His Fake Proposal Led Me To My Real Husband Chapter 20
On the first page, in Julian’s handwriting, it said:
*Maple-glazed ribs: one-to-one ratio of syrup and apple cider vinegar. Don’t use too much heat. If they burn, that’s okay. I’ll eat them.*
I laughed out loud in the empty kitchen, though my nose stung a little.
That month, Julian took me back to the Cavendish family estate for dinner.
Eleanor brought out an old wooden box from the study. Inside were two photographs.
The first had been taken when we were five. Both our families were having a picnic at Boston Common. Julian was holding the butterfly hair clip I had dropped.
The second had been taken at my eighteenth birthday party. He had just flown back from Europe and was standing at the back of the crowd, his suitcase still beside him because he hadn’t had time to go home first.
“He spent more than ten hours on a plane, went home just to wash his face, and came straight to your party,” Eleanor said. “At the time, you had your arm through Mason’s. You never even saw him.”
I looked at the tired-looking boy in the photo.
He stood outside the circle of friends, looking in my direction.
On the drive home that night, I asked Julian, “You waited that long for me. Didn’t you ever feel like it was unfair?”
He was driving. He glanced over at me and turned up the heat.
“Rebecca,” he said calmly.
“I never thought of it as waiting.”Â