Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
It’s a non-important fact, but I hear the question there, so I take a small nibble of a dumpling and nod. “S’good.” It’s all I’ve got, and I go back to sitting silently and sullenly.
Cole stares off into the dark forest, and at first, I think we’re going to have a very quiet dinner with me not providing running commentary on everything from Aardvarks to Zombies. But finally, he offers, “She makes the best chicken pot pie and apple pie on March 14th. Pi day. I look forward to it for 364 days each year and then fight Kyle to selfishly hoard it for myself. It’s not his favorite, but he fights me for it anyway because he knows it’s mine. He says I’ll appreciate it more if I have to fight for it. He’s probably not wrong.” He falls quiet again but then adds, “She’s a great cook and an even better grandma. Been through a lot, and a lesser person would’ve fallen apart. But not her. Tough times made her strong. I admire that.”
I don’t think we’re talking about his grandmother anymore. Or at least not only about her.
“My sister Kayla, too. She learned from Grandma Betty and my mom. They’re all the type of women who’ve gone most of their lives underestimated.” He shrugs like that’s to be expected. “Sometimes because of the times they were living in, sometimes because of their looks, sometimes for no damn reason at all. But they come back fighting dirty while staying clean as a whistle.” He looks at me, his blue eyes sharp and not missing a thing as he scans my face. “That’s when they surprise the fuck out of you.”
It feels even more like he’s talking about me, but couched in compliments about the women in his life. “How much did you hear?” I ask quietly. “Because I don’t feel strong or surprising. I feel . . . stupid.”
He chuckles darkly and doesn’t answer my question about what he heard. “Janey, you are the biggest fucking surprise I’ve ever come across.”
Why does that sound like such a big compliment? Especially coming from him.
“And I bet Henry is the epitome of a blah, boring, bullshitter,” Cole proclaims, his distaste for him obvious. I shrug, not ready to speak ill of him when he was my boyfriend thirty minutes ago. “Let me guess . . . you said he’s a software engineer, so he probably thinks he’s the smartest man in any room. Definitely thinks he’s smarter than you, which he’s dead wrong about, and I don’t even know him.”
I stare at Cole, who’s looking off into the forest now. I want him to say more. I’m not fishing for compliments, but my wounded ego could use a little hype party. I was gonna call Mason, but maybe this is better because Mason will remind me that he’s been telling me to ditch Henry for months.
“He thinks he’s the core of the relationship, but that’s his ego talking. The truth is, he’s lazy. He never puts forth any real effort and doesn’t give a shit about your experience, especially in the sack. You do it all.”
Automatically, I try to defend Henry. “He’s not that bad.”
Cole throws a stormy glare my way and I drop my gaze, feeling chastised though he hasn’t responded. After a heavy sigh, he snarls out, “We’ve been here for days, Janey. He hasn’t called or texted you. Not even a ‘thinking of you’ gif that’d take one second to send. But I see you checking your phone and sending him texts. You even sent him that sunrise selfie you took on the porch yesterday. Did he respond?” He pauses, not to give me time to answer but to stare me down, daring me to lie because he already knows the truth. “He’s too lazy to even keep you on the back burner. You put yourself there and stayed long after he turned off the stove.”
Ouch! That hurts, a lot. He sounds mad . . . at me. You’re not supposed to kick someone when they’re down, but he’s not holding back. And for someone who doesn’t really know me, Cole’s got me pinned pretty precisely. Henry too.
Mason’s quoted an expression several times that hit a little too close to home, so I’ve chosen to ignore it, but it whispers in the back of my mind now. If he wanted to, he would.
Henry never wanted to . . . anything. If I planned, arranged, put it in his calendar, and reminded him, he’d show up. Sometimes. If he saw value in it. Otherwise, he’d say I never told him about it or claim that work needed him.
Now, I know those were more lies. I can’t count how many times he’d tell me that, and I’d question myself or make excuses for him.