Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
I'm not that kid now. I know what I bring to the table beyond the ball. Some part of me wants her to see it, wants her to know I'm more than she might have thought.
"Hey, stranger," I say, and my voice sounds weird. I've always been a confident guy, but around Harriet, I'm desperate to impress her.
"Hey yourself." The corner of her mouth lifts, and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.
"Did Gram get you with the surprise sleeping arrangement too?"
"Yeah. And when I tried to ask if I could sleep in her room instead—"
I laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders loosening. "Let me guess. She told you this might be her last birthday."
Harriet snorts, and the sound is so familiar it hits me square in the chest. "That's what she's been saying since I was eight."
"Eight? Damn, she's been working that angle longer than I thought."
"It's her greatest hit. Right up there with 'I'm too old to learn new technology' and then proceeding to kick everyone's ass at whatever video game the twins bring over."
The ice cracks between us, and just like that, we're laughing, and it's easier than it should be. All those years just collapsed into nothing.
Harriet shifts on the bed, tucking one leg under her, and I catch a glimpse of smooth skin above her knee that makes my brain stutter. I'm a grown man, but one look at her, and my mind starts spinning with all sorts of wicked ideas.
Normally, I'd shut it down. I would, but that requires more fucks than I'm willing to give.
"How long have you been here?" she asks.
"Got in Wednesday. Gram had a whole honey-do list waiting."
"Of course she did. What's the damage so far?"
"Fixed the dock railing, cleaned the gutters, hauled about fifteen bags of mulch around the flower beds." I stretch, feeling the good ache in my shoulders. "Your grandmother's definition of 'light yard work' is creative. She would have made a damn good coach."
"She probably watched you do it from the porch with a glass of lemonade."
"Sweet tea. And yeah, she offered commentary the whole time. It was a lesson in humility, for sure."
"I mean, Gram has been humbling everyone from us to the postman since she realized she could get away with saying things. Do you remember the time she received a box of active dry yeast instead of instant yeast, and the delivery guy got an hour's worth of lecture about how her book club would laugh at her coffee buns?"
"The very same book club she scolded for always reading historical romance instead of erotica?"
That gets another laugh out of her, and I'd forgotten what it does to me to just sit back and let Harriet talk. The way she jumps from one subject to another mid-thought and drags me happily along behind her.
This is the thing I've been starved of. Her company and just her … presence.
"So what are you up to these days?" I ask, even though I know. I might have found her faculty page or her Instagram account, which has a profile photo of the raccoon she found in middle school. I might have even Googled her on those late nights post-game when adrenaline was high, and nostalgia decided to come along for the ride.
"Research, mostly. I'm at the university now. Got a position in the literature department last year. Just landed this grant to study regional folklore preservation, which sounds incredibly boring to anyone who's not me, but I get to travel around collecting stories that are disappearing."
Yep. I know. I might have done my own share of research, but I absolutely refuse to call it stalking. "Boring is subjective."
"Right? What about you? Besides the obvious. Gram mentioned you live about an hour from where I am?"
An hour and twelve minutes, door to door. Not that I've timed it or anything. That would be creepy and desperate and pathetic. "Yeah, bought a place outside the city. Figured I should probably own something that isn't a hotel room."
"That must be nice. Having somewhere that's actually yours."
"It's quiet. Good for the off-season." What I don't say is that I picked it partly because it was close to here. Close to her. "Gram said you're still in that apartment near campus?"
She nods, and I already know it's a small one-bedroom with bookshelves covering every wall and a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, because Gram told me last year on the porch when I steered us there on purpose and let her talk.
"It's perfect for me. I don't need much space."
She tells me more about her work, and I ask questions I already know the answers to and feel guilty and delighted every time she opens up a little more.
The shirt she's wearing keeps sliding off one shoulder, and I keep losing the battle to keep my eyes on her face. The denim shorts, the way she's tucked her legs up under her, the flip-flops she kicked off and left on the floor—it's all conspiring to make me forget how to form complete sentences.