Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
I accompanied my friends to the Smithsonian, the Library of Congress, and the National mall. It wasn’t lost on me that I showed them around like a host, as if this had become my home in just a few short weeks.
The girls and I bar-hopped every reputable hot spot that served fancy mimosas, did a scavenger hunt at Lost City Books, and sampled every foodie spot in Shaw. And yet, I found myself hoping to catch him, peering over my shoulder often to search for signs of him, even when I knew he had no business in D.C.
Oliver wanted to give me some space. To hang out with my friends. Or maybe he was just fed up with my antics and appreciated the time off from babysitting me. Either way, my hopes that he would cash in on my commitment to being screwed by him crashed and burned.
He didn’t seek me out.
I tried not to let it bother me too much, but it did.
It was all I could think of, even as I wanted to stay mad at him, especially because he’d cheated on me, and cheaters never changed.
By the time Monday morning came and my friends left, I sagged into the couch, exhausted and relieved. I craved normalcy, though I had no idea what it might look like in this strange place.
Ollie vB: I’ll bring back takeout for dinner. What do you want?
Briar Auer: Carbonara udon at Perry’s. No meat, please and thank you.
All the way in D.C. That would give me a solid six or seven hours to chill with Seb. Lately, I visited him every day after everyone went to bed. He didn’t want me there until one in the morning, an hour shy of his nightly rowing sessions on the lake. The dude’s paranoia would put Howard Hughes to shame.
“The last thing I want is my brother thinking I’m making progress and shoving therapy and socializing down my throat,” Seb had grumbled one time.
I respected that.
My phone buzzed again.
Ollie vB: Got it.
And that was it.
Nothing else.
No mention of our little dry-humping session on the counter. Nothing about the bet he’d won. Or any sign of interest in me, beyond what a (normal) parent would give their child. We actually texted daily, but just the basics. He’d check in to see if me or my friends needed anything, if we wanted to use his driver, or if he could hire catering for us.
He was nauseously accommodating.
I wanted to stab him for that.
I thought that would change once my friends left, but I guess not.
Whatever.
I hopped off the couch, hunting for the drawer full of take-out menus. With so much time between now and dinner, I could surprise Seb with his first party in fifteen years. A party of two, but a party, nonetheless.
Normally, we ate pizza, did puzzles, binged Family Guy and South Park. We rarely spoke about meaningful things, and when we did, it was about the past. Always about the past.
He refused to contemplate what his future might look like, and I respected that.
The past was safe. Harmless. And the night would end with me sending him on his way to the lake, which I loved because I knew it boosted his mood.
An hour later, I backed into the elevator with an entire cart of sushi, homemade margaritas, and a massive four-tier cake I managed to secure last-minute from Classic Bakery, thanks to a canceled order from a bachelor party.
I found Seb in his living room, watching an online lecture about public resistance to basic cyber security measures. Something about the demonization of two-step verification and a generation of lazy slobs. At least, that’s what it sounded like.
He paused the lecture on his laptop and glanced up at me, brows crunched together. “What’s going on?”
“Wait there.” I wheeled the cart to the coffee table, transferred everything but the cake onto it, and scattered confetti all over the rug.
“You know I don’t have housekeeping in this wing,” he pointed out. “Someone’s gonna have to clean that, and that someone is not me.”
“We’ll see.” To prove my point, I fisted a clump of confetti and tossed it over his head. It danced and sparkled in the air before raining down on his cheeks, shoulders, and thighs. “Very pretty. Glitter is definitely your color.”
“That’s not a color.”
“It is today.” I sank onto the carpet in front of the table, sitting criss-cross apple sauce. “We’re having a party, silly.”
He didn’t budge. “Who is we?”
“You and me. Duh.” I tore open a packet of chopsticks and used them to point to the spot across from me. “Sit. My friends are gone, Ollie won’t be home until at least six, and the coast is clear.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, but I caught a grin on his lips. “But it’s not a party.”
“It’s most definitely a party.” I poured soy sauce into a kizami wasabi container and mixed in yuzu kosho. “What have you been watching?”