Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Aiden hangs up and glances over at me. I’m worried he’ll try to bring up our chat from last night if I don’t spearhead the conversation, so I reach back and grab for the cheese.
“I got you a present,” I say, holding the block out to him.
He grins. “Awesome. Let’s try it. I’m starving.”
I grab a small cutting board and unwrap the cheese. Cutting into it with a knife, I pass him a corner chunk and then take another piece for myself. He eats his in one go.
“Where were you today?” he asks, reaching around me for the knife so he can cut himself another slice.
“Oh, just out. I was reading and took a walk. Nothing important. You?”
He opens his mouth to reply then his phone goes off. I assume it’s his mom, already wanting to make sure he’s not burning the pasta, but then I catch a glimpse of the caller ID and realize it’s his boss. Aiden answers and takes the phone into his room. I only hear his side of the conversation, but a minute later, he comes out, already reaching for his keys.
“Apparently there’s a protest happening downtown right now. Dave wants me to cover it.”
“Right. Okay, I’ll finish the pasta. Just fifteen minutes, right? Stir it every so often?”
“Yeah, exactly. Save me some, will you?”
Then he’s out the door, off to cover the important news of the day. I’ve read a lot of Aiden’s articles. He’s great at his job. Normally, at his age, he’d still be relegated to cheesy stories that rank the best tacos in town, but he proved himself early on, putting in the hours when his peers weren’t willing to, writing stories on his own time and relentlessly presenting them to his editor until one was finally worth revising and publishing in the magazine.
I stir the pasta, intent on ensuring it’s cooked to perfection. I know Aiden will be hungry when he gets home, and I don’t want him having to chow down on half-cooked pasta.
Thirty minutes later, I’m done eating, so I scoop some leftovers for Aiden and then clean the kitchen. An hour passes and I’m starting to yawn. I look at the door every few seconds, wondering if he’ll walk through it at any moment. I turn on the local news and see that they’re covering the protest. I peer through the crowd looking for Aiden, but there’s no way I’ll be able to find him among the hordes of people.
I keep watching as I lie down, telling myself I’ll only close my eyes for a few minutes. Ten, tops. Then I’m out like a light, sleeping right through the night and into the next morning.
It’s the sunlight streaming through the windows that finally wakes me up. I blink my eyes open and rub the sleep from them before sitting up and yawning. I have a horrible crick in my neck from lying on the couch, but that’s the least of my concerns when my eyes sweep over to the kitchen clock.
I scream curse words, one long string of them that lasts until I make it into my closet, change, and fly out the door. I didn’t brush my hair or teeth. I forgot deodorant and I’m wearing mismatched black flats, but I’m already two hours late for work and I can’t chance wasting any more time.
I can’t believe I overslept!
Fifteen minutes later, I rush into the Zilker Creative building and take the stairs up to the third floor two at a time. Once, I miss a step and my shin collides with the edge of a stair. My groan of pain echoes through the stairwell, but I don’t stop to ponder whether my bone actually split in two or if it just feels that way.
Huffing and puffing, I yank the door open and hobble out into the hall, trying to finger-comb my hair.
“Oh my god,” someone says as I pass by, and I’m too scared to look back and see if they were referring to me.
I make it to my desk in front of Elise’s office and she peers out through the glass, eyes widening when she sees me. She rushes out, her hand covering her mouth. Her phone is already pressed to her ear.
“Hello, 9-1-1? Yes, my employee has been attacked.” Then she holds it out for me. “They want to talk to you.”
I thank the operator for her time and apologize for the inconvenience, then I hang up.
“I wasn’t attacked.”
“But your face,” Elise says, pointing at me with her mouth agape.
I look back toward her office and catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy from crying all the way to work. My hair is a bird’s nest, tangled and matted to one side. I should have looked in a mirror before sprinting here. I now see that ten more minutes at home wouldn’t have been all that bad.