Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
All I can think of in that instance is how often Kristoff did that to her? I would never hit a woman—not for any reason, not even this woman who’s made it her life's mission to piss me off—but there doesn't have to be a fist involved for someone to get hurt.
“Yeah, I’m ready. I’m sorry for yelling, you just startled me.”
She’s still wary, almost tiptoeing her way around me before stepping onto the porch. It's unseasonably chilly, enough to make her shove her hands into her pockets and shiver as I lock the front door. “I wonder if we're going to get a bad winter if it's this cold in early October.”
“The worst winter I ever experienced, I was wearing shorts right up until Halloween. I think I was maybe eleven or twelve.” I slide the keys into my pocket and follow her down the steps. “The first snowfall came before Thanksgiving, and it felt like it didn't stop until March.”
“I think I remember that winter, now that you mention it. We got a lot of snow days that year.”
“Which we only had to make up at the end of the year and cut into summer vacation.”
“That's right! Oh, that was so annoying.” Still, though, she's wearing a funny sort of smile. “See, we actually have shared experiences. Who would have thought?”
She has a good point. Neither of us knew the other existed. I doubt we were aware there was such a world as the world the others lived in, but some experiences are universal.
“So, where are we going? What's the first stop on the Romero tour?” Even though I bristle at her sarcasm, I know it's a good sign. If she's being sarcastic, she's not stuck in that jail cell also called her head.
“No place in particular, and don't treat this like a documentary, whatever you do. This could easily turn into the world's shortest walk.”
“And after all the bitching you did to get me to come out.” She clicks her tongue in mock sympathy, making me dismiss a sarcastic comment. The self-control I've shown since we got here should earn me sainthood. Considering the amount of unsaintly shit I’ve done—both for Callum and otherwise—that’s saying something.
We reach the end of the block, and I turn left, then point to a playground up ahead on the other side of the street. “I can’t make up the shit that we used to do on that playground,” I muse, snorting as the memories return. “That was where all the kids in the neighborhood got together. We'd ride our bikes and play ball, and eventually it was where we went to drink and smoke. Half the time, we could do that at somebody's house when their parents were at work.”
“For some reason, it’s not easy to picture you as that kid, though I can definitely believe you were a bad boy.”
“I wouldn't call myself a bad boy.”
“Then what would you call yourself?”
Loaded question. What would I call myself? A boy who wanted to be anywhere but at home, for starters. “I was a kid from the neighborhood, like all the other kids. We sort of did what everybody else did. What you see around you right now isn’t close to the way it was back then. See how clean the playground is? The new equipment?”
She nods as we walk. “Yeah, it looks nice. Clean.”
“Maybe one day, you’ll stop sounding surprised when you say that.” That comment earns me an eye roll, and I snort again. “Anyway, it was nothing like this back then. The swings were always breaking and the slide was metal and rusty. The first time I got drunk, I threw up all over the old sliding board.”
She wrinkles her button nose. “Charming.”
“It was practically a rite of passage.” My lips turn up at the sides, and I can’t believe I’m grinning at the memory. “Since the vomiting wasn’t your thing, maybe telling you I got my first hand job on the swings is better?”
“Is that when you broke the swings?”
“That was one of the times.” We exchange a grin that’s foreign yet not unpleasant. It’s nice to see her smile.
“It’s a shame they had to wait until you were gone to make improvements.”
“It's just the way things were. Nobody thought about it. It was all we knew. The only thing that mattered was that we had someplace to go and get into trouble. Many of the kids who lived in this neighborhood wanted to be anywhere but at home.”
“What about you? Were you one of those kids? Did you want to be home, or were you trying to escape?”
No, we are not doing that. Every nibble of truth I give her will only lead her to asking more questions, and I’m not ready to share anything else.
“Take a look around,” I say, instead of giving her the information she so obviously wants. “It's pretty bleak. Small homes, old cars, most of the people around here rent—at least, they did when I was a kid. My mom was so proud we owned that house. It's probably why she wanted me to have it.” Damn it. Already, I’m telling her more than I intended.