Imperfect Truth(3)

By: Ava Harrison

Ava Readsalot: Aww, thank you so much. Right now I’m not doing takeovers, but I will definitely keep you in mind when I start :-)

Ryder Matthews: No doubt. Well, again let me know if you need anything, and I do mean anything.

Oh I’ll let him know if I need something…like his head buried deep between my legs. Where did that come from?

I let out a chuckle as my face turns beet red once again. I glance over to see if Alexandre has noticed my little outburst. Nope. Nothing. Feeling flustered, I quickly sign off and shut down the computer.

“I’m off to bed, Alex. You coming?” Nothing. No response.

“Alexandre!” I shout over the TV, now turned to full blast on The World Of Poker Tournament.

“What?” he replies, his voice exasperated as if I’m interrupting something important.

“You can at least acknowledge that I’ve said something to you.”

Alexandre finally looks over to me with a bored face. “I did. I shook my head no.”

Quietly, I take a deep breath. I’m moments away from losing my shit, but like every well-groomed lady, I gather my composure. Biting the inside of my cheek, a practice I’ve become rather accustomed to, I nod and walk away. I can taste the sweet copper filling my mouth. As I make my way into the bedroom, I think back to the conversation I had with Ryder. A faint laugh creeps out of my mouth as I recall his flirtation.

I climb into my bed that night with a smile on my face for the first time in months.

For the first time in years.

THE NEXT MORNING I wake up feeling refreshed. I open my eyes, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. 7:30 am.

Brilliant rays of the sun peek in through the drapes, and the morning’s beauty is breathtaking. I feel peaceful this Saturday, and the allure to begin my day beckons me. I really love living in Manhattan. Pulling the drapes back, I catch a glimpse of Gramercy Park. It’s a hidden secret nestled within the city. The London-style Park has impeccably groomed gardens that can only be accessed with golden keys. Only the elite are offered such pleasantries, a detail that my mother-in-law insisted on when purchasing our home.

The street surrounding the wrought iron gates is eerily quiet. Only the soft hum of the morning traffic can be heard.

After further inspection, the park is completely empty—not unusual for this time of day. Hauntingly beautiful. It brings a smile to my face as the idea of sitting peacefully by myself with a cup of coffee and my book invades my mind.

Alexandre is still sound asleep. His rhythmic snore tells me he won’t be up for a while. Silently, I change into a pair of tight-fitting yoga pants, a white T-shirt, and my black sequined Toms. Grabbing my cardigan off the back of the vanity chair, I make my way into the kitchen.

Our apartment isn’t huge as it was formally a pied-à-terre for the original owner’s mistress. It is, however, exquisite and rather expensive. The location and park access inflates the prize considerably. Alexandre comes from old money; his family now owns and manages a hedge fund in the city. I’m a stay at home wife, whatever the fuck that means. Basically, in his family’s opinion, it would be an embarrassment if I worked a nine to five job. Blogging is allowed as it’s accomplished in the privacy of my own home under a pseudonym. I love and cherish every moment of my “little hobby.”

I stand in front of the Keurig as the aroma of a perfectly brewed coffee infiltrates the air. A delicious and invigorating smell so savory my mouth waters. Filling my to-go mug and grabbing my Kindle, I exit my apartment.

My feet slip into a brisk rhythm as I step onto the sidewalk that runs adjacent to my building. When the moment is right, I walk toward the park entrance with the gold tarnished key in my hand. I notice a young woman sitting on the stoop along the fence holding a coffee and book, as well. Nodding to her, a morning greeting to my fellow reader, I turn the key. Stepping into the park, I’m transported into a far-away place long since forgotten in time.

Finding the perfect bench with an unobstructed view of the Edwin Booth statue, I bask in the splendor of the park. The lush surroundings are an ideal backdrop to my morning retreat. The only place I feel free is locked behind the gilded gates of Gramercy.

After about thirty minutes of uninterrupted reading, my cell phone chimes, indicating a new message on Facebook. Closing my Kindle and placing it on the bench next to me, I pull out my phone sliding my finger across the screen for access.

A window for Messenger is sitting there on the homepage. Ryder Matthews’s name is in bold black.

Ryder Matthews: Hey there!

My heart drums in my chest as nervous energy courses through my body. Ryder Matthews is messaging me again. What does he want?

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