Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“I think your dad would think it is.”
“My dad took my mom’s virginity while she was in high school. He’s not an expert on chivalry. Did you call me just to say that you went to Pilates in a unitard? I’m fine with it. Just curious.”
“Nah, I’m just …”
“Just? Is something wrong?”
I sigh, leaning my head back. “This job. It’s so weird. And I’m kinda tired of not knowing what the deal is with Callie. So today, I flat-out asked her if she’s depressed and wants to kill herself.”
“Whoa … seriously?”
“Yeah. And I couldn’t take it back.”
“How did she react? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘What are you going to do if I say yes?’ So I said she must be depressed. She never answered me. But I threw out the possibility someone died, and I just got the feeling that was it. I’m still sitting in her car, but she’s inside. I’m supposed to check with Rupert to see if he needs me to do anything for him. I suck at this job.”
“Why did you apply for it?”
“It’s … uh … a long story. I’d better get inside before they wonder where I’m at.”
“I like long stories.”
“Noted. Later. K?”
“Later,” she says.
Chapter Eighteen
Flynn
“How was Pilates?” Rupert asks when I poke my head into his office after changing out of my unitard.
“What exactly do you do?” I step inside and collapse onto his sofa. “I mean, you put on a suit every day. But why?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t aware there was a performance review today,” he says, leaning back in his desk chair while adjusting his loose tie.
“I think I fucked up,” I say.
“Of course, you did.” He smirks. “But you’ll have to be more specific.”
I flop onto my back, and stare at the ceiling with my hands folded on my chest. “Who died?”
Crickets.
I turn my head to look at him.
He steeples his fingers under his chin. “Why do you ask?”
“I hate that question,” I grumble, returning my focus to the ceiling. “It’s such a stupid question. Obviously if someone asks a question, they do it because they want to know the answer.”
“Let me rephrase. What makes you think someone died?”
“I was trying to figure out why your wife would want to kill herself—”
“I never said she wanted to kill herself.”
“Dude”—I sit up—“you said I needed to inspire her to live. I know I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I’m not the dumbest either.”
He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Some people just exist. They wake, go through the same boring routine, sleep, and do it all over again the next day. And the day after, and the day after. They exist. And they do it with no inclination not to exist. But that’s not living.”
“So Mrs. Rawlings is boring, and you want me to inspire her to be more exciting?”
He studies me for several seconds before shaking his head.
“I hate being kept in the dark. That’s how I fuck up. And this morning I asked Mrs. Rawlings if she wanted to kill herself.”
He winces.
“It’s not my fault. You blackmailed me into taking this position, as if a muse is an everyday job. Then you made me think she’s suicidal, but no other explanation. You’re a shitty communicator.”
He squints at me.
I clear my throat. “Respectfully.”
“Well”—he frowns like he’s mocking me—“if you say respectfully after insulting someone, it makes everything okay.”
“Is it your son?”
“My son?”
“Did your son die? Thinking back, I had a conversation with Mrs. Rawlings about him. It wasn’t a long one. But when I asked where he lived, she said, ‘Wherever he wants.’ And that seemed a little weird. But now that I think about it, maybe she meant his spirit. Like a ghost or something.”
Mr. Rawlings twists his lips to the side for a second. “I can see how you might think that.”
“So did he die? God, I’m not trying to be insensitive. If he died, that’s tragic. But tragedy is part of life. You wouldn’t be the first people to have lost a child. But when you keep everything a secret, it makes it impossible for everyone around you not to fuck up and say the wrong thing.”
His forehead wrinkles, and I think that’s my answer. Now I feel like an asshole for a second time. If he cries, I’m outta here.
“A week after my eleventh birthday,” I say, “I was placed in a new foster home. The couple had lost their only two children in a school bus accident like a year or two earlier. I’m not sure why they thought fostering a child was a good idea. The wife got tears in her eyes every time she looked at me. And her husband told me to just mind my own business and stay out of the way unless I could do something other than make her cry. Sometimes I see that same sadness in Mrs. Rawlings’ eyes.”