Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Cynthia nods.
Everyone does, actually.
My shoulders fall in relief. A tear wells in my eyes. I don't know why I'm crying. I'm only talking about abstract ideas of marriage. Not why mine failed. Not if I can ever be happy again.
Romeo reaches out and squeezes my hand. And this time, I give in completely, falling into him, wrapping my arms around him.
One perfect moment.
And then Amara's question reminds me exactly what game we're playing here.
"Take this one upstairs," she says. "What's something you haven't told your partner that you feel you should?"
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivy
Here's the thing. You know how I mentioned I'm going to tell my friends about this, and you said "go for it?"
Well, that was true. It was just more true than you realize.
I'm going to tell a few hundred thousand strangers on the internet about it. And, hopefully, a few hundred thousand more. If things go well, maybe an extra million.
It's technically within the realm of our agreement, but we didn't exactly specify this part…
I smooth my slacks as I settle onto the bed. We're in Romeo's bedroom today. Only it doesn't seem like the bedroom of a teenage boy. More like a room an older woman would design for a young man.
A thick oak desk, a leather chair, wine-red sheets, dark paint on the wall. I can't tell the exact color in the dim lighting. A sort of purple, maybe. Or a burgundy that matches the sheets.
"Did you decorate this room?" I ask.
Romeo falls into the big leather chair like he's auditioning for the role of an all-powerful billionaire in a cheesy movie. "You mean this East coast old money aesthetic?" He shakes his head. "No. This was the way my great-aunt did it. As a guest room. She married into money. And then she died suddenly, and we inherited the place, and we never changed it, I guess."
"What about Daniel? Is his room the same?"
"It's a little softer. More artistic," he says. "Mom added some paintings."
"But still leather and oak?"
He nods yes.
"How old were you when you moved here?" I ask.
"He was fifteen," he says. "I was thirteen."
"Was it strange, having all that money, all of a sudden?"
"We didn't have as much as you'd think," he says. "Once we paid off the mortgage and put aside enough for school and property taxes, we had the house and that was it. But it was still strange. Like I was visiting a world I'd only dreamed about."
He looks to the door as footsteps move down the hall. Cynthia and Daniel, from the sound of it. They're moving fast but not in a rushed, frantic way.
They seem more at ease right now.
Or maybe I don't have a good gauge on this at all.
"We don't have to play Mom's game," Romeo says. "But we can. If you want."
"Do you have something to confess?" There's a playfulness to my voice. I don't expect it. I suppose it's easier, letting my tone get flirty, rather than consider the actual implications of the question.
"It's a hard question to answer, isn't it? Is there something I should tell you that I haven't? It's the sort of thing you could answer, but only after I told you."
"Like a paradox?" I ask.
He nods.
"Or maybe that means you're not hiding anything."
"Or I'm too used to hiding things."
"It would make sense. Given the nature of your work."
He chuckles. "Go on, Doctor Vaughn."
"Sorry. Bad habit." I press my hands together. Shift my weight on the bed. We're across from each other, but that almost feels more intimate. Like we're teenagers hanging out at our parents' house, like we're used to sharing things casually.
I can say this.
It's not a big deal.
Really, I should be honest.
I take a deep breath and let out a steady exhale. "I should tell you something. Probably."
"Oh." He raises a brow and motions for me to go on.
"I am telling people about you," I say. Strangers, who listen to my podcast. No. I can't share that with his family so close. If they don't like my divorce, what will they think of that? "Colleagues. I'm talking about this experience we're having. I'm not expressing it as, I, Doctor Vaughn, hired this professional, but I am talking about it, and a lot of people are hearing about it, and I guess I just… wanted to make sure that's okay."
He doesn't hesitate for a minute. "Go for it."
"What if your family finds out?" I ask.
"From your colleagues?"
Or a listener, who puts the pieces together. "You never know," I say.
"Do you use my name?" he asks.
"No," I say.
"Any identifying details?"
"Only the exact spots of your birthmarks." I bite my tongue. I shouldn't be sarcastic. I should be honest. Say no. "I haven’t. I won't."
"Then go for it. As long as I can see the results."
"You mean when I write that book about you," I say.