Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I see her instantly.
Eliza. She’s sitting on the far side of the picnic table, laughing at some unfunny joke her mother made, a paper plate balanced on her lap. Sundress, blue again, with those little white flowers. The fabric clings to her chest, making it impossible not to stare, so I snap my eyes away while pasting a vacuous smile on my face. I’m not sure what’s more dangerous: looking, or being caught looking.
We’ve tried to be discreet though. In the past month or so, we’ve been meeting only in private places, which include my house and a few hotels a couple towns away. My truck, once or twice, which isn’t “safe” per se, but Eliza’s made me forget what the word “safe” means because it’s been a clandestine operation: her showing up at my door at midnight, me driving a hundred miles for two hours of sweaty, desperate fucking in a Days Inn. Even worse, every time we say “we have to be more careful,” it’s a guarantee that we’ll lose control within the next forty-eight hours, and I’m not a man given to self-delusion. We’re going to be caught, I’m sure of it.
But right now, in the bright suburban sunshine, we are nothing to each other. Mere acquaintances at a barbecue, me her dad’s best buddy from long ago. Eliza knows the rules, maybe better than I do.
I grab a beer from the cooler, nod at Gerald, who’s cranking the lid off a container of brats and telling a story about a pothole lawsuit. He waves me over and I take my spot at the periphery, where all the ex-military and low-key alcoholics lurk. I know most of the faces: guys from the local bowling league, a few dudes who have an insurance outfit downtown. They’re all fatter and grayer than last year. Nobody here knows I’ve been inside their buddy’s daughter, and nobody will, if I can help it.
Across the yard, Eliza is half-turned away, but every now and then she glances over the shoulder of whoever’s talking to her and locks eyes with me, just long enough to make my heart jump. She doesn’t blush, but she does smile, just the tiniest bit, before tucking a lock of golden hair behind one ear. Damn, this woman is beautiful, and if I could, I’d claim her as mine in front of the whole world.
But I can’t. Not now, and I know it.
Meanwhile, Gerald’s prattling away: “You remember Jack, right? He’s the one who almost got court-martialed for flying an F-16 under the I-94 overpass.”
Laughter, all around. I smile, try to look sheepish. “I maintain the bridge had sufficient clearance.”
The other men laugh, slap me on the back. “That’s what the girls said!” one of them shouts.
Nancy emerges with a tray of salads—potato, macaroni, something green that’s already wilting. She’s a sharp woman, always has been. The type who can recall what you wore to Easter in the year 2000, but forgets her own birthday. She hands off the tray to her daughter and says, “Eliza, make yourself useful,” in a tone that means don’t be a floozy, even if you’re not doing anything wrong.
Eliza glides through the crowd, her dress flaring around her knees, and for a second I can’t remember what it was like before I saw her like this—alive, confident, the opposite of the cautious, shy kid I remember. She stops near the grill, just within my orbit, and offers up the salads to the men.
“You want some, Jack?” she says, bright and polite, but with that sexy, unmistakable undertone. The one she used last week when she begged me to tie her wrists to the headboard and do things to her she’s never let another man do. Do the other guys hear it? Oh shit.
But I act normal and smile benignly. “Sure,” I say, and she spoons a heap of potato salad onto my plate, careful not to touch my hand.
Gerald’s watching us, but only in the way of a dad who’s proud his kid can pass food without making a mess. He launches into a story about Air Force chow, how the mashed potatoes in Minot could be used as mortar, and everyone chimes in with their own complaints about base food. Eliza smiles and laughs, but I see the flicker—every time she moves, her body is hyper-aware of mine.
I excuse myself to get another beer, but really, it’s to put distance between me and this gorgeous, magnetic girl. I need to get my head on straight. I walk along the side of the house and stare at the line of trash cans, each painted with the Shaw family address in neat black marker. I can hear the party, but out here it’s just the hum of a neighbor’s weed whacker and the scent of fresh-cut grass.