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)
Nothing at all.
In the morning after my shower, I’m in a towel, hair dripping, standing at the counter making myself toast, when I spot activity in Wyatt’s front kitchen window. Our houses are so close, I can see the poor guy standing at his counter blinking in slow motion, like he’s trying to remember his own name.
I’m not much of a drinker. But judging from last night, neither is he, and he’s having the hangover from hell—an unintentionally hilarious thing to say about a guy who’s already late for church.
I pity him.
Just a teeny bit.
It’s when I’m getting last night’s clothing out of the wash and into the dryer that I realize I’m short an important piece.
The jacket.
Where the hell did I put the jacket?
Oh, right: I took it off before I did Wyatt’s dishes.
Seriously? I have to go back over there now?
After talking myself into it and out of it twenty times, I kick myself out the door in a pair of gym shorts and a tank and make my way over to his front porch.
With my hand on the doorknob, I almost let my ass right in like I live here before remembering myself.
I lift a fist and give the door a couple bumps.
Wyatt answers almost immediately. “Huh?”
I frown. “The hell kind of a greeting is that?”
“Sorry. I’m …” He wrinkles up his face. “It’s been a …”
I notice he’s half-dressed. Khaki pants and a loose belt missing one of the belt loops, like he slid it on and forgot to actually fasten it. One sock on, one sock off. Just a white undershirt. Hair messy. Eyes red and swollen.
He’s a mess.
An adorable mess, but still a mess.
“Did you, uh … drive us home?” he asks slowly.
“You don’t remember?”
“I … don’t remember getting home at all.” He rubs his head as he avoids looking me in the eye. “Don’t think I’ve … ever blacked out like that. Hope I didn’t, uh … do anything. Or say anything. Did I?” he asks suddenly, looking horrified by the thought. “Did I do or s-say anything weird?”
I point at the kitchen chair behind him. “I left my jacket.”
He’s completely confused by my words until he follows my line of sight. “Oh.” He goes to it—though staggers is a more fitting term—and takes it into his arms. “I didn’t even notice.” He blinks, staring at it, then turns. “Did you … bring me inside and …?” He goes quiet.
I have no idea what he’s actually asking.
Did I bring him inside and fuck his brains out?
Did I bring him inside and do his dishes and take out his trash and tuck him into bed?
I don’t answer. I come in, take the jacket from him, mumble, “Need to return this to Patty,” before heading back to the door.
He catches me on the porch. “Diego?”
I stop on the first step and turn. “What?”
“It’s just …” He swallows. Clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Licks his lips. “I feel like … like … last night … we …”
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
“I know.” He rubs his head. “I didn’t think I had.”
“It isn’t good for you.” I nod at him. “You’re gonna be late.”
He looks at me, blinking. “What?”
“To church.” After a few more seconds of just standing here staring at each other, I frown. “You gonna be okay to drive? Or do I need to take you there myself?”
“I-I’m okay,” he insists.
“I’ll do it,” I tell him. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, it’s fine, I’m okay. Just a little headache. Everything’s … loud. Even when it’s quiet. Y’know what I mean? And …” He takes a breath and lifts his eyebrows. “Do you want to come? With me?”
That question is like a dart to the heart.
I’m instantly transported to the last time I stepped foot inside a church.
All the constant murmuring behind my back.
Fake condolences and bullshit.
The stifling air.
Weepy, piteous glances.
“I just came for the jacket,” I mutter half to myself, then head the rest of the way off the porch.
He isn’t done. “Diego?”
I stop again, now in the grass. “Yes …?”
He’s in the grass, too, right in front of me. Quick on his feet, I guess. Didn’t even hear him come down the steps.
“I just … I just want to know if …”
“You want to know what?”
He breathes funny as he tries to collect his thoughts. They’re slow. I notice how he’s slouching, too. How he keeps looking down at my chest instead of my eyes.
The guy is literally terrified he did something wrong. Or plain ticked me off. Is it such a bad thing to enjoy him worrying a little?
“What’s the problem, Wyatt?” I ask, trying not to torture him too badly. “You think we got it on after the party or something?”
His eyes glue to mine, unblinkingly.
He swallows.
“That it?” I take a step toward him. “You think … after soiling that priceless rug in that fancy-ass palace last night …” I bring my voice low, right up to his ear. “… with my fingers inside you …” Then I pull back and get a look at his face. “… that I drove you all the way to your house … and had my way with you?”