Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
ThunderStruck: I think you’re a cookie snob, ElizaBeth.
ElizaBeth: Or maybe my palate is just more discerning than yours.
ThunderStruck: Wow, insulting my cookies and my palate? What’s next?
ElizaBeth: I don’t have any other complaints. But with the way you raved about these cookies, I honestly thought it would feel like heaven was touching my tongue the moment I took a bite.
ThunderStruck: BECAUSE IT IS LIKE THAT.
ElizaBeth: It’s okay, Beau. You don’t have to be good at everything, you know? Everyone has at least one flaw for the sake of the rest of us.
I laugh. Out loud. In my bedroom. All by my fucking self. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but I like her. And the more we chat on Midnight, the more I want to chat with her. She clearly still hasn’t told me who she is, but I’ve learned so much about her in other ways.
I know she’s incredibly smart. Hilariously sarcastic. And gets me to talk about the most unexpected shit. She’s a breath of fresh air that has come at a time in my life when everything was starting to feel stale.
I feel invigorated, which is insane, because I don’t even know this woman. She could be catfishing me for all I know, but I just…can’t stop talking to her. Can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop hoping that one day soon, she’ll tell me who she is.
ThunderStruck: Do you think you’ll ever tell me who you really are?
ElizaBeth: I don’t know.
ThunderStruck: If you don’t…where do you see this going? I mean…it’ll have to end at some point, won’t it?
My pulse thrums at the thought of never talking to her again, but at this point, I have to push the envelope. I understand taking it slow, but I’m going to want more to hold a year from now than my fucking phone.
ElizaBeth: I don’t want it to end. Truly. I just…don’t know how to give more than this. It’s terrifying.
ThunderStruck: Why don’t we take it one step at a time, then?
ElizaBeth: One step at a time?
ThunderStruck: Sure. Any progress is progress, right?
ElizaBeth: Okay. What’s step one?
ThunderStruck: Maybe you can give me a tiny hint. Some kind of something to let me know that you’re actually real.
ElizaBeth: You afraid I’m just some AI bot?
ThunderStruck: Fuck me. That’d certainly be an unexpected twist, but it is the world’s fastest-growing technology.
ElizaBeth: Hold, please…
A minute or two goes by before a picture message appears inside the chatbox.
It’s grainy and dark but showcases the length of her bare arm. A few small freckles form a zigzag path from her wrist to her elbow.
I’m real, she says.
She’s real. And even from her arm, I know that she’s beautiful. But I can’t decide if I know that because of the picture or because of the words we’ve shared inside Midnight.
For the past year, I’ve basically drowned myself in work. The initial two months after Bethany and I broke up and she got engaged to Seth were a mindfuck. It wasn’t easy losing a best friend and a girlfriend in one fell swoop. It was downright misery, if I’m honest.
And the few months after that, I tried to date. Went out and partied with the guys way too often. Even had a handful of one-night stands.
But nothing ever felt fulfilling.
Sure, work gave me purpose, but I know a cushy office with no one at home isn’t the fucking finish line. I want a life with someone.
I thought I had that life with Bethany, but now, looking back on it all with eyes that aren’t clouded by love, I know our relationship had truly run its course.
We’d grown into two different people with different priorities and different visions of the future. Bethany wants glitz and glamour. I want real.
A wife and kids I’m actively engaged with, dirty diapers I changed in the trash, and a home-cooked dinner I made on the stove. To have that, I need a woman who prioritizes time with our future kids over jet-setting across the damn world just because we have the money to do it.
ElizaBeth feels like she could be all those things and more.
ElizaBeth: Step two tomorrow?
ThunderStruck: I can’t wait.
ElizaBeth: Goodnight, Beau.
ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Woman.
Fuck me, she’s addictive.
I know I don’t know her. And I know this shit is completely reckless on my part, considering the implications for myself, my father, and the company if this would go wrong. But I can’t bring myself to stop.
I can’t bring myself to do anything but keep going until I win…or shit explodes.
Whichever comes first.
“How are things going with Dalencia and Sonar?” my dad asks from behind his massive desk, one ankle crossed at the knee and his elbows resting on the arms of his vintage black leather Egg chair my mother spent twenty grand on for part of his Christmas present five years ago.