Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I know what it’s like to need space to figure shit out. I’ll let her know I’m here when she’s ready to talk and if she needs me. I text her on the thread with only the two of us.
Me: Hey, you good? Us gems gotta stick together.
Tessa: Lemme guess. Mama Mel is worried.
Me: LOL! Maybe a little, but does she have reason?
Tessa: You of all people know how it goes. Up and down is par for the course. Nothing I can’t handle. I’m fine. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.
Not even an hour ago, I was reassuring my aunts of the same thing. Asking them to trust that I know my limits and can take care of myself. That’s all Tessa’s asking for.
So I need to give it to her.
Me: Okay. Well I’m always just one SOS away. You know that, right?
Tessa: I know, gem. Love you.
Me: Love you, too, gem.
I set the phone on the coffee table and lie down on the couch to nurse my turkey baby. An hour later, my feet are back in their rightful place, Aunt Grace’s lap, when my phone rings on the coffee table. If I can see Monk’s name on the screen from here, surely they can.
“Is that…” Aunt Grace tilts her head for a better view of my phone. “Monk Bellamy?”
“I need to grab this.” I leap off the couch and scoop up my phone.
“Tell Wright we said hello,” Aunt Roz calls.
Ignoring the decibels of curiosity in her voice, I dash to the back of our small house and don’t answer the call until I’m safely behind the closed door of my bedroom.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Monk says, his voice raspy and shiver-inducing. “Got your text. Thought I’d just call.”
“Very elder millennial of you,” I tease.
“Maybe I’m a boomer at heart.” The deep rumble of his chuckle makes my belly flip. “Sometimes I think I should have lived in Dessi’s timeline. Better music.”
“Can you imagine meeting them? Dessi and Cal? Billie and Bessie? Zora and Baldwin?” I stretch out on my bed. “I wonder if they knew they were shaping not just a generation, but the world? With their music and their stories and their art.”
“You can never really appreciate how consequential something is when you’re in the middle of it.”
“Aren’t you philosophical tonight? Deep discussions over the dinner table?”
“Half my family is musicians and singers,” he says wryly. “So there was more singing than deep discussions. We wore that piano out.”
“You sang?” I ask, a wistful note in my voice. “It’s been so long since I heard you sing. I mean, of course I’ve heard you on TV or other stuff, but I mean… in person.”
“If you fly back to LA early,” he says, his tone roughening with gravel and smoke, “I’ll sing for you.”
My poor hummingbird heart may not survive this conversation.
I bite my lip, but there’s no holding back this goofy grin I’m so glad he can’t see. “And where would you sing for me?”
“I have a piano at my place. A few actually.” He pauses and I have no idea what to do with that empty space throbbing on the phone between us. “I’m flying to LA tomorrow. When do you get back?”
“Um, I was planning on Sunday, but the aunties are working my reserve nerve.”
“Fly back early. Come see my piano.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
His laugh is dark and rich, fine as Turkish coffee. “No pressure. There’s plenty of time for you to see it.”
I want to do more than see it. I want to taste it and feel it and choke on it.
Not the piano…
“Have you thought about what we discussed?” he asks.
My breath stutters and my cheeks burn. This is ridiculous. I’m not in high school, but tell my heart that with its schoolgirl flutter.
“You mean about us getting busy behind everybody’s backs?” I ask, deliberately injecting some lightness.
“Yeah, Brown Sugar,” he says, the smile in his voice. “Getting busy. What do you think?”
“What do you think?”
“I asked first, but I have no problem telling you I’m down.” He pauses, the silence swelling with possibility. “I want this.”
When I’m manic, I behave recklessly, impulsively. I do things out of character and later regret them. This is not like that. I’m stable and in my right mind when I succumb to this attraction that has never gone away. It’s a calculation—lust times horny, divided by consequences, subtract guilt, equals don’t give a fuck. And regret will not factor in. Even laying it out like a formula, the prospect of doing this with Monk makes my heart feel like it might float right out of my body.
“I want it, too,” I reply, my words no higher than a whisper, but certain.
“Then come home.”
THIRTY-THREE
Monk
When the doorbell rings, I force myself to walk at a normal pace, but the measured steps are at odds with everything else. My blood surges like a hot spring. My mouth goes dry with anticipation. And my heart is racing like I’m some horny pubescent kid. When I reach the door, I pause with my hand on the knob and give myself a second to put this in perspective before I take this step with Verity.