Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Though, if we’re keeping with this metaphor of ours, I’m not sure how the hell we’re supposed to help each other from sinking if we’re both stuck. I can’t be someone’s stick if they need one, too.
We arrive at Spruce Park. Nothing’s decided, but we cross the street and transition to the park without talking. Now we wander the lazy path circling the pond, the benches, and slouched trees that lend the park some much-needed shade. I’ve strolled this old pathway so much, I know every crack and bend in it.
But it feels totally new with Austin next to me.
I keep wondering what we should talk about, but everything I think of is so trivial. And I’m hungry for the real stuff. But I also don’t want to sound too miserable or serious all the time. Haven’t I already dumped on him enough?
Why am I so scared of … scaring him off?
Well, he did indicate he feels stuck in life, too. Maybe his non-answer is an answer. For whatever reason, I don’t want to pry too deeply. Maybe it’s because I don’t want him to pry, either.
I’m afraid of how I’ll answer.
Not to mention how closely Austin is walking next to me. This path isn’t exactly narrow. It’s wide enough to drive a car. To walk a family of four side-by-side. Two full lanes’ worth so that when you’re passing by your old English teacher, he can wave hello, and you can wave hello back. He can ask you how you’re doing, and you can say everything’s peachy, no one says anything real, and life just goes on.
Austin and I are so far from that.
Everything feels piercingly real. I’m aware of every step we’re taking. I feel his arm graze against mine every five or six seconds. Depending on the curve of the path, I’m literally inside his shadow, like the man might as well be huddled protectively over me.
That’s something I can’t deny.
There is something deeply protective about his aura.
I noticed that when we first met at the Horseshoe. The second I realized he was there, sure, I was startled, but the speed at which I quickly opened up and began spilling my business, that has to speak volumes to what his presence does to me.
Maybe that’s why he’s such a Chase Holt fan. Sensitive music draws sensitive people, right?
And I’ve only had a taste. I wonder if I’d be just as drawn, had I given Chase Holt more of a chance the other night. As if that’s what I need right now; something else to lose myself in instead of fixing my life. But what if I become a fan, too? Not just for the music. We could go to the concerts together, Austin and I. Smiling, laughing. Tons of opportunities for our arms to graze in that crowd. Singing badly together. Melt into the music and vibes—and each other.
It’d be the start of something neither of us fully understands.
Something scary and exciting and life-saving.
And it’d be almost like a road trip, right? Hitting all the local shows with him? I’d have an excuse every few days to leave with my new pal Austin. And unlike my straight, Paris-chasing bestie AJ, this is someone I actually can flirt with. Someone I can explore fantasies with. Someone I can go and not get coffee with.
Isn’t that the dream?
Instantly, that becomes my new goalpost. “So … when’s your next show?” I ask.
“Ducks!” he cries out instead, breaking from the pathway and hurrying to the pond.
Uh, okay.
I follow him to the brink of the water where he crouches—his underwear peeking out yet again, unfairly tugging on my eyes—and I crouch down next to him, too, leaving a bit of space so as not to crowd him or his graze-happy arms. “They come and go,” I tell him, like I’m suddenly the animal life tour guide of Spruce. “We’ve got our park ducks and our farm ducks. They fly between all the ponds. It’s like their own little community, kinda like us and our worst town gossips. Ducks are so much more social than you’d expect. The park ducks tend to stick around longer, since people feed them. But if it gets too noisy, they’ll head off to see what the farmies are up to. And if you aren’t carrying any bread? Phew, you might as well be a rock.”
“Should’ve brought some, then,” he says. “Hate showin’ up to someone’s home empty-handed.”
I glance at him. What a thoughtful thing to say. “Doubt the ducks will mind.”
He shifts slightly my way and lowers his voice. “Don’t know. I think one or two are givin’ me the stank eye. See that one all the way over there? With that odd feather stickin’ up, outta place?”
With him leaning into me and pointing, our arms are touching. Again.