Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
He glanced up at me and smiled. “I love this. I love being here with you.”
Okay, that was good. It was the perfect sentiment. It wasn’t love. It was love of a moment. And that was different…and a lot less scary. I could love this moment, cherish this time with him, and somehow find a way to let go when the time came.
I wrapped him in my arms and closed my eyes, basking in the salt air and ocean breeze as I cataloged every nuance—the weight of him, the feel of his skin, the sound of his voice, the smell of him.
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
When Topher hummed in contentment as he burrowed against my chest, I knew I was in trouble.
This may not come as a big surprise, but I found plenty of excuses to be in Pasadena as September gave way to October. Topher started grad school and interviewed for a few career-related internships. Me? I waited for my agent to call.
Don’t worry. I did other things too. I hung out with old friends, helped my mom schlep stuff to her classroom, watched a lot of football with my dad, and studied all the fucking time. On my own. I even did the online classes alone. I didn’t want to waste any precious time ruminating over academics when I was with Topher. That time was sacred.
If my parents worried about the fact that I was suddenly always around, they didn’t mention it, but like a dumbass, I gave them excuses anyway. I told them that I had business in town or that I preferred running at the track at my old high school better than the beach. Of course, my only real business was Topher, but the second one was true.
There was something about the familiar sound of my sneakers on well-trodden dirt and the smell of freshly cut grass that felt like a balm to my soul. I knew that field like the back of my hand. Pieces of old song lyrics popped in my head as I jogged the track, reminding me of simpler times when my biggest worry was what Mom was making for dinner. Geez, I even loved the chime of the school bell. I couldn’t tell if it was a symptom of my ongoing life crisis or a sign of some sort.
Either way, being home made me happy. I loved hanging out with buddies I’d known since junior high, and I was grateful for some semblance of a social life. Even if it was just grabbing a beer and having my ass handed to me over a game of pool.
“Why the fuck am I here?” I groused, leaning on my cue as I watched my friend Aiden sink shot after shot.
“ ’Cause you missed us,” Kenny teased, stepping up to the table when Aiden finally whiffed a shot. He offered Aiden a high five, snickering like a kid when Aiden flipped him off instead.
I chuckled at their hijinks. Yeah, maybe he was right.
I glanced around our favorite hole-in-the-wall dive bar decorated with a hodgepodge of posters of classic rock gods, sports heroes, and neon beer signs. A jukebox that hadn’t worked since 1988 and a cigarette machine that now sold nuts and granola bars flanked the paneled back walls near the restrooms and the lone pool table.
Did I miss this place? Honestly, yes. But I wasn’t supposed to admit that. I was supposed to joke around…tell him he must be high. And knowing Kenny, that was a possibility.
“Yeah, that must be it.”
“Living the sweet life in Malibu with the Mali-babes must be nice,” Aiden commented as he reached for his beer on the high table behind us.
“Yeah, something like that,” I grunted, observing my friends.
I’d played junior high and high school football with Kenny and Aiden. They were both big guys—well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and thick builds. Kenny was muscular with short black hair, olive skin, and lots of ink. He looked more like a professional athlete than me, but he’d traded his pads and helmet for a suit after college, and Aiden was a mechanic at his uncle’s body shop.
Aiden was literally a bear of a man. He had dark-blond hair, a bit of a beer belly, and a penchant for wearing college tees from every university throughout the nation. And he had a bro-crush on my brother. Any second now, he’d ask about George. Wait for it.
“Have you been staying with your folks?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“What about your brother? How’s George the goth genius?”
See? I think my brother’s give-no-fucks goth genius style fascinated the hell out of my friends. They were used to jocks and good ol’ boys, not brainiacs with attitude.
“He’s good. But I can’t stay at his place. He has a lot of roommates, and I wouldn’t want to cramp their style.”