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)
Don’t have many new ones, either, I guess.
He’s a magical person who dropped into my life and made me aware of all these empty pits inside me. Then he fills them, every last one, until I’m so complete, I don’t know how I survived before.
After he returns from a quick trip to the bathroom (since the Dr. Pepper ran straight through him, in his words) he plops back onto the bed right next to me, and I get the full story behind his best friend AJ and the girl whose name is a city in France. So this AJ dude totally hijacked the Vegas-and-desert-and-cave-exploring adventure that Timothy had carefully planned for nearly a year—just to chase after his college crush he thinks he’ll marry someday. “It’s romantic, I guess,” he decides to call it. “It sure makes for a good story they can tell their pretty kids someday. They’re gonna make pretty kids,” he quickly adds, “and I better be the godparent, or so help me.” He then plucks an Oreo out of the package in my lap and pops it into his mouth whole.
We’re shoulder-to-shoulder on my bed, backs against the soft headboard, faces close. “You’re a forgiving friend,” I point out.
He thinks it over while he chews. After swallowing, he shrugs. “If everything had gone to plan, I wouldn’t have met you. I’d have screamed alongside AJ out in that audience watching Chase Holt, and right about now, I’d be in a Vegas hotel room instead of this one, with AJ and I drooling over all the sweet merch we snatched at M&M’s World or The LEGO Store. I believe in the sacred power of lucky socks,” he informs me importantly, “and very much looked forward to getting a pair of M&M ones … but fate had other plans.” He peers at me. “I’m happy my plans got fucked up.”
I smile. “I know that trip meant a heck of a lot to you. I’m … pretty touched you find this worth losing that.”
“More than worth it.”
After a few minutes of zoning out to the TV, I feel him settle against my side more intentionally, his leg nuzzling mine. Inspired by something I can only guess at, he starts (sleepily) telling me about different people he grew up with in Spruce. His boss and how he met his husband, then adopted two kids. The husband’s spitfire mother who became mayor a couple years ago. I notice he doesn’t mention much about his own family, and I don’t pry; I’m happy to learn whatever he wants to tell, keeping my happy ears open. At one point in his storytelling, I swallow a yawn and stretch my arms, and while continuing to talk without missing a beat, he slides his head onto my chest just as my arm comes down. And just like that, I’m cuddling him against my side.
It was so natural, I barely noticed it happen.
And now it’s all I notice.
How alarmingly perfect it feels, holding him in my arms.
“I could get used to this,” says Timothy after our conversation starts fracturing into pools of comfortable silences as the TV hums and rambles, volume too low to discern actual words. We must’ve been talking for well over an hour by now. “Do you ever feel …” He goes silent, the question vanishing the moment it’s started.
I run my hand up his arm, still holding him against me, his face on my chest. “Do I ever feel …?”
“Do you ever feel … lonely in a crowd?” he finishes. His words come slowly. “I’m constantly surrounded by people back home. All around me, every minute of the day, people who keep telling me what’s best for me, who talk at me rather than to me, who assume so much and know so little.” He lets out a huff of breath, almost a chuckle. “It’s such a strange feeling … being surrounded by people, yet still feeling … so alone.”
I stare ahead. My eyes find the painting on the wall, the one of the sunset over a field of golden wheat. I hear the roars and the cheering and the whistling from mere hours ago when I stood on a stage with my guitar. All that howling and crying and shouting.
And the emptiness inside me.
“I feel so safe with you,” he murmurs. “Like I can be my real self. No filters. No secrets. You’re actually getting to know the real me, and … and I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
The deeper his words get, the harder they land. I wonder if he feels more comfortable saying these things because he’s not really looking at me, with his head on my chest like it is. It’s probably a good thing, because my face is showing too much.
The real me …
“Yeah,” I finally say, if anything but to break the silence. “I … I know how it feels like. To …” My throat tightens. I swallow hard. “To feel lonely in a room full of people. Feel like everyone’s lookin’ my way, but no one sees me.”