Filthy Vows - Alessandra Torre Page 0,60

paired with a sweet wine or spiked coffee, our long meal tended to by three attentive waiters who were rewarded handsomely with an eye-popping tip.

We had lived large and recklessly and had absolutely nothing to show for it but blurred, half-drunk memories. I took a sip of water and pretended it was wine. “I miss the lobster.”

“I’ll catch some for you,” he promised. “We’ll drive down to Marathon for mini-season.”

We wouldn’t, but I still smiled at the thought. Maybe we would. Maybe there’d be a cheap hotel rate online, and we’d actually find our fins and we’d dive and net lobsters and feast like kings.

“You know what I miss?” He settled back in his chair and played with the setting of his silverware. “Guthrie’s nights.”

“Aw.” I propped an elbow on the table and rested my chin on the pad of my hand. “Me too. God, I’d kill for a Gut-box right now.” The greasy fried chicken fingers, paired with crinkle fries and an ice-cold coke… there hadn’t been a better meal in Tallahassee at 3am.

“Remember our list?”

“Of course. I still have it somewhere. I remember reading it on our wedding day.” I had kept the smudged page, folded into quarters, Easton’s cramped handwriting in neat rows down the page.

Elle & Easton’s List of Happy Things

It had been a long list, divided into past, present and future. Our past items included Chelsea’s vomit at Potbelly’s, Safety Not Guaranteed, doggie-style (which we had originally deemed as our favorite position), Cherry Slushies, and our first kiss.

Our present items had included Gut Boxes, Seminoles Baseball, the way he studied my mouth before kissing me, microwave s’mores—which I argued should go on the future list as well, but he said we may get tired of them. “I told you we’d never get tired of microwave s’mores,” I pointed out. “And look, I was right.”

“You were right.” He smiled, that slow and warm smile that seemed as if it was made for me. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“Well, you had a good response.” I tilted my head to one side, remembering it. “I told you that everything in life paled compared to microwave s’mores, and you told me that everything in life paled compared to me.”

“And then I proposed.” His eyes crinkled at the edges.

“And then you proposed,” I said softly. “And I said yes.”

“What were you thinking?”

I laughed. “What were you? You weren’t even able to get down on one knee. And you wouldn’t have wanted to, not in that disgusting lot.”

“And I didn’t have a ring.”

“Total impulse.”

“It was the best decision I ever made in my life.” He leaned forward and captured my hand, running his thumb over the back of it. “I wouldn’t change it, Guthrie’s parking lot and all.”

I wouldn’t either. I loved the memory of that night, the excitement I’d had at the idea of being Mrs. Easton North for the rest of my life. I had pushed the to-go container onto the floorboard and crawled across the center console and gotten into his lap. He’d smelled like baseball leather, sweat and chicken and tasted like root beer and French fries. We’d called my mom and then his, waking them both up with the news.

“What was on our future list? A World Series ring.” He grimaced.

“A baby,” I said quietly.

His hand tightened on mine. “What else?”

“A house big enough for our family.” I almost said our kids. Five kids. That’s what we’d written down on the list. We’d argued over that too. I’d wanted three and he’d wanted six. Somehow, we’d agreed on five, but I’d written “or three” in small parentheses after the number, followed by a smiley face. Everything was smiley faces and hearts back then.

“We got the house and the dog.”

“I don’t think a dog was on the list.” And the house I’d had in mind hadn’t been the sprawling fixer-upper we’d ended up with.

“Law school.” I made my own face.

“Do you ever still think about that?” He let go of my hand and crossed his arms on top of the table, his elbows almost too wide for the round top.

“No.” I shook my head. “Honestly, I don’t. I meant it when I quit.” I’d dropped the program six weeks in, right around the time he’d started playing. He’d pushed against it, worried that I was forgoing my dream for his, but I’d stood my ground then, and I reemphasized that now. “I don’t want to be an attorney.”

“And you’re happy in real estate?”

“I’m…” I drew