Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Thunk!
My forehead falls forward onto the paper I’ve been doodling. I stay there long after the old gentleman leaves and Sarah goes back to sorting shelves, pretending she’s not looking at me like she’s watching a crazy person.
This sucks.
With a bad book, you can just close it.
With life, it’s never that easy.
I have a sampler of my favorite books piled up beside me, starting with my pretty, leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice.
Then a massive Edgar Allan Poe collection, poems by brilliant new poet Dakota Burns and my old fave W.S. Merwin, several Harry Potters, half the books ever written by Kristin Hannah, and even a few fun reads by Lauren Landish and Brittney Sahin.
But nothing’s working today.
That’s how you know it’s bad.
The rainbow portal to happy reading world just won’t open.
Ethan, soul-sucking lizardman from the heartless deep, has stolen my ability to enjoy books.
I hate him.
“Is nothing sacred?” I whine out loud, looking around my apartment like I’m expecting the tall stack of thrillers on my coffee table to answer me.
Nope.
I contemplate pouring myself a drink.
I’m not a big solo drinker, but I think Margot might’ve left some vodka and Bailey’s here from the last time we had a girls’ night.
Right now, the idea of sitting and drinking alone has a Bridget Jones kinda feel.
If I dramatize my life, it doesn’t have to feel so real.
But then that searing hot poker jabs me in the chest again.
I briefly forget how to breathe, function, or generally survive, but a girl can’t have everything.
For now, I’ll settle for a little peace and quiet.
Then the buzzer sounds, gratingly loud from the intercom on the wall.
Ugh.
Pretty sure my heart leaves my body, cartwheeling through a whole panicked gymnastics routine.
Ethan.
That’s my first thought.
It’s not even a sensible one.
Mr. McHeartstabby wouldn’t just drop in uninvited without so much as messaging me. There’s no scenario where I open the door and find him standing behind it, ready to apologize and eat his last cruel words.
Still, my mind goes wild with possibilities.
I walk to the door and he’s standing there, handsomely disheveled and slightly wet even though it’s not raining.
His eyes are haunted.
“Pages, I’m fucking sorry,” he says breathlessly, his voice torn. Over me. “I never meant to hurt you. I love you. Let’s start over. What can I do to make it up to you?”
For a second, I just stand there, sad and conflicted and barely breathing before I answer.
“Will you jump into a pool of acid?”
Ha.
You know it’s a fantasy when it’s too perfect for real life.
The buzzer growls again, shattering my daydream.
Just in case it is him, I hide my depleted box of tissues on the table and scoop all the used ones into the trash.
No need for him to see I’ve been crying over him.
But when I answer the intercom, it’s not Ethan.
I knew it wouldn’t be, but my heart still sinks through the floor.
Mom shows up a second later after I let her in.
“Hi, Hattie,” she says in front of my door, holding a small white box. “I thought you might enjoy this.”
I peer through the plastic windowpane at the pie underneath.
…did I wake up in a mirror universe?
Because my health freak mother brought me blueberry pie.
Not an egg white quiche horror which might have a few blueberries baked into it with piles of spinach.
Not a blueberry smoothie that looks chalky brown from protein powder.
Not some low calorie ‘blueberry’ ice cream that’s actually just a lump of frozen coconut cream flavored with crushed blueberry skins.
An honest to God pie made with sugar.
“Mom, are you okay?” I croak, sounding as broken as I feel.
“Yes, dear. Can I come in?” she asks.
I step aside, waving her into my apartment with the offering.
She wrinkles her nose when she sees the place, and I sniff, wondering when I last showered.
No one at work hinted I smell, but I’m losing track of time.
Then again, no one at work has looked me dead in the eye since the news spread that Ethan and I broke up.
Devastating, really.
That’s what happens in a town as small as Portland with celebrities you can count on one hand.
A fake relationship turned into a very real breakup, and it’s already public.
No doubt the gossip accounts are tweeting all sorts of awful rumors.
They probably say Ethan figured out he can do better.
Maybe he’s already met someone else.
The thought makes my heart pinch like a fist squeezing blood from it.
Mom carries the pie into the kitchen, and I trail after her like a lost puppy.
“Why don’t we open some windows? It’s so stuffy in here.” She takes off her tote bag and places it on the table.
Her tone isn’t what shocks me, but that pie leaves me gobsmacked again when I notice the label on it from a local, bona fide bakery.
“Mom—” I stop. Unsure how to continue.