Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
And then I pondered the fact that I was even interested in what she’d been doing considering she didn’t accept my fuckin’ apology, so I shouldn’t give two shits.
But I gave more than two shits. Maybe I gave too many shits, which wasn’t like me. And that pissed me off, too.
After half my coffee, sick of my foul mood, I went for a shower and reaching for the toothpaste, saw three little red drops in the cream-colored sink.
I stared a second and then turned the water on to wash it down, thinking maybe it was nail polish. Though it washed down pretty easily for that, so maybe she had a nosebleed. It was dry in here last night as I’d cranked the electric baseboard heaters when I got in. Then I saw a couple Band-aid wrappers in the trash can beside the sink, so knew it wasn’t a nosebleed. She must be all right. I hadn’t heard any hollering or crying.
***
Just before dark, she popped out and grabbed a bottle of water while I was warming up the rest of that frozen pizza in the microwave.
Our eyes met and she immediately looked away.
“I said I was sorry, for fuck’s sake,” I clipped and slammed the microwave door.
She jerked back in surprise.
I leaned forward. She backed up against the fridge so hard the thing rattled. And acting like she was afraid pissed me off even more.
“You wanna be a bitch and sulk in your room when I fuckin’ apologized, do nothin’ and be a goddamn martyr not taking care of yourself by barely eatin’ because I happened to look at two pages of a goddamn journal that was wide fuckin’ open in my truck because you didn’t secure it properly, have at it. I’ve decided I don’t give a fuck. Have fun doin’ nothin’ in there. At least you won’t be giving me a fuckin’ headache with your goddamn babbling.”
I stormed outside, deciding I didn’t want the fuckin’ pizza. I wanted to rip shit up. So I grabbed an ax and started splitting wood. Aggressively.
It served a purpose, though, because the cabin was a couple degrees below comfortable. Though the weekend had decent weather, temperatures had dropped and nights were cold. More wood would mean I could run the fireplace and save Deke on his heating bill.
I chopped wood until it was dark and filled the gap under the tarp extending the woodshed beside the house. I carted a few logs inside.
She was in the kitchen. I smelled meat cooking.
“Um… I…” Her eyes darted in my direction, then moved away timidly.
She didn’t continue so I didn’t wait. Instead, I looked back to what I was doing, stocking the wood box in front of the fireplace.
“Jesse?” she called out.
“What?” I grinded my molars, not looking up.
“I’m making chicken if you want some.”
“I could eat,” I muttered, pulling the screen back from the fireplace.
“There are a whole bunch of movies there. Thinkin’ I’d…uh… maybe watch one after dinner.”
“Whatever,” I said, then worked on the fire.
***
When she announced, “Food’s ready,” I looked over from my spot on the couch where I was reading and saw her standing by the table.
She had changed sometime in the last hour and was now wearing a tight, short black tank top dress. The place was warm, the fire had probably made it too warm.
Her hair was loose. Her face make-up free. And fuck, she looked pretty. Though I was still pissed off, I still couldn’t tear my eyes off her as I moved in that direction.
And she knew it, too. She stood there gnawing on her bottom lip, trying to look anywhere but at me.
The table was set with napkins, cutlery, a beer for me, a Gatorade for her, and two plates with chicken breasts, potatoes in foil, and salad. Sour cream, butter, and shredded cheese along with salad dressing sat with the salt and pepper.
She sat down.
I loaded up the potato, poured salad dressing, salted and peppered my plate, then took it and a beer to the coffee table.
I was still pissed off. Wasn’t planning to sit for a movie either.
After a couple bites in, I grabbed the salt and pepper and re-seasoned my meat and then dropped the shakers back to the table. She didn’t look up, but I saw her shoulders drop.
The spud could’ve used more time in the oven.
I glanced in her direction, and she was quietly pushing her food around with her fork, body language defeated. And it pissed me off some more.
Fuckin’ chicks. Bitchy one minute, pouty the next. Gettin’ on my fuckin’ nerves and under my goddamn skin.
My appetite was gone. And it was a good thing, because the food was shit. I took my half-eaten plate to the kitchen and dumped the food into a plastic container I found and snapped the lid on before I put it in the fridge. I fetched the pizza from earlier from the microwave and put that in another container and tossed it in the fridge, too. Wasting food was a crime in my house growing up and the habit of saving it had stuck.