Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Fine with me,” I mumble, heading for the porch.
He rises. “No, no. I’m inviting you, Diego. That’s why … That’s why I’m telling you. About the thing. To invite you.”
I stop on the top step. Don’t quite look at him. Hand gripping the splintery railing.
And I’m a split second from saying no when he adds, “No need to answer me now. You can just come if you feel like it tomorrow. Would be a great way to meet people from around the town.”
My face scrunches up. “The hell would I need to meet people for? I don’t live here.”
“You kinda do right now.”
I’m sick of the word kinda. “Not for much longer. Second this house sells—”
“Might not sell for a while. Weeks. Months, even.”
I shoot him a look.
But I’m not sure the look I shoot him is conveying fuck off the way I mean it to, because he just smiles back and says, “Anyway, if you’re up for it tomorrow. No pressure at all. Flowerbed’s showing promise, by the way. Oh! And before I forget.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, and sets it on the railing next to my hand. Money. “For the compost. I kept the rest.” Then he brushes his hands off, nods again, and heads back over to his house.
I chew my own teeth watching him go.
Fuming.
And don’t know why.
In the blink of an eye, it’s Saturday night, and I’m standing in my dark house at the front window watching people arrive. Mindy with a casserole. Pair of guys hand-in-hand. Another pair. Each guest gets swallowed up by the house like bite-sized snacks, their laughter going muffled, fading. I put on the TV, then can’t seem to concentrate on shit. I’m about to open the garage and work on my dad’s car, but something keeps stopping me—maybe the thought of someone leaving the house, or someone else arriving, seeing me out there, wanting to ask questions, wanting conversation, all that annoying social shit. I keep sitting in the dark house, resenting every second of Wyatt’s party.
I finally retreat to the guestroom to give this book my dad swore by another chance—his favorite among his favorites—and I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t get into it. The long-winded descriptions of everything. Easygoing plot. Happy characters. Why bother giving a book your time if there isn’t any danger in it? Isn’t that the point? To be rocked off your ass, turning pages, wanting to know how the characters can possibly overcome their odds?
How else am I gonna find hope of overcoming my own?
Then I turn my head. Someone opened the curtains of Wyatt’s window. His movie night is in plain sight. An armchair with some dude in it, laughing, drink in hand. Mindy nearby with a beer and a funny look on her face like she’s listening to a confusing story someone’s telling her. The muffled sound of the party bleeds into my house through the walls because it’s so damned quiet in here.
I shut my blinds as tight as they go.
Let’s give the book another try.
Can’t made it past the third damned page.
There’s a knock. I look up so fast, the book slips off my lap and tumbles to the floor. I get up and move to the front door.
In the peephole, there stands Wyatt.
For fuck’s sake. Didn’t he say no pressure? That I don’t gotta go over there? Why’s he over here in the middle of his own party?
I pull open the door with too much force, ready to tell him off.
Until my eyes drop to the covered plate in his hands.
“Hey, not sure if you’ve eaten,” he greets me, “but thought I’d drop you off a plate. It’s sort of a mishmash of everything. Except for the ambrosia salad, which I’m saving you from, honestly. Lance tried. Lance failed. So, um …” He extends the plate to me.
I take it.
It’s heavy.
“Hope you like it. Oh, and everyone will probably still be here ‘til midnight, so … if you change your mind, you can drop by later. You work with Mindy’s husband Joel … which I guess you already know. She’s there. And a little drunk. Tipsy. I’m not. I don’t really, uh, drink. Well, not since—”
I get lost in his rambling as my gaze slides down to his lips.
Watching the way they move.
But not what they’re saying.
He has nice lips. Noticed that first time I met him. But never took the time to appreciate them until now. Too annoyed to notice how soft they look. How playful they are, even when he’s serious.
Or rambling. “So, uh, yeah, if you want …” Like right now. “Or if you just wanna meet the one who made most of that food. Billy’s his name. From, uh, T&S’s. I made none of it. Can’t take credit.”