Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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July 2013
Music blasts from the alarm clock radio on the nightstand next to my bed – simultaneously waking me up and giving me a small heart attack in the process – and I jolt up in bed as the country twang of a Florida Georgia Line song resounds through my bedroom.
"Ugh," I groan. I slam my hand on the radio, turning the music off, and lay back down. "Worst song ever."
My tired eyes burn with exhaustion. I tossed and turned most of the night, partly because I had a cup of coffee at Maribelle's last night, but mostly because I was dreading this morning, knowing what it would bring. I'd fallen asleep eventually though because the last time I remember looking at the clock it was almost six-thirty and now it's eight-fifteen and I need to get ready. Greyson and I have been going for a run together every morning since the summer before our junior year, and with his baseball career starting the day after tomorrow, he's more rigid than ever. If I'm not outside in fifteen minutes he's going to come and get me, and I don't need another lecture from my father about too much noise so early in the morning.
I reluctantly push my comforter off me and throw my legs over the side of the bed as I force myself to sit up. Staring down at my pale pink painted toenails, I dig my fingernails into the edge of my pillowtop mattress as fear begins to set in. Today is the day. The day I've been avoiding and agonizing over for four months. The day that will ultimately decide not only my future, but the future of my relationship as well. It's also the day Greyson and I are supposed to leave for Florida so he can start rookie ball, and I have to tell him I'm not going.
Ninety-five percent of the time, I know Greyson McKinnie better than I know myself. I know that Hallmark commercials make him cry. I know he's terrified of cats – especially the hairless ones – and that the sight of blood makes him queasy. I know he likes milk with his peanut butter sandwiches, and that even though he claims to like the cocktail sauce my mother serves with her steamed shrimp, he actually finds it too spicy. I know he likes to be alone before a game so he can run through and perfect his strategy. I know he can recite the alphabet backwards without having to think about it, but he has trouble doing division without a calculator. I know he loves me with everything inside of him, and that he'd marry me tomorrow if I suggested it, but I have no idea how he's going to react to my news – and that terrifies me to my core.
"Just go out there and tell him," I whisper to myself. My legs bounce up and down and I nervously chew the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. "It'll be fine."
I hear the words as they come out of my mouth, but unfortunately, I don't believe them.
There is a weight on my chest that feels like a twenty-pound boulder, and for the past couple of days I've been finding it hard to breathe, so I stand from my bed and begin to pace across my bedroom floor as I try and rub the tension from my chest. The soft, cream-colored carpet usually feels like I'm walking on a pile of cotton balls, but right now it feels like cement beneath my feet.
