderful life,
and why it isn’t making him feel so wonderful anymore…
* * *
She’s a grown woman.
Like she said, she’s almost twenty-four and absolutely old enough to make her own choices and deal with the consequences.
I know this. But it still takes every ounce of my willpower to keep from crossing the garden and encouraging Evie to slow her roll. She’s had at least three old-fashioneds in the past hour and shows no signs of stopping.
“Don’t you think, babe?” Whitney asks, squeezing my thigh under the table.
I flinch and pull away, making her full lips turn down at the edges. “Sorry,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “Just a little jumpy.”
“A little distracted, too,” she says. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Sure,” I lie, scrambling to recall what we were talking about before I zoned out on Evie pounding whiskey. When I can’t, I decide it’s best to change the subject. “I’m just worried about Evie. I’m not sure she realizes an old-fashioned is pretty much all hard alcohol.”
Whitney sighs. “Yeah, well, she’ll figure it out. We’ve all had hangovers in our early twenties. We’re still alive.”
“Right.” I chew my bottom lip for a beat before I add, “But she probably only weighs like…a hundred pounds. And she’s not eating any of the flatbread they ordered.”
“Oh my God,” Whitney mutters. “Stalker much? What’s with you and that girl? It’s like you’re obsessed with her. Should I be worried?”
I rip my gaze from Evie, a frown clawing at my forehead. “What? Of course not. She’s my best friend’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was a tiny little kid. I just care about her, that’s all. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“Must be nice.” Whitney crosses her arms and sits back in her chair, clearly winding up for a prolonged pout. “Seems like you’re just fine with the rest of us getting hurt.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I’m so tired of having this same argument with her, over and over again. Honestly, I’m so tired of most of our relationship.
Things haven’t been good since last Christmas, when Whitney didn’t get the engagement ring she was apparently expecting she’d find under the tree. Ever since, she’s acted like there’s something wrong with me, with us, because we missed some benchmark I’m not sure I ever want to reach.
My parents have an incredible marriage, but they’re abnormally sweet, laid-back, optimistic people—which I assume is the only way they were able to stay sane while raising eight children—and they’re the exception when it comes to happily ever after, not the rule. Most of my friends’ parents are divorced and the ones who aren’t don’t seem very happy about being together.
As far as I can tell, the institution of marriage isn’t in a healthy place right now, and I’m already trapped in one unhealthy institution with a team that refuses to act like one, so I’m in no hurry to join another.
“I’m not fine with you getting hurt,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “Of course, I’m not. I’m not trying to hurt you, Whitney. I’m just not ready to get married. It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I just need time to decide if that’s something I want for my future.”
“And while you’re doing that, what am I supposed to do? Sit around with my fingers crossed hoping you’ll finally decide that I’m good enough for you?” Her lips pucker into a cat anus of irritation.
Whitney is a gorgeous woman, but that face is the worst.
But how to ask your significant other to stop making cat-ass shapes with their lips? That’s not something I know how to do any more than I know how to stop having this same fight every seven to ten days like clockwork.
“This has nothing to do with you being good enough for me,” I say for at least the dozenth time. “If anything, I…” I trail off as a sharp clatter and several sharp gasps sound from Evie’s corner of the beer garden.
I look over to see Evie on the ground with her wrought iron chair on top of her and mutter a curse beneath my breath.
“I’m fine, nothing to see here,” Evie calls out, flashing a thumbs-up as her friend Cameron lifts the chair. A beat later Jess and Harlow are on either side of her, helping her to her feet, but she winces in pain and quickly lifts her weight off her right foot.
She’s hurt.
That’s all I need to see to get me out of my chair.