Page 13 of Book Boyfriends
“I told Jackson this wouldn’t work,” he mumbles.
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes.
“You never make it past the first date.”
Hope reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Baby, some of them aren’t second date material. Georgia has had some less-than-ideal candidates for her Mr. Right.”
“True. But, for some of them, we’ll never know they weren’t her Mr. Right because she finds the most ridiculous of reasons to eliminate them.”
“I do not!”
Ignoring my protest, he goes on, “The guy that wore flip flops to their first date.”
“Flip flops aren’t appropriate date attire unless you’re at the beach,” I interject.
“The guy who said his favorite ice cream was vanilla. The one who wore tapered jeans. The one who had too much product in his hair. The one who saidFree Willywas their favorite movie.” He counts each reason I’d nixed past dates on his fingers.
At the time, each appeared to be a perfectly logical reason to chuck the Mr. Not-So Rights. With each tick of Rem’s fingers, the foundation for my previous excuses wobbles.
“Maybe he’s not the right one for you, but you’ll never know if you don’t give anyone a chance beyond a first date.” His tone softens. “They’re not all going to be Will.”
Breathwhooshesout of me. It’s been five years, but the mention of Will still has the power to make me speechless. It used to be the happy speechlessness of his big romantic gestures or swoony words. But those experiences belong to someone else now. All I get is the dull ache of lingering heartbreak that snatches away the words that want to come out.Will has nothing to do with this. I don’t use ridiculous standards to protect myself. Fuck you and your self-help paperback psychoanalysis.
“Georgia…” He closes his eyes, lets out a hard breath, and then opens them. “I just want to see you settled. You’re thirty-two. Single. You?—”
“I don’t need a relationship to be settled,” I snap back.
While I hope for the clichéd happy endings from one of my books, I already have so much. A career I love. Friends. Wentworth. Family. Even if one brother thinks I’m so desperate he had to get someone from work to do him a favor, and the other one’s factory mode is constant disappointment in me, I love them.
“I know you don’t need a relationship. I wouldn’t worry about you being alone if you had more direction. If you were more established in your life. You still live at home.”
“You still live at home, too,” I scoff.
“But Iownthis house. It’s my home. With my wife. You live in a one-bedroom apartment above the garage. All your money goes towards your books instead of building something.”
Anger boils in my bloodstream. “I’m building a career.”
It always comes back to this with him. After winning a national short story contest my senior year of high school, I’d said I wanted to write. Rem went into full big brother lecture mode with facts and figures about financial security and the likelihood of success. So, I put the dream on hold. After high school graduation, I got my Bachelor’s and then my Master’s. I went to work establishing my career as a social worker, but the passion wasn’t gone. It just slumbered quietly until it roared awake five years ago. Even now, the words may be hidden from me, but the desire burns like wildfire to keep going.
“You’re just like Dad.” He shakes his head.
The barb pierces straight into my gut, and the disappointment that shadows his stare as he looks at me twists it. There it is. The real reason Rem’s judgment always finds fault with my choices. Of the three Lane siblings, I may be most like our dad. Rem has inherited Dad’s strong jawline and height, but he’s more practical, like our mother. Although, Rem’s practicality is on steroids compared to her. I may look like mymother with a rounder figure and long brown hair, but my thirst for creative fulfillment is one hundred percent Nolan Lane.
“Rem.” Hope places her palm atop his hand, her voice featherlight.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Georgia, I’m sorry. I just want to see you settled. To know that you’ll be okay. Things are going to change after the baby comes.”
I blink. “Are you saying you want me to move out?”
“No,” Hope says quickly, her fierce gaze shoots to her husband. “We’re not saying that.”
“We’re not, but…”
“You’re thinking that?” I sit up straight.
This is only the second time that the idea of me moving out has come up. The first time was five years ago, and that had been my idea. Well, mine and Will’s. He had his own place. A place we discussed becomingourplace. At least, that was the plan until two days before I was supposed to move in when aThis isn’t what I wanttext arrived.
Rem clears his throat. “Maybe if you’re on your own, it will help you get your priorities straight. To focus on what’s important.”
