Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
And most don’t want to learn to care. Caring would be too much effort. It would mess up the good thing they’ve got going, what with all the not caring and refusing to admit that it’s insane that news outlets are covering the “male loneliness epidemic” one hundred times more than the epidemic of men literally killing women. Murderous dudes are the leading cause of preventable death for women all over the world, but it’s super bad in the U.S.
A pregnant American is more likely to be murdered by her baby daddy than to die from pregnancy complications.
I mean, what the fuck?
People always say that people kill people, not guns. I get where they’re coming from with that, I guess. I mean, it seems logical on the surface. But easier access to guns is the simplest explanation for why men in the U.S. kill their partners so much more often than men from say…Uruguay or the Czech Republic, where domestic violence is also a leading killer of women.
If the guns aren’t the problem, I guess men in my home country are just bigger dickweasels than men in the rest of the world?
Which, after my last few dates…
And yes, there are some wonderful men out there, but they all seem to be in a serious relationship or gay. The straight male gems have all been snapped up by women smart enough to see the writing on the wall and lock those keepers down ASAP. Do not pass Go, do not let that one-in-a-million guy escape before you’ve bagged and tagged that sucker.
I, however, didn’t see the writing on the wall.
Hell, I didn’t see the “Your Man is a Dangerous Sociopath” neon sign flashing directly into my face. Despite my alleged intelligence—according to those standardized tests in school, anyway—I’m a fool. An idiot. A woman living in a broken world with a broken picker, who might always be alone.
I exhale a shuddery breath as the tears come faster.
I tell myself that being alone is fine. I tell myself that being alone can be fantastic. I remind myself of all the impressive, happy, well-adjusted women I know who are spending their lives alone. I assure myself that if they can do it, I can do it, too. I’m one of the lucky ones, after all, who has family and friends to fill my life with warmth and connection.
So many people don’t have that. So many great people, who have done nothing to deserve pain or isolation, but are getting a heaping helping of it anyway.
I am so lucky. So, so lucky.
So why does my heart feel like it’s being raked across a cheese grater? Why does the thought of never being held or kissed or told I’m someone’s favorite ever again make a piece of me want to shrivel up and die? Why does the sight of that couple holding hands as they hurry down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street—laughing and chatting, with eyes only for each other—make my throat close up so tight that, by the time they pass, I can barely breathe?
Seriously, I can barely breathe, and thanks to the tears pouring down my cheeks, I can also barely see.
Still, as I turn the corner onto a small side street, I know where I am immediately. My feet have taken me to the last place I should be right now. To the only single man who’s made me feel anything but annoyance, fear, or “ew” in so, so long.
To the only man in this city who’s completely off-limits…
Blue has made it clear in a hundred subtle, unspoken ways that he cares for me, but that friendship is as far as this goes. He’s my brother’s teammate, soon to be my brother’s captain, and dating a teammate’s family member is, apparently, against his code.
Or maybe he just thinks I’m a mess, and he isn’t looking for that kind of energy in his life.
He’s a very grounded, evolved man.
Probably too evolved for a woman who spent most of her twenties screaming into a microphone until midnight and sleeping until noon. A woman who wasted so much energy managing her toxic partner’s emotions and ignoring the red flags in her love life, that she’s only just now beginning to figure out who she truly is.
I don’t know who I am.
How can I know what I want in a man or anything else?
It’s a valid question, but it doesn’t stop me from climbing the steps to Blue’s back porch, to the door of his modest two-bedroom apartment. His home is adorable, historic, smells like old books, and is one of my favorite places on earth.
I always feel so peaceful here.
Whether we’re listening to records or hanging out with a glass of port after a show, I treasure every second in Blue’s inner sanctum. It isn’t just a home; it’s a haven from the chaos of the outside world, a place of tranquility that’s a perfect reflection of its owner.