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“On?”
He glances back. “Do I get my own bowl of ice cream?”
I let out a mock gasp. “Is it possible? Have I found your junk food weakness?”
He winks, then sits on my couch, not slouching, because this is Andrew we’re talking about.
But the moment is so casual, so natural, so perfect…
I feel the breath knocked out of me, because there’s no more denying it, no more denying my heart.
This is it for me.
This is what I want, not just for as long as I can have it, but for always.
Georgie
SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH TIME
It’s official: I’m getting the hang of this relationship thing, and, um, I’m sort of good at it.
Andrew and I’ve somehow achieved the holy grail of getting our fix of each other without losing our prior lives. He still works like a maniac, exercises like Superman. I still have long lunches with Marley and the girls when it suits me. We’ve even taken another step forward in merging our worlds. There was his work party on Thursday, and then last night he came out to dinner with my friends.
He headed home before we went dancing, because…baby steps.
Still, I’m all but skipping as I drop my purse on the entryway table of my parents’ place, humming to myself.
Andrew opted to head for the gym instead of joining me. Something about being behind on workouts, as I was keeping him up all night. I didn’t apologize.
But I’m pretty sure it’ll only be a matter of time until I can coax him into the meet-the-parents phase.
I mean, three workaholics in the same room? They’d all be fast friends. I’m the one who should be worried. Although, on that note, I’ve kind of been considering asking my dad for a job.
I know. I know. You’re like, What? But as much as I love my life, really truly love it, this little part of me has accepted that I’m a tiny bit bored. There are only so many fundraisers, and it’s been bugging me lately that they seem more like a social status thing rather than caring about the actual cause.
I want something I can sink my teeth into.
For now, though, I want a mimosa and to sink my teeth into some bacon, and…
Thoughts of food and champagne scatter when I walk into the dining room as I have a million times before, only the scene is different.
Dad isn’t in his chair at one end of the table. Mom’s not in her chair at the other end of the table, phone glued to her ear.
Both parents are seated beside each other, their hands folded, their expressions frozen.
In other words? The type of scene nightmares are built on.
I’ve seen it once before: when they told me Grandma Georgie had passed.
So whatever they have to tell me now is not gonna be good news.
I feel a little jittery as I slowly sink into my usual chair, opposite both of them.
My eyes flick between the two of them, trying to get some inkling of the news before the bomb drops. Is one of them sick?
Of the two of them, my dad looks worse. He’s pale, and there’s no trace of his usual easy smile. My mom merely looks tense, but then, she’s always had a damn good poker face.
No clues on either side.
