Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Maybe I should just forget about the kiss, too.
On my way out of the church, I realized I couldn’t leave the annex the way it was. Anthony would wake up later to find his big fluorescent nightmare still there, it’d stress him out, and then where would he be? Right back in the hell he was falling asleep in. So I took to the lights, did the work myself, put away the ladder, and sorted his tools.
I doubt he noticed any of that.
Or maybe he did, resents that I helped out, and that’s why he’s all full of attitude right now, marching into the house hotheaded.
Or he does remember the kiss.
And he’s kicking himself for doing it at all.
Or outright denying it just like I thought he might, pretending it never happened.
Pete is the first to notice our new guest, cutting himself off midsentence to shout, “Hey, our waiter from the restaurant! Tony, right? What’re you doing here? Joining us for dinner?”
Anthony comes up and shakes his hand. “It’s Anthony.”
“Nope, sorry, once I throw a nickname out, it’s stuck for life. Just ask Bridge over there.”
Anthony appears not to want to ask me a thing. “Then Tony it is, fine with me. I’ve had worse nicknames.”
Pete laughs at that. “Nah, I’m just teasing you. Anthony … An-tony. Ignore me, I’m already four beers in and haven’t eaten.”
Anthony glances back at me over his shoulder. “Imagine that. Drinking before dinner. Like it’s a sin.”
Pete is confused by that, unsure what to say, until Cody comes up and claps Anthony hard on the back, surprising him. “Hope you came with an appetite, because for some reason only God knows, Trey went overboard with the entrées tonight.”
“I’m always hungry,” says Anthony, making a scrunched face that looks like he’s either scowling or fending off a sneeze.
His words always sound so cryptic. Like everything he says or does has a second meaning, and somehow that meaning is meant as a jab at me. Except I can’t think about what else he might be hungry for. The whole house smells like Italian herbs.
I wonder why Trey invited him for dinner.
Does Trey know about Anthony? Is this some kind of big town secret? Are we being coaxed toward each other for a reason?
I’m still wondering when the five of us are seated around the table by the back window, and everyone’s chatting away like we’re at the restaurant again.
Well, everyone except for me and Anthony, looks like.
Sitting here at one end of the table, across from each other.
I will say one thing, Anthony’s at least got a reason to not be talking. The boy is putting down his food so damned fast—and so aggressively—you’d think he starved himself all day. I don’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted as he slurps down bite after bite of alfredo pasta with one hand, bites off knob after knob of garlic bread with the other, and somehow chugs his glass of water with a third hand that comes out of nowhere every few seconds.
I guess I’m making a face, because Anthony shoots me those scrunched, watery eyes and grumbles, “The heck you lookin’ at?” I don’t answer. I just continue to eat. Calmly. As if my food won’t run away from me if I don’t scarf it down in five seconds.
Y’know, like a dignified adult at a dinner table.
“The way you saved your pal Bridger’s life in the restaurant!” shouts Cody at Pete after a bite. They were already talking and I’m just now paying attention at the drop of my name. “You damned near retraumatized me, the way you shouted ‘MOVE!’ before gettin’ up. Shit, I was ready for the table to explode. You realize that word’s a huge trigger for me, don’t you? It was the last thing I heard you shout before the big boom that shipped my shrapnel-filled ass home. Or off to Prairieland Medical, more accurately.”
“I mean, I was tellin’ you to move,” reasons Pete. “I saw that IED same second you did and didn’t want you caught in it.”
“Yeah, but if I hadn’t covered you, you’d be dead.”
“We don’t really know that.”
Cody snorts. “Of course we do. Shrapnel embedded in my left leg and arm said that bomb was no fuckin’ joke. You’d be dead.”
“Or maybe we would’ve shared the injury, both of us taken to that hospital. My ass would be lying in a bed right next to yours.”
Cody’s eyes narrow. “So what’re you saying, Pete? I shouldn’t have jumped in front of you?”
“I’m just explaining why I shouted ‘move’. This isn’t news.” Pete tries to laugh it off as he twirls pasta around his fork. He stops when he notices the tension on Cody’s face. “What?”
Cody’s stare persists a moment too long to be comfortable. “Nothing.” He averts his eyes, grabs himself a slice of garlic toast, and grows still, like he’s suddenly forgotten how to eat it. Pete just stares back at him, looking frustrated.