Royal Pain Read Online Free Page B
Author: Megan Mulry
told her he was psyched.
“Yeah, I’m psyched.”
But Bronte was never able to shake the feeling that he couldn’t quite get himself fully behind anything that wasn’t entirely his idea.
“Sure, that’ll be great, darlin’.” He sounded like he was watching television and having a beer while he talked to her. Half-listening.
There was no way any relationship could or should sustain the level of full-throttle intensity that they had shared those first few months, she assured herself. It was perfectly fine that he wasn’t, you know, ecstatic. They were mellowing. They were both exhausted, she told herself when, occasionally, he was unable to talk as long.
She still slept like a baby, but a teething one. With the croup. And diaper rash. And colic. Once she got back in his arms, she reasoned, all would be well.
When she called her mother to let her know her decision, she wasn’t surprised at the reply.
“Well. It’s your life. You do what you think is best.”
Bronte ignored the sledgehammer subtlety. Despite the soft, controlled tone of her voice, Cathy Talbott might as well have screeched and flapped dragon wings that not in a million years would she move to another city without at least the verbal promise of a long-term commitment.
Of course, Bronte knew that quitting a perfectly good job, leaving a perfectly good, rent-controlled apartment in the West Village, and moving halfway across the country to “be with” a guy was probably not the smartest move.
At the very least, it was risky.
“A marriage proposal would be nice, for example,” her mother lobbed.
But Bronte was liberated, wasn’t she? She could pick up and move if she felt like it. She could adapt. Moving seemed like the only solution. How else would she know for sure if he was “the one”? All she had to go on was six months of panting, late-night phone calls and every other weekend spent in a mad rush of togetherness. And that was not cutting it.
And he loved her.
Suddenly, she was sick of her mother’s wisdom. Wisdom was for the timid.
“Hey, Mom, that’s my other line. I have to go. I’ll see you this weekend.”
It wasn’t really the other line, but her friend April’s desk was close enough that Bronte could give her the now-familiar rotational hand gesture for make-your-phone-ring-really-loud-right-now-so-I-can-get-off-the-damn-phone.
Apparently, that’s what mothers were for, right? To make you question (to death) every (goddamned) decision you ever made in an effort to save you from going to all the trouble of making a complete ass of yourself. Or maybe it was just enlightened self-interest on the part of mothers everywhere to save them the hassle of having to pick you up and scrape you off and listen to all the heartache (again) when “the one” turned out to be “that piece of shit” and you were left without that perfectly good job, without that perfectly good, rent-controlled apartment, and (patently) without that boyfriend.
After more or less hanging up on her mother, Bronte went into her boss’s office and collapsed with a melodramatic huff onto the chair across from the older woman’s desk. Carol Dieppe swung her ergonomically correct, black mesh chair a half-turn away from her computer screen and raised one eyebrow.
“Please tell me you are not going to move to Chicago to be with this guy.”
Bronte repressed a sigh and tried to look over Carol’s shoulder and out across the midlevel rooftops of SoHo. This was more than just a perfectly good job she was about to give up; this was the perfectly good job. Carol had faith in Bronte. She had actually negotiated two years ago to take Bronte with her from their previous advertising agency, from which Carol had been vigorously recruited.
Carol was a successful, strong, kick-ass career woman. And she was forty-eight, single, childless… even contemplating that laundry list of antifeminist claptrap made Bronte feel guilty—but why?! Was she supposed to
“Yeah, I’m psyched.”
But Bronte was never able to shake the feeling that he couldn’t quite get himself fully behind anything that wasn’t entirely his idea.
“Sure, that’ll be great, darlin’.” He sounded like he was watching television and having a beer while he talked to her. Half-listening.
There was no way any relationship could or should sustain the level of full-throttle intensity that they had shared those first few months, she assured herself. It was perfectly fine that he wasn’t, you know, ecstatic. They were mellowing. They were both exhausted, she told herself when, occasionally, he was unable to talk as long.
She still slept like a baby, but a teething one. With the croup. And diaper rash. And colic. Once she got back in his arms, she reasoned, all would be well.
When she called her mother to let her know her decision, she wasn’t surprised at the reply.
“Well. It’s your life. You do what you think is best.”
Bronte ignored the sledgehammer subtlety. Despite the soft, controlled tone of her voice, Cathy Talbott might as well have screeched and flapped dragon wings that not in a million years would she move to another city without at least the verbal promise of a long-term commitment.
Of course, Bronte knew that quitting a perfectly good job, leaving a perfectly good, rent-controlled apartment in the West Village, and moving halfway across the country to “be with” a guy was probably not the smartest move.
At the very least, it was risky.
“A marriage proposal would be nice, for example,” her mother lobbed.
But Bronte was liberated, wasn’t she? She could pick up and move if she felt like it. She could adapt. Moving seemed like the only solution. How else would she know for sure if he was “the one”? All she had to go on was six months of panting, late-night phone calls and every other weekend spent in a mad rush of togetherness. And that was not cutting it.
And he loved her.
Suddenly, she was sick of her mother’s wisdom. Wisdom was for the timid.
“Hey, Mom, that’s my other line. I have to go. I’ll see you this weekend.”
It wasn’t really the other line, but her friend April’s desk was close enough that Bronte could give her the now-familiar rotational hand gesture for make-your-phone-ring-really-loud-right-now-so-I-can-get-off-the-damn-phone.
Apparently, that’s what mothers were for, right? To make you question (to death) every (goddamned) decision you ever made in an effort to save you from going to all the trouble of making a complete ass of yourself. Or maybe it was just enlightened self-interest on the part of mothers everywhere to save them the hassle of having to pick you up and scrape you off and listen to all the heartache (again) when “the one” turned out to be “that piece of shit” and you were left without that perfectly good job, without that perfectly good, rent-controlled apartment, and (patently) without that boyfriend.
After more or less hanging up on her mother, Bronte went into her boss’s office and collapsed with a melodramatic huff onto the chair across from the older woman’s desk. Carol Dieppe swung her ergonomically correct, black mesh chair a half-turn away from her computer screen and raised one eyebrow.
“Please tell me you are not going to move to Chicago to be with this guy.”
Bronte repressed a sigh and tried to look over Carol’s shoulder and out across the midlevel rooftops of SoHo. This was more than just a perfectly good job she was about to give up; this was the perfectly good job. Carol had faith in Bronte. She had actually negotiated two years ago to take Bronte with her from their previous advertising agency, from which Carol had been vigorously recruited.
Carol was a successful, strong, kick-ass career woman. And she was forty-eight, single, childless… even contemplating that laundry list of antifeminist claptrap made Bronte feel guilty—but why?! Was she supposed to