Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
As long as he pays well, I suppose. It's not like I'm here out of choice.
But I am here. And I do have choices now. An entire day with nothing on the agenda.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
It's been a long time since I'd had options, much less a wealth of them.
My eyes flit to Dad's note. It's not a note, actually. More of a card. A thank you to me and Shepard for the treatment.
In his handwriting. He's doing well enough to write himself. My shoulders fall with relief.
I check my cell. A bunch of messages from acquaintances congratulating me on my engagement or digging for gossip.
Something from Dad, checking in. His usual check-in. Some normalcy amongst the craziness. Though, at this point, I'm pretty sure I am the craziness. Because thinking of last night—
Mmm.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes with a message from Shep.
Shep: There's lingerie in your drawer. Send me a picture of what you're wearing under your clothes today.
Jasmine: Or?
Shep: Or you won't get what you want.
That shouldn't be as hot as it is.
Jasmine: I'm going to visit my dad today.
Technically, I'm asking his permission. But I try not to consider that.
Shep: Lock can drive you. I've added his number to your cell. If he's running an errand for me, Key can call a car.
I guess that's a sure, do whatever you want. Or something close enough.
Shep: Send me a picture before you go.
Jasmine: Will you think about it at work?
Shep: Of course.
Jasmine: Will you touch yourself?
Shep: No, princess. I'm saving that for you.
Fuck.
I change the password on my cell. To something Dad won't guess. I don't want him reading this. Beyond embarrassing. And I'm not sure he'd really understand the whole… playing thing.
Key returns with a fresh cup of oolong. Perfectly steeped again.
Strong, nutty, just a little sweet. But strange. I'm not sure I like someone serving me tea.
I'd rather make it myself. I'd rather take care of myself. So I can feel self-reliant. Independent. In control.
No doubt, that means something, but I can't consider it right now. Only three hundred sixty-four days to go. After that, after I collect, then I can think about what this year means.
While I wait for breakfast, I stay busy looking at the current slate of productions on Broadway. Key is right. A seven-hundred-dollar ticket is nothing to Shep. He probably knows someone who will offer us their thousand-dollar tickets for free.
We'll sit at a private balcony. He'll ask me to take off my panties and slip his hand under my leg and—
As hot as the thought is, it's out of the question. Some things are sacred. Theater is one of them. I guess I'll have to add that to my limits. He'll laugh. Then smile. That smile he had when we were kids. When we actually understood each other.
Or maybe we never understood each other. Maybe that was an illusion. Youthful naivety. Something. It doesn't matter.
This time, I'm not getting the wrong idea. He can have my body.
And I can have his.
But that's all it is.
Love isn't part of the equation.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jasmine
The hallway smells like fish sauce. I'm sure the neighbors are annoyed, but I have to smile. It smells like home. Like happiness. Like Dad’s well enough he's cooking something.
I'm stuffed with fresh raspberry chocolate chip pancakes—another perfect tea and food pairing—but I still feel a hunger. Not for food. For comfort. Love. Family.
The way things used to be.
I let myself in.
Dad looks up from his spot at the kitchen counter. "Jasmine, honey, taste this." He holds out his spoon. A sauce he's fixing on the stove. There are noodles draining in the sink. He's making bun cha. One of his favorites.
"Sure." I press the door closed. Nod hello to the aide who's here today, a tall man in blue scrubs, and move to the kitchen.
This apartment feels even smaller after being in Shep's place, but not in a way that's inferior.
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the space in Shep's massive Hell's Kitchen estate. But I appreciate the cozy feeling of family more.
I taste the sauce. It's strong enough I forget the fruity breakfast. "Wow."
"Wow?" He shakes his head. "You're too Americanized now."
"It's my fault you haven't cooked in five years?"
He doesn't bring up his illness, his reason for not cooking the last few years. He just nods of course. "You're old enough to cook for yourself now. You didn't even have fish sauce in your fridge." He shakes his head playfully.
"My neighbors complain."
He shakes his hand at them ridiculous. "Invite them over next time you make Pho. They won't complain anymore."
Probably true. But unlikely to happen. It's been a long time since I've attempted the all-day affair that is pho. Sure, the broth doesn't require a lot of active time, but I don't have the mental energy to plan a twelve hour beef bone boil.