Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I watch Kat striding away through the panes of glass in the doors, feeling like I’ve just been kicked in the balls with a steel boot. When she’s gone, I swallow hard and shake my head, the full enormity of the situation descending upon me.
I’ve got quite the track record with the ladies, don’t I? I told Emma I loved her and she said, “Me, too” and promptly ran off with Ascot Man on a polo pony. And now, a year later, I’ve asked the mother of my impending child to pretty-please marry me, and Kat basically flipped me the bird and told me she wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man on earth. Talk about winning in The Game of Life. Yahtzee.
I swallow hard again. Fuck this shit. I’m done begging a woman to love me, even if that woman’s a unicorn and the most incredible woman I’ve ever been with. And most of all I’m done handing Katherine Ulla Fucking Morgan my motherfucking dick and balls in a motherfucking Ziploc baggie and letting her throw them into a fucking meat grinder at her bitchy little whim. Clearly, she’s always gotten everything she’s ever wanted from every other motherfucking man she’s ever run across, but not anymore. I’m done.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, leaving a surprising streak of wetness on the fabric. And then I flip off the swinging doors with both hands, turn the fuck around, and march out of the hospital without looking the fuck back.
Eleven
Kat
“Do you wanna wait for your friend before being seated or go to your table now?” the restaurant hostess asks me.
“I think I’ll be seated now. My friend texted she’s running a bit late.”
“Of course.” The woman picks up two menus. “Right this way.”
She leads me to a small table in the back and I immediately set down the thick stack of bridal magazines in my arms. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“Ginger ale? Extra ice, please,” I ask, taking a chair. I pull a Saltine from a baggie in my purse and take a little nibble. Gah. This round-the-clock nausea is getting really old.
A busboy brings a ginger ale to the table along with a basket of bread, and I take a greedy bite of a roll, hoping it’ll calm my churning stomach.
My phone buzzes and I glance down, expecting to see a text from Sarah.
“Hello, Stubborn Kat,” Josh writes.
My heart instantly leaps at the sight of Josh’s name displayed on my screen, just like it always does—but then I remember the current iciness between us, and my heart pangs with an overwhelming sense of hurt and regret. Why’d Josh have to look like his balls were being fed through a wood-chipper when he asked me to marry him at the hospital a week ago? And why’d he have to act like such a spoiled, rich-boy-prick, too? If only he’d looked even the teensiest bit like he actually wanted me to be his wife, if only he’d flashed a fraction of his usual down-to-earth, irresistible charm, I surely would have thrown my arms around his neck and screamed, “Yes!” despite myself.
“Hello, Mr. Darcy,” I reply to Josh’s text.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Google it,” I write.
“I did. He’s the guy from Pride and Prejudice. But since I haven’t seen that movie (a fact I’ve already mentioned to you, by the way—thanks so much for listening intently to everything I say), I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jeez, I guess being fed a weeklong diet of cold-shoulder by your pregnant girlfriend (or am I his pregnant ex-girlfriend?) is enough to make a guy a big ol’ grouch.
“Well, Mr. Grouchy Pants,” I type, “I’d never dream of spoiling Pride and Prejudice for you by explaining why I keep calling you that name. You’ll just have to watch it and find out.”
“Go ahead and spoil it,” Josh replies. “I’m positive I’ll NEVER see that movie.”
“Never say never,” I write.
“NEVER. Because I don’t have a VAGINA.”
“You never know.”
“I KNOW.”
“So is that why you’ve texted me (in all caps, no less)? To argue about whether you’re ever gonna watch Pride and Prejudice?”
“No. Sorry. That just slipped out. I’m texting to ask how Colby’s doing and also to find out if you’re feeling a bit better today?”
These are the same two questions Josh has politely asked me via text every single day this week. And in return, I’ve politely responded to him (via text) each and every time, as smoothly and impersonally as Elizabeth Bennett (the well-mannered heroine of Pride and Prejudice) would do, assuming she’d lived in the age of smartphones.
I’ll admit it’s taken quite a bit of willpower on my part not to instigate contact with Josh at all this week. So many times, I’ve wanted to call him and scream into the phone, “Even if you’re an arrogant prick, I still love you! Ask me again!” But I’ve somehow managed to maintain full control and stuff down the raging, clanging, almost desperate swell of emotion I’ve felt nearly every moment since I marched away from Josh at the hospital.