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)
My mind flashes instantly to the night I snuck up to the fence and caught him on the phone with his sister.
“I’ll check the bathroom,” I decide, leaving the curtains alone.
Strangely, we circle back to the bedroom at the same time. We stare at the bed. Not sure if Wyatt’s having the same thoughts I’m having. That some snooty-ass family is about to sniff around here where we’ve done our monkey business more than once.
“Do you have any air freshener?” he asks.
I eye him. “Sure. I’ve got eighty different scents in the closet, right next to a black light wand our potential buyers can use to inspect the sheets.”
“While I normally appreciate your awe-inspiring sarcasm, you do actually want to get your aunt and uncle’s house sold, right?”
His question hits me like a bad odor.
I don’t like being asked that question for some reason. And I don’t care to answer.
So I grunt, “Room’s fine,” then head out to give the kitchen another looking over. After a few minutes, Wyatt joins me, quietly wiping at a smudge on the microwave.
The realtor doesn’t knock. She lets herself right in. Giant curly hair and hoop earrings. Thin as a pole. Cigarette hanging from her blood-red lips. “Really?” she cries out, her voice raspy and weak. “No one put in a pan of gosh’ed-dang cookies? It’s get-‘er-sold 101, for God’s sakes! Didn’t your aunt tell you?”
Wyatt saves me from coming right back at that woman by stepping in front of me with one of his customer smiles. “I’ve got cookie dough at my house next-door I’ll be happy to run and get.”
She lifts a crinkly grocery bag full of stuff I didn’t see she had and plops it onto the counter. “Don’t bother, son. Picked up some pre-made crap from the Kroger one town over. I’ll pop ‘em in the microwave, should do. What’s that ugly clunker doin’ out front?” she asks suddenly, eyeing me. “Lottie sure didn’t say nothin’ about an ugly clunker sittin’ smack dab in the middle of the driveway.”
I’m about to go off again when Wyatt says, “A passion project. I can cover it with a tarp.”
“That’s worse. Never mind. I’ll make up a story.” She pulls out a container of cookies from the bag, pops it open, helps herself to one, then frowns at us. “You boys don’t plan to stay here, do you? Buyers hate sellers skulkin’ around. Ruins my mojo, too.”
“Wouldn’t wanna ruin that,” I mumble, looking her up and down as my jaw sets tight.
Wyatt turns to me. “We can hang over at my house while the realtor’s working her magic.”
“Henrietta. That’s Henry with an etta. And I don’t do magic no more,” she adds, pointing at him with her half-eaten cookie. “Not since the incident back in ’98.”
Wyatt and I share a look.
“Yeah,” I answer him. “Your house.”
Henrietta grabs a plate down from the cupboard, spreads the cookies out onto it with her bare hands, and slides the whole thing into the microwave. I stare down at the crumbs she just scattered across the counter.
It isn’t until we’re in Wyatt’s house that I finally crack. “That whack job is who my tía and tío trusted with selling the house?”
“Should we eat something?” offers Wyatt. “I, for one, haven’t had a single bite since lunch.”
“I’m fine.” I go to the window and watch, annoyed.
He goes to the fridge and looks over at me. “You’re not gonna stand there and just—”
“Yes, I’m gonna stand here and just.”
He says nothing more, pulling something out to make. No one shows up. I’m still staring out the window when he’s at the table with a salad. I notice he set out two bowls even though I said I was fine. Giving up at the window—whoever these mystery buyers are, they’re late—I take a seat with Wyatt, who’s already filling me a bowl even though neither of us said anything.
“Does it feel wrong?” I ask as he serves me. “Eating salad all of the time when you grow plants for a living?”
He frowns in thought. “I’ve wondered the same thing about farmers who eat their own chickens and cows.” He shrugs. “Then I just thank myself for not naming my salads, and we’re all good. Do you want something to drink?”
“A beer would be nice.”
He blinks. “I … I don’t think I have …”
“Doesn’t matter. Water’s fine.”
“I might have wine, if you want? Could open a bottle of—”
“Don’t, it’s fine.”
“Maybe some juice? I got apple, orange, pineapple, grape …”
“Wyatt.”
“Or I could take us to someplace like Tumbleweeds, get a nice beer and a steak? Or Pepperoni Pirate for pizza and—? Oh, I don’t think they serve alcohol. Maybe we could—”
“All I wanna do right now is eat George and chill.”
He looks down at his bowl. “You did not just name my salad.”