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)
“Our chat’s over,” I growl.
“Is your guy someone you’d fight for? … someone who’d fight for you?”
I stop again and turn to her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you seriously incapable of minding your own business?”
“That’s why you’re struggling today. He’s the perfect guy. And you’re perfectly miserable for him. And you’re afraid he’ll hurt you and leave just like your family and that big fish tank did.”
I work something in my jaw.
Trying not to spit out something ugly.
She must see it, because finally, at fucking last, she backs off. “Look. Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, I can see it in those pretty eyes of yours, you’re probably full of shit, self-sabotaging, and just need to get over yourself and make amends.” She makes some weird-ass gesture in the air that doesn’t make sense. “Grow the new flowers, get what I’m saying? Mow those old ones. Even a dead lawn grows back after a harsh-ass winter. Want some more metaphors? I can poop ‘em out faster than Shakespeare.” She gives me a little smirk, says, “Good luck,” and makes her way back to the church, leaving me staring after her in confusion.
I’m drenched in sweat by the time I get home.
Sit in the undeservedly refreshing AC with the TV on for noise in the living room, box full of memories still dumped on the coffee table, staring at the wall, the ceiling fan twirling over me.
You’re not my boyfriend.
Wyatt’s words keep chasing their tails around my head, over and over.
And that chick who bullied me into conversing with her.
Convincing me for half a second that I stand a chance fighting for whatever’s growing between me and Wyatt. Something better than what was festering before. Something I can’t name.
Maybe neither can he.
Can’t believe that woman got under my skin so fast.
Fucking know-it-all psychology minors.
The next second, a skeletal woman with giant, bushy hair and glassy eyes emerges from the depths of the hallway like a ghost.
I literally shit myself and scream.
Until I realize it’s Henrietta. “Didn’t you get my text? Showing in an hour. More potential buyers. Sunday’s best day for ‘em. Why do you look like you fought with a toilet and lost?” She squints at the TV. “I hate reality shows. Ain’t nothin’ real about them except human beings starved for attention.”
I’m finally able to breathe again. “I’ll get outta your hair.”
“Not before you help me fix the place up. Bathroom’s clogged, swear I didn’t do it, but I did sort of race in here after stopping at a hoagie place off the freeway and ain’t nothin’ about that meal’s sittin’ right with me, not even the Dr. Pepper. Why’s all this shit out here on the coffee table?”
I’m learning quick with Henrietta there’s no filter and no limit and no damned boundaries.
The buyers arrive sooner than expected. I haven’t left yet. So when Henrietta lies to them and says I’m just “another interested party”, I guess in some effort to pressure the actual buyers into thinking there’s competition for the house, I go right past them on my way out and mutter, “Don’t inspect that bathroom too close. Something’s haunting the pipes in there.”
Henrietta tells me without any words how much she does not appreciate my extra commentary.
I head out.
Stop on the porch.
And realize I have nowhere to go.
Wyatt’s back from church, judging by the presence of his car in the driveway.
I could go over. Knock. See if he’s up for killing some time.
Pretend we didn’t just fight the other day.
Not talk about Mr. Bellamy so I don’t blow up.
Not talk about the way he lets the town steamroll over him so he doesn’t blow up.
The next minute, my phone buzzes. I look down.
Speak of the devil. A text from Wyatt.
SOS, it reads.
I squint. Then look over at his house.
He’s at the kitchen window staring right back.
—25—
Wyatt
Not gonna lie, that man looks so good.
Diego on his porch.
Phone in hand.
Staring over at me through the window like I just grew a pink fuzzy rabbit out of the top of my head.
Probably trying to decide whether to answer my SOS.
Or leave me drowning.
I perfectly expect him to roll his eyes and walk away. Go back into his house. Flick me off. The way we ended things wasn’t that great. Maybe it’d provide me a kind of closure I need.
Like: Diego and I really aren’t a great match.
And when that house sells, he’ll become a memory, and I’ll be Mr. Bellamy’s favorite doormat for the rest of time.
If doormat is even a low enough word.
Diego leaves his porch.
Crosses the lawn.
His heavy feet coming up the steps one at a time.
I’ve opened the door before he reaches the top step.
He stops. “Why do you look so surprised?”
I open my mouth, choke, then manage, “I wasn’t sure if you’d answer or … or tell me to fuck off.”