Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I chop rhythmically and imagine what music I’d play in the background if this were live. There are full accounts of people just doing this — chopping vegetables. I have no idea why people love watching it but somehow, they do. Timeo seems like he’s into it, too, as his gaze watches me slice through onion, smash garlic with the flat of the blade, slice slender pieces of carrots on the diagonal.
“Simmer your aromatics first — onion and garlic, celery or bell pepper, depending on your base. Watch the garlic, though, as it’ll burn more quickly than the others. So toss that one in last.”
It smells divine in here while I stir the veggies in olive oil.
I go on as I add fresh herbs and broth with the rest of the veggies.
“After you have all your veggies in the liquid, you want to slide a good lid on.” I swallow, so aware of Timeo’s eyes on me. “And let it simmer for a good long while.” I lift my eyes to his. “Simmering softens everything, allowing the flavors to meld together in a way that a hard boil doesn’t. And when you finally take that first bite, you’ll be glad you waited.”
I turn back to face the camera, which would allow them to watch while I clean up. I would edit the busywork out, but people love seeing counters wiped and dishes cleaned. I don’t know if it makes them feel more empowered to be productive themselves or if they get a vicarious thrill of having completed something, but I’m not here to judge. I have to clean up anyway, so I might as well get the screen time.
“Funny about allowing things to simmer, isn’t it?” I say. And this is the part of the program they’re here for, when I wax eloquent on philosophy and love, friendships and hurt. I’m that relatable girl-next-door with a flair of pioneer. “You know how I shared with you all there was a boy for me, once? Not one my parents set me up with, or elder, or whatever. I told you that he was what we’d call a bad boy.”
I look up at Timeo above the camera. If it was recording, my face would be above the screen. His eyes burn at me, his gaze locked onto mine.
“It’s always been that way with us. A slow, slow, simmer that makes the wait so worthwhile. Have any of you ever experienced love like this?”
Yes. Love. I go there, and I have no regrets. “Shoot me a message and tell me about it. I would love to hear!”
They could engage and respond. I try to bring relatable emotion into what I do.
Everyone sometimes experiences deep, abiding pain that sears their very soul, but they make it through to the other side. And this is why I’m here. Why I do what I do.
I remind everyone that they, too, are survivors.
I lean in toward Timeo.
“And that’s how I would do it,” I say. I swallow when his hand comes toward me. I get one view of his hand on camera, those masculine fingers and the first line of the brotherhood tattoo on his forearm. A shiver skates down my spine.
When I’m alone with him, I’m reminded that Timeo is only temporarily tame.
He reaches for my wrist.
“And this is where I’d shut the video off,” I say, my own gaze focused on his. I swallow and reach for my phone before it clatters to the floor.
My heart freezes. I stare for a few seconds, uncomprehending.
That…can’t be.
I was only pretending to record so he’d get the full effect. There’s no way I would have gone live…here. Now.
But there it is. The flashing record in bright red.
I grab at the phone and stab at the button. But it won’t stop recording.
“What’s the matter?”
“I — I must’ve hit record by accident. And now the damn thing’s doing that swirly thing, like it’s trying to connect but can’t. Shit.”
My hands tremble as Timeo pulls out his own phone. “We lost cell service again.”
“Dammit. I was only pretending to record to, like, get in the mood.”
“Maybe it didn’t post because the cell service is out?”
“But if it did?”
My stomach churns. For some reason, knowing that I may have accidentally stoked some fire makes the reality of our danger hit harder than ever.
I try a few more times to take the video down but there is no service. My only hope is that it got hung up somewhere in the ether and no one ever saw it.
“If that posted, we’ll do what we’ve always done,” he says, his hand closing over mine.
“What?” I ask, feeling as if I’m going to cry.
“Deal with the consequences. We’ll handle whatever fallout there is, babe. You’ve done a lot harder things than this.” He strokes his hand down the length of my back. “I loved watching you like that. It was hot as fuck.”