Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Shut up.” Popping up, she darts off to see for herself, going so far as to step outside and peer up and down both ends of the street. She returns with her mouth agape and her flip-flops scuffing the floor with each slow, staggered shuffle she takes. “What the hell? We’ve only been here fifteen, twenty minutes. They left already?”
I’m guessing the place next door was too crowded for them to enjoy it.
That, or they got their two-for-one shots and went on their way, too blitzed to realize we weren’t with them—again.
“At least I have my bag this time.” She holds up a small silver pouch just as glittery as her dress. “Not that my phone works here, but at least I have my room key.” Pulling out her iPhone, she fires off a text. “This probably won’t go through, but I’m sending it anyway, just in case.”
“Please tell me you’re not telling them to turn the party bus around.” I finish the last of my beer, wondering if I should order another. If it were just Briar and I the rest of the night, said night would feel young. The prospect of continuing this barhopping escapade makes me feel like I’m ninety-two and it’s past my bedtime.
“I’m letting her know we got separated again.” She places her phone down and folds her hands, releasing a sigh. “I just feel bad.”
“They didn’t notice we weren’t with them, and you feel bad?” I cock my head. “Should be the other way around.”
“We’re the ones who left the bar. We technically ditched them.”
“What choice did we have? The air was thin, and it smelled like something died in there. Plus they were blasting techno like it was 1997. There aren’t enough two-for-one tequila shots in the world to make that remotely enjoyable.”
She rolls her eyes. “You must be really fun at parties.”
“I’m not. At all. Actually. It’s never been my scene.”
“So what is your scene?”
Our server comes by, pointing at our empty drinks.
The two of us exchange looks.
And then we order another round.
The night, as it turns out, is still young.
“I don’t have a scene,” I tell her when our server leaves. “I’m more of a quiet-night-in kind of guy. Give me some Macallan 18, my vinyl collection, and a good cigar, and I’m golden. Maybe a handful of close friends if I’m feeling social. Otherwise, I prefer my own company.”
Resting her chin against the top of her hand, she juts her lower lip out.
“I’ve never heard anyone admit that before,” she says.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s the best thing.” Briar sits straighter. “Do you know how many people lack that self-awareness? How many people our age are still trying to figure out who they are? And you already know. And you’re not afraid to say exactly who you are. There should be more people like you.”
“If you’re impressed with that, wait until I tell you that I’ve never had a social media account in my life.” Of course, I used to run the band’s socials, but I was only on their accounts long enough to post tour updates and a handful of behind-the-scenes pictures. After that, I couldn’t log off fast enough. These days, we have an intern to handle that—thank God.
“No way.”
“Way.” I give her a wink. “It’s never been something that makes sense to me. All these people posting these cringey statuses and pictures, trying desperately to look like they’re having the time of their life. It’s one big circle jerk of everyone pretending to be happier than they really are. That, or it’s people fighting with each other over stupid shit instead of spending time on things that matter. I’m convinced it’s going to lead to the demise of our society—if it hasn’t already.”
“You sure know a lot about what goes on on those apps for someone who’s never had one . . .”
“There are documentaries on this topic. News articles. You know, actual media,” I say. “Plus I have friends who use those, so I get a bird’s-eye view of that stupid shit.”
“You’re like a grumpy philosopher. A modern Nietzsche. Okay, wait. No. You’re a grumpy-ish modern philosopher.” She flashes a megawatt smile, the kind that belongs to a woman who has no idea how damn gorgeous she is. “I feel like you’re starting to shed that bad mood you had earlier.”
Our server delivers round two just as we’re heading into the fifth inning. The Red Sox are closing in on the Yanks, but even if they steal this win, the night won’t be a complete bust because I’m enjoying myself more than I thought I would.
And it’s all because of her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DORIAN
Present Day
“Good morning, Briar,” my father says from behind his newspaper at breakfast the next morning. He folds it closed and rests it beside his steaming black coffee, a glass of water, and a small mountain of pills. “I trust you slept well?”