The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

slut-shaming mommy-porn jokes and let him walk all over the very thing that defines the genre. You just don’t. Shame on you, Noah Harrison. Shame on you.” The anchor pointed to the camera, and the segment ended.

“At least they didn’t set him on fire,” I muttered, staring at the computer screen in horror.

“They just had your gran do it,” Hazel noted.

“They’re not being fair to him. It’s a beautiful, poignant ending.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “It’s a fitting tribute for what she went through in real life. And he had nothing to do with trashing the genre. That was all me!”

“News flash, G. No one reads romance for real life.” She sighed. “Also, that man is so in love with you that I can’t even…anything. I can’t.” She perched on the edge of the desk and faced me.

“Don’t,” I whispered as my heart cracked, the hastily constructed scabs breaking open.

“Oh, I’m going to.” She moved so I couldn’t look away. “That man just trashed his career on an international stage for you.”

“He trashed his career out of contractual obligation,” I countered, but the damage was done. My entire body ached with missing him just like it did every day. Add on the hatred he was getting over my choice, and I was ready to bury myself in a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s.

“Keep telling yourself that.” She shook her head. “He’s Noah Harrison. If he wanted out of the contract, he would have gotten out. He did this for you. To prove that he would keep his word.”

“He lied, and for no good reason.” Frustration welled up, doing its best to overpower the pain. “I wouldn’t have kicked him out in December if I’d known he’d finished the book. I was already in love with him!”

My hands flew to my mouth.

“Ha!” Hazel jabbed her finger at me. “I told you!”

“It doesn’t matter!” My arms fell to my sides. “The ink isn’t remotely dry on my divorce. It hasn’t even been a year!” My spine stiffened. “Isn’t there a rule somewhere that you have to take some time for yourself before shoving all your baggage at the next man?”

“Okay, one, there’s no rule. Two, I’ve seen Noah’s arms. He can carry all your baggage and then some.” Her face scrunched.

“Shut up.” She wasn’t wrong.

“Three, you’re not your mom, G. You’ll never be your mom. And honestly, you were pretty much alone in the six years of that shitty marriage. You’ve had plenty of time for yourself, but if you think you need more, then take it. Just do the world a favor and tell the man.”

I sagged against the back of the chair. “It’s impractical. We live on opposite sides of the country. Besides, it’s been three weeks since he tried to call. He’s probably over it. His rebound rate is astronomical.”

“If by rebound rate, you mean he’s only been seen in public with his sister, then I agree.” She arched a brow at me. “I love you, but you have to get out of your own damned way. He loves you. He screwed up. It happens. Owen screws up every three days, apologizes, makes up for it, and then screws something else up three days later. You figure it out as you go along.” She glanced at her wedding ring and smiled.

“What do you screw up?” I asked.

“I’m perfect. Besides, we’re not talking about me.” Her phone rang and she stood so she could get it free. “Hey, babe. Wait. Say that again. Colin did what with the scissors while you were in the bathroom? How short is short?” Her voice pitched shrill.

Oh shit. I hopped up from the chair and raced for the hall closet, yanking her coat off the hangar and shoving it at her as she strode out the door.

“No, don’t try to round it out!” She waved at me frantically in farewell, then opened her car door. “No, I’m not mad, it could have happened to me, too. It’ll grow back—” Her voice cut off as she got into the car.

“Good luck!” I called out as she drove the semicircle back to the main road, only to have her spot taken by the courier. “One second!” I said, dashing back inside to grab the envelope, and brought the roses, too. “Here, Tom. Take these for your wife.”

“You sure?” he asked, eyeing the roses.

“Absolutely.”

“Hold on, I have a delivery for you,” he said, exchanging my envelope and the roses for a medium-size package. I signed for it, noting the return address of Gran’s lawyer.

Right. It would have been my seventh wedding anniversary. At least she wasn’t here to see what a hot mess that had ended up being. I carried the package in, shut the door, then plopped down on the bottom step of the staircase, setting the box next to me.

Noah Harrison’s painful, emotionally sadistic ending to Scarlett Stanton’s own love story is unforgivable. I sighed and stared at the box, wishing there was some easy answer to all of this. Or maybe there was, and Hazel was right—I was standing in my own way.

I leaned forward and took my cell out of my vest pocket, then opened my messages and typed out a text.

GEORGIA: I’m so sorry about the reviews.

I truly was, but my heart wouldn’t stop screaming joyfully that he’d kept his promise.

The message showed delivered, not read. Who knew when he’d get around to seeing it, anyway. Or maybe he’d never open it.

“From Ice Queen to Hot Mess. Not sure that’s an improvement,” I muttered, picking up Gran’s package. The tape gave way easily, which was convenient, since I didn’t have Noah…or his pocketknife.

Inside there were three manila envelopes. The one labeled read me second was thickest. I set it and the third to the side, then opened the one designated first and pulled out a letter. My heart throbbed, bittersweet at the sight of her handwriting.

Dearest Georgia,

Today is your wedding anniversary. If I’m right about the