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)
The frustrating politeness continues. “Did you, uh, figure out what you needed to figure out …?” he asks me carefully.
Just the sound of his voice, how he’s both gentle and strong at the same time, willful yet patient, full of concern for me when I’m spiraling in the most fundamental way a person can spiral …
It’s too much. “I gotta—” I rise abruptly to my feet.
He does, too. “Something wrong?”
“I gotta … I gotta head back. To my, uh, home. To my h-house, apartment house … place. My apartment house place.”
“Nothing weird’s happening,” he says in a voice that sounds like he’s talking a spooked housecat out of bolting into the night. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. “Look at me, Anthony … I don’t care. I’m not panicking, see? You wanna try stuff out on me? Kiss me again? Have me hold you like I did by the side of the road the other night? I’m not judging you. Not one bit.”
All those wicked words dancing so easily out of his mouth like seductive poetry—“try stuff out”, “kiss me again”, “hold you”—has my stomach feeling thrown around like a kid on a trampoline and no amount of reasoning seems to get it to stop.
“I … n-nah, I just … nope.” I laugh it off suddenly. “Was just playin’ around. The kiss. It was just a joke. Thanks for the movie. And for … whatever the fuck this night was, but I really gotta—”
“You’re just gonna leave now?” His face tightens. “Sit on my lap, play with my feelings, use me for a kiss—again—then ditch?”
“I-I didn’t use you for—” I trip over my foot and stumble. I’m backing away from him, I guess. Fast. “—for nothin’. Why are you always givin’ me a hard time?”
“It isn’t right, to just kiss someone and then leave.”
“And you shouldn’t be tellin’ me—sayin’ to me—” I don’t know why I always feel like I have to speak properly in front of Bridger. It’s annoying, constantly editing myself. “You’re so goddamned uptight all the time. Tellin’ me what I can’t do. Holdin’ me back from … from fighting those dicks in the theater …”
“What? If I wasn’t there to hold you back, you’d have been kicked out or worse.”
“Oh, thanks, you’re my hero now.”
“You can’t just pick fights with people like that,” says Bridger, “unless your idea of fun is sitting in a jail cell all night. Besides, we were the ones making noise. They had every right to—”
“Great, that’s all I fuckin’ need,” I burst out before I can stop myself. “One more person in my life scoldin’ everything I do.”
“And I’m not uptight.”
“Yeah, you are,” I spit back. “Givin’ me hell for being late—”
“It was almost an hour—”
“Then getting the tickets and the popcorn and the drinks, and now you’re worked up ‘cause I just wanted to try somethin’—”
“Is that what this is?” He takes a step toward me. “All of this? Just wanting to ‘try’ something? I’m not a flavor of beverage.”
“Listen to you. ‘Flavor of beverage’. You sound like a butler.” My head spins. I keep stumbling. “I said I gotta go. I’m going. Right now, I’m going.”
“You’re running.”
“Going.”
“What’re you running from?” I’ve already turned and started walking away—well, something a lot faster than a walk that ain’t quite a run. “Hey. Look, let’s just chill somewhere and talk. Back at Trey and Cody’s. Or at your place. One of the bars. I’m not uptight. I can … I can be chill! I’m sorry for losing my cool! Anthony!”
The last place I can stand to be right now is with that guy, and those intense eyes, and his perfect lips, and my racing heart.
“Is there, like, a reason we’re driving around in the dark?”
I’m leaning forward in the passenger seat, foot bouncing in place, my eyes glued to the sliver of road ahead of us lit by Juni’s headlights. I’m still not ready to talk.
“This is fun and all,” she goes on, “but you won’t even let me play music. Every bad mood is made better with a little ABBA.”
How do I tell Juni what happened? Where do I even begin? At the part where I sat in Bridger’s lap or when I kissed him?
“I wish I’d worn something cute before going on this joyride with you,” she mumbles, “then we could go to the Saloon instead of circling these roads for half an hour.”
“Just went last night. Goin’ tomorrow. Too dang late, besides.”
“Oh, so you do talk.” When I sigh, she rests her chin on the wheel as she continues zigzagging down the dark country road at barely ten miles an hour. “We’ve gone there this late before. They don’t close until four.”
“What’s the point drivin’ all the way out there to spend ten minutes in a club before drivin’ all the way back? You never drink when we go anyway, because you gotta drive, and—”