Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
She uncomfortably nods, stumbles to her feet accidentally hitting her thigh on the table during the process, and offers me her hand to guide her out of this funhouse of horrors.
“Tucker wait,” my mom calls out in protest.
“You don’t have to go,” Uncle Brett tries to reassure.
“Stay,” Aunt Brandi lovingly implores.
“Really,” Richard joins the others in the pleading, “we want you here.”
Without another look or word to those that are still requesting that I stay, I silently escort us out of the room for the front door.
Well.
I lasted longer than I was anticipating.
Plus, now we both win.
June gets her bonus and I get to introduce her to the fun in culinary art.
All of a sudden, near the front entrance staircase, she comes to an abrupt halt that damn near causes me to trip over my own feet. “Wait.”
Still gingerly grasping her hand, I reluctantly do. “For?”
“Shouldn’t you apolog-”
“No.”
“Maybe goodbye to-”
“No.”
“Not even-”
“Nope.”
My refusal to let her complete a sentence is met by an unhappy huff. “You maybe wanna let me finish at least one of those sentences?”
“No. Because the only thing I wanna do is get the fuck out of here – here being the place I never wanted to be to begin with but came to be for you. And if my aunt doesn’t fucking pay you for this shit, then I. Will.” Closing the gap between us has my heaving chest knocking into hers. “Now, I’m leaving, baby. The only question is are you coming with me or not?”
She steals a tiny bite of her bottom lip, prepares to cave, yet swiftly shifts gears to my surprise. “After you show me the classic Tucker Frost artwork.” Her fingertip gives my nose a tiny tap. “You promised.”
“For Franz sake,” I mirthfully grunt, “you’re really gonna hold me to that shit right now? With Armagedinner just around the corner?”
“Yup.”
“But-”
“Yup.”
“Even if I-”
“Yup.”
It’s my turn to release an annoyed sigh. “You maybe wanna let me finish at least one of those sentences?”
June presents me with a slow headshake and sassy smirk.
Fate have mercy.
What the fuck is this woman doing to me?
“Fine.” Changing direction is followed by me leading her to the stairs. “But we’re not staying long.”
“Deal.”
Our trek up the main steps to then take the ones to the right is promptly executed. Shortly after we’ve reached the top, we veer to the right yet again – passing by Byron – and work our way past guestrooms, the upstairs living room, bar, and what was once upon a time my art studio. June periodically tries to stop and point and ask questions about the incredible collection of work that lines the walls, but I don’t stop.
I refuse to until we reach our destination at the very end of the hallway.
Opening the double set of doors requires both hands and our separation results in a familiar ache I honestly don’t care much for.
There’s no reason I should be this attached.
Not when I know when I’m leaving.
Not when Fate all but made her presence known at the table to remind me that’s the only option I have.
That staying in Highland is never something meant for me.
“Picasso on Pita Bread!” June gleefully giggles upon entering the room. “It’s like a Tucker Frost museum in here!”
After closing us inside, I saunter over to the king-size bed in the middle of the room and flop down on the edge. “I would never buy tickets to that shit.”
She shoots me a smirk over her shoulder. “I would.”
“You know if I charge you for being in here then I would sort of feel like the escort you felt like when we first met.”
More laughter openly slips free from her, and I allow myself to lean into it.
Turn the sound into fingerpaint.
Full body paint.
Be baptized by the innocence and the beauty and the thing that traveling all around the world has taught me.
Love is the one gift money can’t buy no matter how hard people try.
Not that I’m uh…romantically in love with June.
That’s really the one bucket of love paint I prefer not to pop the top of.
Philia? Storge? Ludus? Agape? Philautia?
Always.
Often.
Eros and mania?
Possibly.
Rarely.
Pragma?
Never.
And probably not in this lifetime.
“I see some photos from high school art contests,” June acknowledges during her exploration in the opposite direction of what we came to see. “Some first-place ribbons.”
“Couldn’t care less about those.”
“These must’ve been when you went to Italy.” Her wandering of the vast space continues towards the ensuite bathroom. “Oh! These were somewhere else. New York?”
“Yeah. Around the corner from The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
She crosses over the space and points to another collection in question.
“I’m on the steps of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago.”
“Gah,” June longingly sighs at the same time she abandons that side of the room for the other, “you’ve just gone everywhere for your craft.”
“Not everywhere.” An innocent shrug thoughtlessly joins the conversation. “And I’m fortunate in that aspect, not only because my parents would’ve taken me anywhere in the world to nurse that passion but because so would my aunt. Who also did. That trip to Chicago was with her. And the following summer while her boys went to football training camps under Uncle Brett’s supervision, her and mom took me to The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.”