Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Surprisingly, Brennon isn’t the one who has a meltdown during this segment of the show; it’s Adam, the twelve-year-old self-proclaimed pie king from Connecticut.
Adam’s strong suit is not detail.
Everything he so painstakingly baked, trying his best to make his sweet look like tacos and salsa, crumbles. The coconut he added food coloring to is too green to look like lettuce, the strawberry “tomatoes” are too red, the cake he used as a taco shell is too thick.
Nothing worked out for him the way he planned, and he loses it, stomping his foot and laying his head on the counter before he’s even begun plating his dessert to present to the judges.
“YOU LITTLE QUITTER!” I shout. “GET IT TOGETHER.”
“Dallas!” Ryann scolds for the umpteenth time, shocked but delighted. I can see in her eyes that she’s amused but won’t admit it because it’s not politically correct to heckle small children doing their best.
“What?” I shrug. “No one can hear me.”
“I can hear you.”
I roll my eyes at her, finishing the beef and broccoli on my plate before going to the lo mein.
It hits the spot.
And who knew I’d be so entertained by tiny chefs?
Once we’re both done eating, I stand. Take Ryann’s plate and walk our trash to the kitchen, tidying up before I go back, bringing her another water because I’m a considerate asshole.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She glances over at me. “Sure.”
“Why did you agree to help me?”
“Honestly?”
I snort. “No. I want you to lie.”
It’s sarcastic, but she laughs anyway. “I agreed to help you because I thought I could help you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I told you this, but my parents are marriage counselors. So, it makes sense that I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way, listening to them work and whatever.”
“Makes sense. But what does that have to do with me?”
“Er…well, I just figured you needed a little coaching on how to treat people.”
Excuse me? What now? “Again, what do you mean?”
“I mean—and don’t take this the wrong way—but I just figured, because you were callous enough to dump me for a friend, you were callous in other ways, too, and probably could use some tips on how to treat women.”
I stare.
And stare.
Is she fucking joking? “How is it you think I treat women?”
I carefully select my words, genuinely wanting to know if her opinion of me is the same as the day we met—or even the same as the night we first fooled around because we were hiding away from the rest of the house.
I thought we were over this.
Didn’t I explain to her that I don’t need anyone in my life right now? That now isn’t the time? I’m not not dating because I’m a dick to people; I’m not dating because…
…I didn’t think I had the energy.
Because I like to sit at home after games and eat food and watch mindless TV and not have to entertain people. Because I like to watch old movies at the theater and avoid crowds. Because I want something real, with someone down to earth, who is honest. Because I don’t have the time to filter out the bullshit.
And the gold diggers.
And the cleat chasers.
And—
“You treat them fine. I can see that now that we’ve spent more time together, so I’m sorry I ever thought you’d treat me like crap. You don’t.”
No, I don’t treat her like crap.
I stew on this information, gazing at the television but not seeing anything on the screen.
Shit.
My brain.
“So that’s what you think of me, eh?”
“No.” She pauses, drawing out the silence. “Not at all.”
Not anymore.
The unspoken words hang over the room, lingering.
“Just because I don’t flirt with women and give them false hope, don’t stick my dick into every single one who’s willin’ doesn’t mean I’m an asshole. If anything, I think that makes me a pretty decent dude. At least I’m not a douche. Everyone knows what to expect from me at all times. No guessin’ games.”
My Texas twang is coming in hot and heavy the more frustrated I get.
Ryann nods. “That’s very true. I just…” She fiddles with the edge of her robe. “I’m not going to lie. I thought you needed fixing.”
“Fixin’?”
“Yeah. I thought you needed like, relationship help. Which is why I agreed to this sham of a relationship.”
She said as much.
twenty-five
ryann
“The best part of the relationship was when we hadn’t met yet and we were still single.”
– Diego Lorenz
I can’t believe I’m admitting all of this to him.
It makes me feel like the worst kind of person saying it to his face, how I wanted to fix him, how I thought he needed my help.
What a jerk.
Me, not him.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s not perfect by any means, but neither am I. And he’s right—at least he’s honest and upfront about his intentions, unlike so many people. Unlike Diego, who sort of strung me along for two months and didn’t have the guts to dump me himself.