Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
But a moment later, the door swung open completely, and we saw that it wasn’t a cat ghost at all.
Nothing even close.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Ori was here.
Ori fuckin’ Adams.
Seeing him walk in was more surprising than if Taylor Swift herself had just walked through those doors. The energy in the place felt different all at once.
He was carrying a giant bottle of champagne that had a big, decorative gold ribbon attached to the top of it, along with an envelope. In the other hand, he had a couple of notebooks and his cell phone on top.
I clicked my tongue.
The nerve on him. Waltzing in here like this, after shitting on the idea earlier tonight, acting like he was above it all?
He walked over and I saw that his jacket was coated in a thin dusting of gold glitter.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but you don’t have to bring your own alcohol to bars,” I joked, looking down and running my finger through a particularly gold-dusted portion of his sleeve. “What the hell is this?”
“If I’d known this ribbon would shed this much glitter, I’d have gotten a six-pack of Bud instead,” Ori said, setting the champagne in front of me. “Here. It’s for you.”
The gold bow on top was so big that when he set it down, it almost hit one of the green pendant lights hanging above the bar.
“For me?” I asked.
“I didn’t have a thank-you gift ready when I got to your place, but… better late than never,” he said, sliding onto the bar stool next to mine.
“You don’t have to get me a gift,” I said. “Jesus Christ, what is this—”
I opened the envelope to see a gift certificate for Archie May’s, the nearby animal feed store. The amount on the certificate was two hundred dollars.
“For the horses,” Ori said. “I know you always talk about having to make trips to Archie’s.”
Fuck.
That was a really nice gift.
I was surprised he was thinking of me at all, after I left for the bar.
I stared at Ori in disbelief, but he acted like everything was normal. Even on Christmas, he’d always been the type to give handmade art as gifts, but this was above and beyond.
I slid the bottle over toward Ori. “Hey. I know you can’t afford this right now. You can return it.”
Ori waved me off. “I’m not returning your gift. I know you don’t want me in your house, and it’s the least I can do.”
I shook my head, pausing for a moment. “You don’t have to buy me expensive shit every time you feel guilty about mouthing off to me.”
He puffed out a laugh. “Trust me, I don’t feel guilty about that.”
Ori ordered a margarita and Kane slid it across the bar a minute later. I looked at him sidelong, taking him in.
His hair was the same as always—dark, a little shaggy on top, and probably still softer than a bunny. Ori really had filled out since high school. He sure as shit wasn’t gangly anymore. He’d showered and changed since I left home, and the cut of his black jacket was stylish, worn over a pristine white T-shirt, black jeans, and white sneakers.
Covered in fuckin’ gold glitter, now, though.
Don’t make fun of the glitter.
Or how clean his shoes are.
Or about how quickly they’re going to get dirty working at the diner.
Back in the day, I’d have made jokes about any one of those things, but I knew better now. When I was a teenager, my sense of humor had been clumsier, and more brash. It was part of what had caused us to fight too much.
In those times I’d tell him something he wore looked too fancy, then he’d tell me to piss off and that my “football bro” clothes were dumb. No, they’re stylish, I’d say, and I look damn good. It made sense why he got the impression I had a big ego.
I didn’t want to make fun of him now, anyway.
These days, I just wanted to know who he was, again.
“What are the notebooks?” I asked him.
“Mini sketchbooks, with little watercolor palettes attached,” he said, showing me the inside.
It was a tiny spiral-bound book, each page about the size of a Polaroid. On the first few pages, Ori had painted various little watercolor scenes from his road trip—one of a motel, one of the Beetle, one of a sunset.
“They’re really good,” I said.
“I try to do one tiny painting a day,” he said. “Kind of like a watercolor diary. I miss some days, but it’s fun.”
“You could have just painted me one instead of buying me crazy gifts.”
“This stuff shouldn’t seem all that expensive to you, anyway, Finn,” he said, shutting the sketchbook and looking back up at me. “Aren’t you Mr. Successful these days?”
“I do alright,” I said. “Wouldn’t exactly call myself Mr. Successful, but I’m doing well for my standards, at least.”