Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Good night,” says Grandma.
“I have the weirdest feeling I just got slut-shamed,” whispers Nash, in his usual laid-back tone.
“Yeah.”
“So that happened.”
“Did you expose my grandma to drug-fueled, rock-n-roll style orgies?”
“It’s country slash rock with folk and the occasional pop accent.”
“Did you though?”
“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. I mean, of course there were some parties at the house. But it wasn’t like people were swinging naked from the chandeliers and doing blow off the marble counters. Oh. Wait. There was that one time.”
“Swinging naked or doing cocaine?”
He lies back down with his hands behind his head. “Swinging naked. Though she was a burlesque performer, so she wasn’t actually naked. She had this cool glittery costume. As for the other, I saw what hard drugs could do early on and steered clear.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“We’re just going to be friends of the platonic type, right? Best buds? Pals?”
“Um,” I say. “Sure.”
“That’s what I thought. We don’t want to complicate shit with us both staying here. Or upset your grandma. Night, June.”
It’s not like I’d even decided I wanted to have sex with him. He’d been flirting with me. Which was probably just his natural charm and bullshit. As delightful as I can be when you catch me in the right mood, people like him don’t date nobodies. In all likelihood, they don’t have casual sex with them, either. And of course, no one wants things to get complicated.
I for one would like to never hear anything nearing another beware-of-sex-with-this-person talk from my grandmother.
I roll over and get comfortable facing the wall. “Night.”
Rockstars aren’t as interesting as I’d hoped. Nash is softly snoring when I wake. I gather some clothes and creep out of the spare bedroom so as not to disturb him. And his unconscious state doesn’t change all day. He truly is burnt out and in need of rest.
Grandma and I have breakfast together. Then she goes to her craft group and has lunch with friends while I spend the day working on my laptop. Building a store front for an artist wanting to sell stickers and prints. Tylenol and coffee take care of my hangover. And Nash keeps right on sleeping.
There’re still no signs of life from the man when it comes time for us to depart for dinner. It is, however, Taco Tuesday, so we’re not inclined to wait. Guacamole and salsa have a siren song to which I am particularly susceptible. And don’t even get me started on the delight that is queso. We left him a note with directions to where we’re off to on the kitchen table.
The small town of The Bend, Washington, is famous for several things. Including being on a bend in a river and repurposing old buildings. For instance, the local bar is inside what was once the bank. It’s a small, grand building over a century and a half old with high arched windows and decorative molding on the ceiling. You can tour the vault if you’re so inclined. Though now it stores liquor as opposed to cold hard cash.
Grandma peruses the scene as she takes a sip of her margarita. “That new boy who recently started at the coffee shop keeps looking your way.”
“Boo, men.”
“How was the carne asada?”
I wipe my hands and mouth with a napkin. The bar has a rotating schedule of food trucks out in the parking lot. “Delicious.”
“There are reasons why I chose this town.”
“Such as?”
“Nice scenery, good amenities, a vibrant community. It’s that bit farther off the highway and the river is narrower here, so we have tourists passing through but not necessarily staying, which suits me,” she says. “But The Bend punches above its weight when it comes to food. The local dairy makes excellent cheese and ice cream. And then there’s the few wineries nearby. Not to mention that new distillery opening at the end of Main Street.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying your retirement here.”
She smiles.
“You Should Probably Leave” by Chris Stapleton is playing on the jukebox and there’s a decent-sized crowd tonight. Taco Tuesday with happy hour margarita prices is popular. Most of the small round tables are occupied, while the more dedicated drinkers and those wishing to socialize congregate at the counter.
I already said hello to my friends from last night. Those brave few who listened to me bitch about my ex for hours. May their pillows always be cold on both sides, they never step on a Lego, and they get nothing but green lights going home. Not that there are any traffic lights nearby.
“Have you spoken to your mother recently?” asks Grandma.
I shake my head and take a sip of water. “We really only catch up once a month or so.”
Grandma nods.
My mom is a real estate agent and a workaholic. As much as I admire her drive and ambition, having zero work/life balance is not for me. Mind you, my ex was locked in on the corporate ladder. There’s a small chance I don’t always make the best choices. Time to turn that around.