Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I pull on his shoulder and guide him to lie back down in the bed with me, nose to nose, just as the song on my laptop flips to the next random song on my computer: “The Distance” by Cake.
“Oh, God, I love Cake,” Josh says.
“Me, too. I saw them last year. They were fantastic.”
“You did? In Seattle?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw them in L.A. last year,” Josh says.
“Oh my God, the dude with the trumpet—”
“I know,” Josh says cutting me off enthusiastically. “I couldn’t take my eyes off him the whole time. He was singing backup-vocals and playing keys and trumpet, all at the same time. Incredible.”
“Incredible,” I agree. I sing the chorus to “Sheep Go To Heaven, Goats Go To Hell,” one of my favorite Cake songs, and Josh laughs.
“I love that song,” he says, nuzzling his nose into mine in the dark.
“Well, I love you,” I reply.
He presses his body against mine. “That Plain White T’s song was a stroke of genius—utterly diabolical,” Josh says. “Thank you for that.”
“I’ve been dying to tell you,” I say. “I thought I was gonna explode if I didn’t finally tell you. I figured if that song plus the thing with Bridgette didn’t finally make you break down and say the magic words to me, then nothing ever would.”
“What do you mean the thing with Bridgette?”
“Yeah. The thing with Bridgette. You know. I figured the way to unlock your tortured heart once and for all was through a trap door marked ‘Sick Fuck.’” I smile smugly in the dark. “And I was right, of course.”
Josh laughs. “Oh my God. You think you manipulated me into saying ‘I love you’ tonight?”
“No. Not manipulated you—more like made a safe place for you to say it. I’d say I ‘set the stage’ for you to say it.”
“Well, guess what, Madame Terrorist? I was gonna say it tonight no matter what. So there.”
I scoff.
“It’s true. I had everything planned. I had a romantic dinner lined up at my house and I was gonna tell you tonight.”
“Mmm hmm. Sure thing, Playboy.”
“Babe. I had a violinist and a cellist—a chef and waiter. Five-star meal. Candles. I was gonna do this whole romantic thing.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. I had no idea. Thank you. But you wouldn’t have said it unless I masterfully unlocked you—I guarantee it.”
Josh chuckles. “Nope. I was already gonna say it.”
“Hmmph,” I say, completely unconvinced.
“Hmmph?”
“Yes. Hmmph.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Nope.”
“You wanna bet?”
“We can’t bet because there’s no way to objectively prove it.”
“Oh, yes, there is.”
“Prove it, then.”
“What do I get when I do?”
“I dunno. If you prove it, then I’ll decide after the fact what you win. You’ll just have to take a leap of faith.” I roll my eyes, even in the dark. “But just because you had a violinist doesn’t prove you would have taken the next step and told me you love me. In fact, I think it’s highly unlikely you would have said it with a violinist standing there breathing down your neck.”
Josh pauses. “Hmm. You might be right about that part. But I still would have said it—maybe after dinner, when we were alone in bed.”
“I highly doubt that,” I say. “You needed an expert push from a woman who knows you better than you know yourself.”
“No, I didn’t—I was gonna do it all by myself.”
“Nope,” I say.
“Ha!” he says. “Get ready to eat crow, Madame Terrorist.” Josh sits up, turns on the lamp next to him, and lies back down next to me on his side, smiling devilishly.
“Well?” I ask. “Why are you smiling like that? All you’ve proved is that you know how to turn on a lamp. That proves absolutely nothing.”
“Look at my arm,” he whispers softly.
“Hmm?”
“Look at my arm, babe.”
I sit up and peer at Josh’s muscled arm in the dim light and instantly gasp.
Holy shitballs. Josh has a brand new tattoo on the outside of his left bicep—a golden cat with big blue eyes, long lashes, and a mischievous feline-smile on her sleek face. Wow. She looks just like me if I were reincarnated as a cartoon cat.
For a long moment, I study Josh’s tattoo in detail, marveling at it’s amazingness. The cartoon-cat version of me is wearing a pink collar adorned with a dangling “PG” charm at its center and she’s holding a martini glass filled with two olives in her slender paw. And, best of all, her bottom legs are entangled in a swirl of barbed wire that trails from her tail and wraps clear around Josh’s bicep.
“Josh,” I gasp. “You got a girlfriend-barbed-wire-double-social-suicide-tattoo!”
“Yep,” Josh says, his face bursting with excitement.
I laugh gleefully.
Josh puts his finger under my chin, his eyes smoldering. “I know I’ve gotten some questionable tattoos in my life, babe, but do you really think I’d have committed double social suicide if I wasn’t planning to tell you I love you?”