Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Caleb pauses, gathering his thoughts silently. “I think… the ending was fucked up.”
I laugh and set the book back down. “I guess I thought so too, although I wouldn’t have used those exact words.”
“Sorry.”
The dim light from his bedside lamp glows, casting a warm light in the cozy space.
“You’re really quiet. What are you thinking right now?” I ask, because I’m still tipsy and because I really want to know what he’s thinking.
“You’re not supposed to ask guys that,” comes his low reply.
“Why?”
“It’s basic Guy 101. Even I know that.” He’s quiet for a few more seconds, eyebrows furrowed, concentrating hard. “Besides… you probably wouldn’t like the answer.”
“But maybe that’s where you’d be wrong,” I say, walking idly over to the bookshelf and studying the titles so purposefully arranged there. I glance over my shoulder before adding, “Maybe I would.”
I hear him grunt, but he doesn’t reply, so I momentarily turn to face him.
“Well?”
His mouth opens, then closes, and I can sense his internal debate. Whatever is going on inside his beautiful head, he’s afraid to say it out loud. And here I thought I was the awkward one…
With my back still turned to him, I continue studying the shelf—the books, the collection of hockey trophies and medals, the random knickknacks and about a dozen framed photographs of himself in various states of hockey play. Photos with his parents at his high school graduation, a picture of him wakeboarding, and one with a gray-haired old lady that we’ll assume is his grandma.
Everything is lined up and displayed orderly.
I pick up a Wayne Gretzky bobble-head, give it a gentle shake, and watch the head bounce back and forth on the small spring inside the neck, then quietly set it back on the shelf. “Hmmm,” I mutter.
He hesitates. “Hmmm what?”
I chuckle as I continue my inspection. “Nothing. Just hmmm.”
Caleb crosses his arms and scowls with a pout. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Why did you say hmmm?”
I walk toward him—toward the door—and smile up into his frowning face. So serious, this one. “You probably wouldn’t like the answer.” I mimic his earlier response sarcastically, embarrassed to have even asked in the first place, and reach for the door handle.
I paste an uncertain smile on my face, and my long, lithe fingers slowly but deliberately turn the handle, then give the door a gentle tug. “We should probably get back to the party,” I state.
Suddenly, Caleb’s large calloused hand is on my upper arm, stopping me from turning the knob further, and I glance down, staring at the loose grip he has on my bicep but making no move to back away. Nevertheless, he yanks his hand back like I just singed him with a branding iron, and apologizes. “Shit, sorry.”
Just when I think maybe, just maybe, he is about to put the moves on me, he backs up to give me a wide berth, and I pull the door wide open. Music from the state-of-the-art sound system immediately pounds up the staircase, the bass vibrating the walls up and down the hall until it reaches his bedroom and assaults my eardrums—and probably his too.
“How can you stand living in a party house?” I ask as we step out into the hall, him shutting the door behind him and checking to make sure it’s locked. “This is nuts.”
If possible, there are even more bodies crowding the hallway than before.
Caleb is close, leaning in to whisper in my ear. His warm breath against my neck nearly causes me to shiver, but I’m able to resist the urge. Thank God. “It’s not always this bad. The boys are getting it all out of their system before our season starts.”
I feel his hand on the small of my back as we navigate our way down the long corridor, guiding me as we side-step students along the way, getting shoved and jostled as people stand, dance, and yell to each other over the music—most of them blocking a straight path to the stairwell.
Eventually, we make it back to our friends, who are standing in the same spot in the living room, creating a small conversation circle near the fireplace.
I walk over to Jenna and Molly, inserting myself in between them. “What did I miss?” I ask, taking the cup of beer Jenna holds out to me and taking a sip to pacify her. It’s warm and flat, but at this point, I don’t care.
“Um, no. You don’t get to ask us what you missed. First you tell us where you and Caleb Lockhart disappeared to,” Jenna demands with a mischievous glimmer in her eye, her large silver hoop earrings shining in the dim overhead light.
“Nowhere. Just the bathroom.” I avoid her eyes and chew on the rim of the red cup.
Stephan Randolph’s girlfriend, Chelsea, has joined them, tapping Jenna on the arm and giving her a commiserating look. “Just the bathroom. That’s what they all say.”