Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
And as he scooted around the kitchen, I had to admit that it was unexpectedly nice to have someone do things for me for a change as he brought the hash browns, then the syrup, and, finally, the carton of orange juice.
“You look flushed,” I said as he finally rolled up to the other side of the table.
“It’s more taxing than I could have realized to only have one foot to move your whole body around with. It’s gonna be nice to get the boot on.”
“Already?” I asked as I cut off a small stack of fluffy pancakes.
“Already?” he asked, shaking his head as he poured syrup on his plate. “It feels like forever.”
It must have to him.
It felt like no time at all to me.
But, I guess, that was because I’d been enjoying having someone to spend my time with.
With his body working against him, racked with pain, and unable to do even the simplest of tasks for himself, it made sense that it felt like much longer to him.
That, and, of course, the fact that he wasn’t used to staying in one place for so long. It must have felt like the days dragged on endlessly, staring at these same walls, not experiencing new sights, new sounds, foods, or cultures.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Atlas said, “It’s not about being here. It’s about not being able to do everything I need to do without assistance. Even shit like driving. It’s not my driving leg,” he said, waving down to his bulky cast. “But because I can’t bend my knee, the seat needs to be so far back, that my right foot can’t reach the pedals.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “And having the cast off will make showering so much easier.”
“Fuck, it would be nice to get in there without having to wrap myself up in plastic wrap again.”
“Do you know yet how much physical therapy you are going to need?”
“I won’t be sure until I actually show up at physical therapy, but my ortho told me to prepare for three months. Part of that in the boot still. And if I don’t progress well enough, it could even be six months.”
“Geez,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’m not sweating that. Once I’m able to move around more, I’ll feel better. Can start going places around here again.”
“So you’ll be around for the holidays,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why did that make you all tense?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said, gaze falling to my food.
“Um, bullshit,” he said, making me tense. I didn’t even realize his voice was soft until his hand moved across the table, resting over mine. “Did you have plans for Christmas?” he asked.
“Just, you know, decorating,” I admitted.
“And my being here would make you… not decorate?”
“I’m sure you have your own ideas about how to decorate your home,” I said.
My ex certainly had.
“Actually, don’t have a fucking clue about how to decorate it. Since I’ve never done it.”
“But do you like a certain, you know, aesthetic?”
“A Christmas… aesthetic?” he asked, making my gaze lift to his. His hand was still covering mine, and his thumb was working little circles around that triangle between my thumb and forefinger.
“You know, like green and red or red and white. Or some people do a pastel theme. That kind of thing.”
“Always figured Christmas was supposed to look like joy threw up all over,” he said. “That’s how my mom did it, anyway. All the colored lights. Little Santa or elf figurines. She even wrapped the doors in wrapping paper. One year, mine was little dinosaurs with Christmas hats holding gifts.”
“That’s what my mom did too,” I agreed, my heart squeezing at the idea that we were on the same page about something like this.
Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it was no big deal. But, to me, it meant a lot. I’d had many joyless Christmases in recent years. I’d been daydreaming about having one like I had as a kid again. Even if my original plan had only involved me.
“I should be able to do the outside lights by then too,” he said.
“Umm… being on a ladder in a boot is probably not the best idea,” I said.
“Well, if the boot is off,” he agreed. “So, real or fake tree?” he asked.
“I’m allergic to pine,” I admitted, shrugging. “I mean, if you like a real one, I can just take some allergy meds.”
“And make you suffer just so I can have a real tree? No, sweetheart. A fake tree works just fine.” His gaze was on my face, seeing more than I meant to show him. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I insisted, pulling my hand out from under his, feeling too distracted by his touch to keep my guards up.
“AJ…”
“Yeah?” I asked, pretending that cutting up my pancakes took my utmost concentration.