Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I’m packed and ready to hit the beach. But I can’t deny that it might be more interesting to honeymoon with someone.
Since my track record of picking dates isn’t exactly golden, I’ve done something that I hope I don’t regret. In a moment of weakness—mixed with panic and fueled by margaritas—I agreed to let my friends choose someone to go with me.
It’ll be a blind date / postnuptial vacation—without the nuptials. A few fun days in paradise with no expectations. No obligations.
Before you say, “pick me for a free vacay!” there are a few things to consider …
The perfect candidate will be single. He won’t talk too much on the plane. And he’ll be able to leave town quickly.
He will also be okay with sharing a bed. It’s a honeymoon suite, after all.
If you want to be considered, email Rebecca and Sara your application at the address below. (Get creative. There’s a free vacation on the line!)
Wheels up next week!
Godspeed, honeymooners.
I slowly lift my eyes to Sara. “It says I’ve had margaritas. That would’ve helped.”
She sighs. “You’ve had rum. Same difference. I had one—okay, two margaritas—as I was scheming this ingenious proposal, so it was technically fueled by them.”
I rise from the table and pace the room slowly.
Some internal voice—the sensible shoulder—tells me that this might be dangerous, but then the other shoulder tells me that traveling alone could be dangerous as well. Cheeky bitch. And I’ve already bailed on a wedding this month. If I’m worried about anyone’s opinions of me, it’s a little late for that.
Not that I care anyway.
I turn toward the table. They both look up at me.
“Your mom loves the idea,” Sara says. “She called me yesterday, and I told her everything. She said she trusts me implicitly.”
“Of course, she does.” I sigh. “How do I know that you’ll choose someone who I can actually stand to spend that much time with?”
“Because we know you better than you know yourself,” Rebecca says.
Sara makes a face. “I don’t know if that’s technically true, but I do know that we know better than you who you should get to know. And if you don’t believe me, then I present to you your dating history.”
“Look at yours,” I say. “That doesn’t fare well for your abilities.”
She pretends she didn’t hear me. “Let’s just post it and see what happens. If we don’t get anyone to respond who’s a great match, then we’ll forget the whole thing.”
My defenses wane.
I think back to something my grandma used to say to me. You can’t make an entrance without making an exit.
I thought about that line in the days leading up to my conversation with Eton that ended our engagement. The only way to enter a place where I had the potential to be happy was to exit that one.
That morsel was tucked in my brain—alongside the emails of Eton’s hookup locations with many different women around the country—when I walked into the restaurant to have what would be our final conversation. The stupid asshole had never been faithful. Why the hell did he propose to me in the first place? I don’t know. For control, I suspect. Regardless, good riddance.
You can’t make an entrance without making an exit.
Here goes nothing … “How do you know that anyone will even be able to go? I leave on Monday. That’s not much time.”
“We don’t,” Rebecca says simply. “We just want to try.”
“If a day before I leave arrives and you’ve picked no one, then I can ask Warren,” I say.
I won’t ask Warren, but I need a concession on their part.
Sara rolls her eyes. “What do you think, Bec?”
“I think that’s fair.”
“Fine,” Sara says. “Do we have a deal?”
I nod. “Yes. We have a deal.”
My stomach twists and I can’t tell if it’s due to excitement or fear. Maybe a little of both.
I’m really doing this. Holy cow.
“We’ll take care of everything,” Rebecca says while Sara dances around the kitchen in celebration. “All you have to do is post it on your Social account and show up at the airport. We’ll pick the guy, get the ticket—all of it.”
“I’ll pay you back for the ticket,” I say. “Hard limit.”
“Fine,” Sara says, clearly unhappy to have to give in.
We sit again. It takes a second to get logged in to Social because I forgot my password.
“Want me to type?” Sara asks. “I’m faster.”
“Be my guest.” I shove the computer toward her. “It’ll give me an out when I regret this later. I can just tell myself that you took my computer and posted it.”
Sara’s nails clatter against the keys. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Rebecca pats my leg. It’s her way of reassuring me that everything will be okay. It’s one of my favorite things about Rebecca. She has a protective nature and a sweet, methodical approach to life.