Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
My bare legs stretch over his lap. One of his inked hands moves up and down my leg, settling on my kneecap for a few seconds before moving again.
“I’m saving you from a dull read, wolf scout.” He flips another page.
He’d say everything on this planet is a dull read because he rarely reads, and he already folded the cover and dog-earred the pages just to irritate me.
“I’ve read that philosophy book before,” I tell him.
His eyes flit to me, a spark of amusement in them. “I know. You have a hard-on for Cicero. There are little highlight marks and scribbles on basically every line.”
I almost smile, and I lick my dry lips. “Not every fucking line.”
He flashes the page he’s on. It’s annotated to hell and back.
“Fine,” I concede. “I like Cicero.” I lie on top of the hospital sheets, my throbbing right arm secured in a loose sling. A thin blue hospital gown reaches my thighs and hides the reddish-bluish bruises that mar my abs and chest.
My sore body thuds in a harsh rhythm like I’ve been run over a billion-and-one times, but I have the best distraction in front of me.
“He loves Cicero,” Farrow repeats as he skims the book.
“Likes,” I correct.
His biceps look ripped in a Yale T-shirt, but the crew-neck conceals the symmetrical pirate ships on his collarbones and inked skull on his sternum. He said he gave Winona his black button-down for her busted lip, so he ended up borrowing the shirt from Oscar’s gym bag.
Farrow flips another page. His speed-reading is fucking annoying.
Another page turns.
More seriously, he asks me, “Why do you like him?”
“You jealous?” I try my hand at teasing my boyfriend.
His brows slowly lift at me like I’m the geekiest fucking geek that ever did geek. “Of a dead Roman philosopher?”
“Yeah.”
“No,” he says like I’ve lost my mind. “There’s no competition living or dead.” He skims the next page.
I try to shift my arm, but pain shoots up my shoulder. I bite down and stay still, and if Farrow can tell I’m hurting, he doesn’t nag me.
Thank God.
I already have two enormously worried parents who stopped by about fifteen minutes ago. My mom brought a towering stack of my favorite comics and philosophy texts. To help distract me from the pain while I wait for news about surgery on my collarbone.
She also gave Farrow a tight hug and had to “air hug” me. And my dad—he was choked up, glassy-eyed. They’re just grateful I’m alive. The paramedics told them that if Farrow didn’t release air from my lungs, I probably would’ve died before they arrived.
But if you know my dad at all, he’s a hard sell. Saving my life is like half-a-brownie point. For my mom, Farrow earned every brownie that ever existed in every universe.
I watch my boyfriend flip another page. “Cicero is timeless,” I tell him, trying to explain what’s always hard for me: why do I like x, y, z? I have too many reasons, and they all jumble together at once. “…a lot of thinkers and theorists derive from his ideas and philosophy.” I pause. “He wasn’t perfect, but he fought against a Roman dictatorship…and I think he would’ve been Plato’s ideal philosopher.”
Farrow raises the book somewhat, just to read, “‘However short your life may be, it will still be long enough to live honestly and decently.’” He looks at me. “Sounds like you.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking hard, “but what if I want to live longer at the risk of being less decent?”
Farrow sucks in a breath, his hand stopping on my knee again. “You’re posing that philosophical question to the wrong man.”
“Why?” I try to sit up more.
“Because nine-times-out-of-ten, I’m going to tell you to take any risk, and if it means you’ll live longer, then there’s actually no debate.” Farrow flips a page, his eyes drifting between me and the book. Until he’s just looking at me. “Tonight shook you up a little bit.” It’s not a question.
He can see.
I nod. “All I know is that I know nothing, and I’m alright with that as long as you’re in my life—and that’s fucking hard for me to admit. That I’m clueless about where I go from here and what the fuck I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter as much as you matter to me. And I’m rambling…”
His lips curve upward, and he waves me on. “Keep going.”
“You,” I retort dryly.
He rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling before his gaze falls on me. “In medicine, I’ve met a lot of death, and it’s made me appreciate the present and not regret or fixate on the could’ve beens. But if something happened to you tonight and you became a could’ve been, it would’ve crushed me for the rest of my life.” His chest rises in a bigger breath, and he finishes with, “And all I know is that I know everything.”